The Art of Being a F*ck Up

33. Brent-Lite

I've always thought of myself as the kind of person capable of profound love. It's painful to be without that now, to feel the cold and the unknown, and it's made so much worse by being back here at the frat house, in my room. Be strong, Lilah says, it'll get better in time. All wounds are supposed to heal with time, right? I don't know if that's true, so I guess I'll just take her at her word since all I have to go on these days is hope. I didn't tell her that I texted Jonah, that I tried to call him—twice—but even though he's been avoiding me I'm told that he's every bit as heartbroken. But that can't be, can it? He was the one who ended things.

Today was my first day back to class, I had a lot of groveling to do but I assured every one of my professors that I was extremely sick, which isn't all that far off from the truth. I stopped by the campus bookstore where Jonah works after my last class not too long ago, just so I could see him, but I was too much of a pussy to go inside so I only glanced in through the window. I couldn't get a good look at him, but it was enough, it made everything inside me feel so much better just to catch that one, obscured glimpse of his face.

That's all I'm allowed. That's all he'd give me and, frankly, it's more than what I should get. I don't know if he'll ever trust me again, but I do know that all our love is still here, we just aren't so sure what to do with it now. Maybe there's a chance that things could change, that he realizes he needs me as much as I need him, but until then its not the kind of hope that'll do me any good so I put it away. I focus instead on getting better, on working on the things Lilah and I sat down and figured out together. She thinks I should go to AA, and for every minute that I've been back home, I start to agree with her a little more.

So much of Jonah still fills my room, his clothes and books and movies, when I went to lay my head down last night I realized that my pillow smells exactly like him. It's the kind of thing that makes me want to cry all over again, but I'm doing what Lilah says, and I'm trying to be strong. As hard as it is I've been putting it all into bags so that she can take it to him later, but I've been sitting on the edge of my bed for damn near twenty minutes now with this stupid hoodie in my hands, unable to let it go.

It was mine, once upon a time, but when we started dating he had claimed it for himself. Now it belongs to him, in every way that matters, but when I hold it up to my face and smell it I can't bring myself to put it in the bag, so I stuff it under my pillow instead. I'm well aware of my part in all of this, all the bad choices I made, but I guess I had thought that intentions meant something, that the end would justify the means. What I have to accept, Lilah says, is that none of that matters. Taking responsibility is hard, hard enough that I've wanted to drink every second since she brought me back here, but I promised her I wouldn't.

I've already let her down enough.

Drinking is just another thing I have to give up, I'll add it to the list after football, my friends, my family, and Jonah. With a sober mind I'm finally having to take responsibility of myself as well, and find an answer to who the hell I'm supposed to be. I'm sure as shit not who I thought I was, but I guess I'm not nobody either. I'm me, whatever that means, but I'm also not quite me—I'm Brent-lite. I just need to find that light again, it must be somewhere, and if I do then maybe I can finally stop being asleep, and I can wake up from this nightmare. Without any other avenue to get it all out I grab the leather-bound journal Lilah had bought me to start writing.

I still think it's a waste of my energy, but I also remember that it had helped just a little bit before, and I'll take whatever I can get right now since I can't drink. I write about Jonah, about everything that's happened and what it feels like, I even write about the dangerous and dark thoughts that have been swirling in my head, hoping that once they're down on the paper they won't eat me from the inside out. I scribble down every thought that crosses my mind, lost in such a fervent concentration that I get whiplash from being thrown back into reality when there's a knock at my bedroom door.