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Steve always wants to be some kind of Prince Charming, but if he’s the prince, I’m just another fucking
Cinderella, my magic pills having worn away, the spell broken. I’m in rags, the ball raging on without me. And I don’t belong here anymore; I never did.
She doesn’t even say anything; she just steps forward, right into me, her head tucking perfectly under my chin as it always did.
But then I’m around her and I remember almost immediately that for all her darkness, she can be just as bright, too.
“Well, fuck, Josh.” She throws her hands up. “This is just classic us all over again, isn’t it?” Classic us. I hate that I love the way that sounds.
I realize the wild rattling of my heart isn’t because it’s shattering. It’s because this is the best, the strongest, my heart has felt in months.
Because it wouldn’t be someone like Josh—there’s no one like Josh—it would be Josh.
“Yeah, that was a pretty low blow. I guess even big, sweet teddy bears like Steve can be assholes sometimes.”
“Teddy bears are still bears,”
“I think you love the person you knew back then, the person you believe I can become again one day. But that’s not the same as loving me the way I am now.”
whatever the question, whatever she wants, my answer is always going to be yes.
“No, I’m crying because I’ve just never felt like this. Ever. I’ve never felt so…” So happy, cared for, respected, even. But then I say what all those things really mean: “So loved.”
“You are. I mean, I do. I love you,” he says again. “And I—I’ve never felt this way before either.”
“I know how hard that was for you to say.” I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t.”
Where Amanda stays scared and angry and hurt and continues to blame me for everything. It’s the version where I lose myself forever and never find my way back. And for the first time, I think I understand—in my head and my heart—why we’re really doing this. For us. We’re doing this for us. Somehow that makes this all so much more real, more frightening.
“I know it’s dumb, but could you stay on the phone with me again tonight?” “It’s not dumb.” I hear some shuffling and the creaking of his mattress. I close my eyes and can picture him getting settled in bed. “I just put you on speaker.” “I love you,” I tell him. “I love you too.” “Thank you.” “For what, loving you?” he asks, a small laugh in his voice. I smile—it hurts my face. “Yes.”
“I seem to remember a wise young man once told me that just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean it makes you happy.”
“Oh.” She pulls her sleeve up. “Yeah, I got a tattoo,” she says with a sniffle and a laugh. “A dandelion?” My heart starts racing. Because. Dandelions. That was our thing. “It’s beautiful.” “Thank you.” “Does it mean something?” I dare myself to ask.
“I don’t know, someone who’s resilient instead of destructive. Hopeful instead of… you know, feeling doomed or powerless or whatever. Brave,” she adds. “That’s not the kind of person I think you are. That’s the way you really are,
I get out of the shower and wipe the steam from the mirror. I look at myself for the first time in a long time. I’m almost surprised to see that it’s still my face, my eyes, looking back at me. My hair, my body, my tattoo, my scars. “This is you,” I whisper to myself.
