Worth It (6 page)

Panic crawls up my throat, and I choke out a sob as I finally make it to my car. After closing the door, I reach into my purse and pull out my box cutter. Tears stream down my face. Anxiousness is rocking through my body, making me shake. I take off my cuff, and I don’t even stop to watch the blade engage. I just slide it up, and I drag the blade across my skin. I am desperate to escape, to get the fuck out of my head, but the relief doesn’t come. I blink back tears and gawk at my wrist. The blood pools up, and the sting registers, but it’s still there—the words, the memories, the fact that I’m a lousy piece of shit. I make another cut, praying it’ll work this time.

It doesn’t.

Why are you so fucking stupid, Savannah?

I make another one and another one.

It’s not helping. Blood drips down my arm as I shake, and my stomach rolls with nausea.

Fuck, I’m gonna throw up
.

I open the door and lose my breakfast on the pavement. I’m still trembling, but once the nausea passes, I lock myself back in my car and stare at my bleeding wrists. I tremble as I sob, and my chest heaves.
I’m such a worthless excuse for a person.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat as I crack and fall apart.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I keep my shit together?
I put my face in my hands and wail into them, letting the grief overtake me.

I don’t know how long I sit there and cry, but by the time I pull myself together enough to see straight, the blood has dried on my skin, and my eyes hurt. Tears are still falling from my eyes, but they’re slowing down now. Taking a deep breath, I take the cuff off my other arm, and I bring my wrists together, so I can stare at what I’ve become.

My eyes widen, and it feels as if the Earth is shifting as understanding dawns on me. This really is my drug, and I’ve hit rock bottom.

Fuck, what
have
I become?

I hastily flip down my visor and look at myself in the mirror. My throat tightens when I realize I don’t even know the girl staring back at me with crazy eyes. I shake my head as I clench my teeth and flip the visor back up. I don’t want to live like this. I can’t, and I won’t. I want to be happy, not stuck in this nightmare for the rest of my life.

I’m never cutting again.

I put the box cutter in my purse and vow to get rid of it. That idea sends a chill down my spine, but I resolve that I’ll do it someday…one day really soon. The thoughts and memories are still itching my brain, but I try to keep them at bay. I pull as much strength as I can from somewhere inside me, and I shut them out. My jaw aches from clenching my teeth together so tightly with the effort it takes to lock all that shit away. It’s a struggle, but I finally manage to seal them inside and stop them from consuming me.

I can do this.

I can shut out my pain and move forward. I have to. I have no other choice because I will
never
become the disgusting broken mess I saw in the mirror today. I can’t.

Two years later, I pull into my mechanic’s parking lot just as my phone rings. After I park and turn off the car, I quickly grab my phone, and my stomach plummets when I check the caller ID. This is the call I’ve been psyching myself up for. I’m going to tell my ex-boyfriend, Sam, who I was with for the past year, that we’re done, over, kaput. He’s been stringing me along and I absolutely cannot handle any more games. I need to move on. To say it is easier said than done is a laughable understatement. My heart starts to pound because I rarely stand up for myself, but I have to do it now.

Sucking in a deep breath, I answer the call. “Hello?”

“Hey, baby, how are you?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes tightly, I take another deep breath. I answer curtly, “I’m fine.”

“Can you come over tonight, so we can talk?” he asks softly.

This is it—the moment of truth.
I open my eyes as I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans and whisper, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What?” he asks, his voice rising an octave.

“I said—”

“I heard what you said, but what the fuck do you mean, it’s not a good idea?”

Gritting my teeth against my instinct to cower, I remind myself that Sam is not here, so he can’t hurt me. He’s not…
him.
“We broke up months ago, and you’re stringing me along. I can’t do it anymore. It’s breaking me.”

He sighs, irritated. “Anna, you know the divorce has been hard on me, but I’m trying here.” He pauses briefly. “I love you, Anna. You know I do.”

Running my hand through my long chestnut hair, I grip the roots. I blow out a frustrated breath before I say, “You mean the divorce from your
wife
who you failed to mention that you had until
after
we were living together.”

“Anna…” He drawls my name out. “What do you want me to say?”

A few tears escape my eyes. “I don’t need you to say anything,” I whisper. “Just let me go, and leave me alone.”

“I’m not going to do that. We belong together.”

My heart sinks a little at his determined tone. I thought this would be easier. It’s not like he actually cares. He kicks around my heart, playing with it like a soccer ball, and I can’t handle it anymore. I’ve reached a breaking point, and I need to stand my ground.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this.
You
pushed
me
away. You were always out, partying. You kept your wife and child from me. You kicked a fucking cat at me, for Christ’s sake. How can you possibly believe that we belong togeth—”

“Anna—” he interrupts.

“No, I can’t do this anymore. Five months ago, I told you that if you didn’t come home, I was done. You chose not to come home. I held out hope that you could love me, but you can’t, and it’s killing me to be strung along like this. I won’t do it anymore.” I grit my teeth and bite back a sob as I cover my eyes with my free hand.

I don’t want to show weakness with him because he’ll pounce like a tiger on a gazelle, but it’s so hard to keep all my frayed emotions in check.

“I do care. I love you,” he pleads. “I’ll make it all up to you. I miss you. I’ll be better this time, I promise.”

My eyes drift upward to the roof of my shitty green Ford Escort, willing it to give me the strength I need. “Like I haven’t heard that before,” I reply quietly. “It has been the same line each and every one of the four times we’ve played this game, and every time, I believed you. But I’m just a convenient fuck for you. If you really cared, you wouldn’t have ignored me after we made up. You wouldn’t do that to me.” A tear escapes. “You’re only twenty-five. You’ve been married and divorced, and you have a kid. Straighten your life out, and let me move on with mine.”

“I really am sorry,” he says gently. “You’re right. I’ve treated you like shit, and you don’t deserve that. I’m going to win you back though. I can’t lose you. I love you, Anna. You’re mine, and I’m yours. We’ll get through this rocky time, I swear it.”

His deceptively sincere words cause the smallest of cracks in my resolve, but I remind myself that he doesn’t care.

“If you cared so much, why are you calling me today instead of three days ago?”

“What was three days ago?”

“My twenty-second birthday,” I say as my eyes roll.

“I thought your birthday was in June.”

I blow out an irritated breath through my nose. “Exactly. We were together for over a year, and you don’t even know my birthday is October eighteenth. Does that sound like the hallmark of a good relationship to you?”

“All right, Anna, I get it. I was a shitty boyfriend. You deserve better, but I will be that for you, I promise. I need you, baby. I love you. Please come over, so we can talk this out.”

Exasperated, I rub my hand roughly along my brow, but I don’t say anything at first. I waited for words like these for so fucking long, and now that I’ve gathered enough courage to move on, he does this shit. The crack that’s been forming in my determination begins to splinter, and more tears threaten to flow down my cheeks. I need to get off the phone before I cave. I don’t love him anymore, and I’m not sure I ever truly did, but I still crave love and affection.

“I need to go. Please just let this be,” I say, my voice quivering.

I quickly end the call. I toss my phone into my purse and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. The tremors I suppressed earlier rock through my body. I breathe deeply, trying to calm myself and get rid of the anxiety. My fingers twitch to reach inside my purse for my blade, but I don’t. I will
never
go there again. I remind myself of the person I was, the girl I hated for her weakness and self-loathing. It hasn’t been easy, and it’s still a daily struggle to keep the bullshit of my past in that dark place where it belongs. I’ve gotten pretty good at putting on a shield every day, but that’s not to say the memories don’t sneak out at night in my nightmares. That’s why I had to leave Sam. Even though I deserved it, the more he treated me like shit, the harder it was to resist cutting. Something had to give, or I would have reverted back, and I can’t do that. I just can’t.

The ringing of my phone startles me out of my battle for self-control, but I don’t answer it. I’ve said my piece, and I won’t back down. I can’t. I reach back into the bag, grab my phone, put it on silent, and then I toss it back into my purse.

I flip down my visor to check the damage to my makeup in the mirror. My big blue eyes are a little bloodshot with mascara smudged underneath. My dainty nose is red, matching the splotchy red on my high cheekbones. I reach for the cosmetic bag in my purse, and my fingers pause on the zippered pocket holding my blade. I don’t know why I still keep it with me. Maybe it’s the knowledge that it’s there if I need it, if I’m ever that desperate. In weak moments, I almost convince myself that it might help again. I clench my teeth against the urge pricking at my control.

After I get the make-up out, I pat the powder over my face, touch up my mascara, and add a swipe of gloss to my full lips. Once I finish fixing my face, I inspect my appearance. Despite my poor self-image, I can tell I’m sort of pretty. I’m not beautiful or striking, not even close, but I guess I look okay. Coupled with the stubborn hourglass curve of my five-three frame, I can understand the draw some men have to me. I’ve been propositioned, and I’ve had a moment of love in a guy’s arms enough times to know that I hold some semblance of desirability. I wish I could be more than what is between my legs, but besides Sam and
him
, the only love I can find is in one-night hookups. I don’t do it often because I
want
to be more, but sometimes, the loneliness becomes too much. I stuff my bullshit back in its hole with practiced precision, flip the visor back up, snag my purse, and step out of my car.

I pull my tan leather coat tighter, fighting against the chilly October New England weather, and I straighten my shoulders to appear in control of myself before I push through the door of the shop. My ears register the ding of the bell above me, and my eyes land on Donnie’s brightening expression. My lips part to return his wide denture smile.

“Hey, Anna!” He stands, rounds the counter, and makes his way over to me.

I stiffen briefly when he envelops me in a hug, but I quickly relax.

“Hey, Donnie,” I reply, returning the hug.

Between my horrible driving, the inevitable repairs needed to keep my American classic running, and his frequent visits to Village Pizza, the pizza place where I work, I see him often. He’s really nice, but he’s also touchy-feely, and it makes me uncomfortable. Warm and caring are different from everything I’ve ever known, but I try to swallow the anxiety and just go with it.

He pulls back to look me over, and his lips turn down into a frown. “You okay, Anna?”

Busted
. I mentally slap myself for not securing my mask better, and I give him what I hope is a genuine smile. “Just the usual senior year stress. I’ll be taking the MTEL next month, and I need to pass it in order to start my practicum in the spring.”

He smirks. “English, sweetheart. I don’t speak teacher jargon.”

I laugh out loud, and I feel the tension ease out of my body. “The Massachusetts Tests for Educator Licensure, or as we education majors call it, the teacher test. Anyway, I still need to pass the Early Childhood test. I did well on the first two, but this is the last chance I’ll have to pass the third, so I need to do well. The practicum is just student teaching.”

Patting my arm, he smiles kindly. “I’m sure you’ll do great, Anna. You’re a smart girl with a bright future, so no fretting. Those worry lines are unbecoming.”

I smile and let his encouragement warm my insides. “Thanks, Donnie. I appreciate it. How’s Rose?”

“Ah, the ole ball and chain.” He beams affectionately. “She’s doing well, keeping busy with volunteering. If you ask me, volunteering is actually just an old ladies’ gossip circle. You know how it is in these small towns.”

I laugh at that again because he’s right. This town, Shirley, and my town, Groton are tiny towns in northwestern Massachusetts, and like most small rural areas, the gossip can be ridiculous. Having enough drama of my own, I tend to ignore who smashed so-and-so’s mailbox.