Page 65 of Lessons in Lemonade

He literally told me he loved me, walked out of my house, and never looked back—not that I blame him.

I followed him to the porch, watched him climb into his truck, and then sat down on the steps as he drove away. I actually laughed at myself at one point, because me in this scene was straight out of a country song, red tail lights in the distance and all, but then that laughter turned to tears. It had been quite some time after he left when I finally went inside.

It’s not that I thought he was coming back, although I had hoped he would. It was more that I needed to stall instead of entering into the reality I had created.

The one where he was gone.

And I was certain he wasn’t coming back.

Of course I know it’s my fault, but I can’t be what he needs me to be, no matter how I might feel about him.

With Jack in the house, it felt smaller, quainter. Now with him gone, it feels large and empty.

Looking around, now I notice things are missing, whereas before they seamlessly blended with my things to become ours. Sports magazines, a blanket he bought for the couch after claiming my throw blanket wasn’t long enough to cover his feet, even the canister of protein powder he kept on the kitchen counter—all of it, gone. He cleaned his bathroom, too, removing any trace of him at all.

And being in his room . . . that’s the worst of all.

Yes, it looks just like it did before he arrived, but now the decorations seem insufficient and the room seems bare. Instead of washing the sheets, I put them back on his bed, climbed under the covers, and cried. They smelled like him, they felt like him, and for the first time in years, I doubted myself and the promises I’d made.

I didn’t expect it to hurt, not like this.

Why does it hurt like this?

I dated my high school boyfriend for two years. When he broke up with me, I remember being sad, but I don’t remember being hurt. This hurts, and in ways I’m not equipped to deal with.

“What are you doing?” Taylor asks as she slides up next to me, breaking me from my thoughts.

Pulling earbuds from my ears, I do a once-over of the kitchen before turning to face her. The lunch rush has ended, there are a few lingering tables before we close for the day, and the staff is moving around me preparing to shut the kitchen down and prepping for tomorrow morning.

Everyone around me knows something is going on as I’ve been here at the restaurant essentially open to close since he left, but no one has approached me. I’m also sure they’ve noticed that Jack hasn’t stopped by, which was our routine for weeks. I am one hundred percent inclined to avoid conflict, whether it’s with others or even just myself, and by staying task-oriented, my mind redirects to focus on what’s in front of me and not what is around me or inside of me.

Am I hoping these feelings will just fade instead of having to be dealt with? Yes. If the expression time heals all wounds is accurate, I should be well on my way. As for the wounds, I’m not sure which ones are worse: the ones he’s given me, or the ones I gave myself.

“What does it look like? I’m testing this month’s featured dish.” I glance at her before sticking my spoon into the bowl of sauce and bringing it to my mouth to taste. It’s got both the salty and the sweet taste with a slight twinge of tang. It tastes perfect.

“Testing? Sweetheart, you’re doing a lot more than testing. Looks to me like you’re drowning your sorrows in carbs and cheese.” She points toward the four other bowls on the counter. Yes, I know I’m making a simple Southern macaroni and cheese, but there are lots of ways it can be made. For example, one might want to blend in butternut squash to hide a vegetable, or make it gourmet with a medium cheddar and a Gruyere. You can make it white with just a little cheddar and lots of mozzarella and parmesan, and don’t even get me started on fillings and baked crusts on the top.

I think about what she said and again look at my workstation, letting out a sigh. She’s not wrong. It’s been so long since I’ve given in to the feelings of things like disappointment, and I’m not even sure what to do with myself. I’ve tried to tell myself it is what it is and this is for the best, and although my head thinks this, my heart does not match it.

“Maybe. Besides, my soul mate might be carbs, and mac and cheese is the ultimate comfort food. I need to make sure it’s menu-worthy.” I taste the sauce again; it’s delicious. My secret weapon for making mac and cheese has always been cream cheese, and it’s not failing me now. By just adding a little, it makes the sauce so creamy and so good.

“Everything you make is menu-worthy, but seriously, put the spoon down and step away.”

Taking a look at myself, I look down to see what Taylor sees. I have made a mess, and I’m always very meticulous about cleanliness when I cook. I’m also wearing Converse tennis shoes and not heels, which is not the norm for me. Wearing heels has always made me feel empowered, like a source of strength and femininity, and well, right now I don’t feel strong. I feel sad.

I put the spoon down, take a step back from the counter, and turn to face her.

“That’s better,” she croons, smiling at me as if I’m a toddler. I just roll my eyes.

“Do we have to do this?” I ask her, feeling somewhat defeated yet irritated at the same time. She doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand, and there’s no sense in trying to explain it to them.

“Yes, we do. I’m going to make us both an iced coffee, and then I’ll meet you outside on the patio.”

She’s using the secret weapon, the iced coffee, and it has been like eight or nine hours since I last had a glass.

“Fine.”

She grins, pleased with herself for winning this round, only she doesn’t understand that I’m not fighting. I’m not doing anything.