Page 210 of The Storm

I keep replaying what Dylan said, trying to set my thoughts in some kind of order. It’s like I have too many of them all of a sudden, so my head feels claustrophobic, almost. There’s too much in there, and I get sidetracked, jumping from one thought to the next with no rhyme or reason to it.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently as the coastline moves past my window.

Usually, I would enjoy the view. Right now I’m too restless to settle into anything. I want to be here and also not be here.

I’m a mess.

Again. Or still. Depends on the viewpoint, I guess.

A mess with too many thoughts. I grip the steering wheel tighter. I feel too much. I haven’t in a long time.

Nick left me and forgot me, and then I hurt. It was simple. One feeling. It broke my heart into tiny pieces and those tiny pieces had sharp edges, and when I moved, the pieces scraped and cut, and I hurt more.

I was made up of nothing but hurt back then. It was easy to process. Not easy to feel, but at least I knew where I stood.

It was simple.

I hurt.

Everywhere.

All the time.

Hurt is clean and straightforward.

It’s different now.

Now there’s the promise of hurt. Now I’m stupidly in love with a man with no idea whether he feels the same or not. Now there’s hope. Slippery, treacherous hope. And fear. Uncertainty. Longing. Dread. Jealousy. Anger. Doubt. Regret. It’s all piled up on top of me, and I can’t seem to breathe anymore.

I make it back to Boston, but once I’m on the familiar streets again, I have no idea where to go or what to do with myself.

Home? I look up at the building after I’ve parked the car. But Bridget and Dia’s apartment has never felt like home. Even less so now that I’m barely there, only stopping by to get a change of clothes before rushing off to Nick’s. I use this place to get a few hours of sleep, if I even make it back here.

Let’s face it, home is where the heart is. And my heart has always been Nick’s, whether he wanted it or not.

I’m being torn in half, desperate to go to him and rebelling because I’m not ready to face him.

I’ve longed for him and waited for him. I’ve yearned for him and missed him. I’ve missed him so long and so much, that missing him has become a part of me. It’s who I am; an integral part people should notice the moment they look at me. Like the color of my eyes or hair or the birthmark on the hollow of my throat. If somebody were to draw up a missing person’s poster, it should be mentioned because it’s a thing about me.

This is Indy. Black hair. Green eyes. Misses Nick.

I kept waiting for him.

Iwaited.

Hours and days that stretched into weeks and months and years, waiting for him to come back to me. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, somewhere he was missing me too. Because he loved me. That much I was sure of. It wasn’t just me feeling this way for him. He loved me too.

In the months right after he forgot about me, I left countless messages and texts. I called him. I wrote emails. I tried to explain as best I could. I begged for forgiveness. Asked for a sign of life. Anything so I knew he was okay, at least.

He never wrote back. Never called. About six months in, he changed his number.

I squeeze the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against the dark brown leather.

All those feelings are too vivid. Too much. It’s as if I’ve been transported back in time, and I’m suddenly nineteen again, alone and lost and broken.

You deserve better.

Dylan’s words echo in my head.