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Your parents never gave you anything sweet. That’s why you’re not.
“You’re not alone,”
I shouldn’t be left here alone with him.
Everyone contemplates suicide at some point, even if it’s just for a minute. And one thing is usually the root cause. Loneliness.
My parents didn’t love me.
It’s a feeling. A feeling. Not a place.
And the tears start falling down my cheeks, now after days. I hate them.
How I never let you know that you devastated me.
“Lust, learn, and love,” she says, placing the condiments and touching her finger to the ketchup. “My mother said the first boy—or man—is a crush. You think you love them, but what you really love is how they make you feel. It’s not love. It’s lust. Lust for attention. Lust for danger. Lust to feel special.” She looks between us. “You’re needy with number one. Needy for someone to love you.”
“The second is to learn about yourself.” She touches the Heinz. “Your first crush has been crushed. You’re sad, but most of all, you’re angry. Angry enough to not let it happen again,” she explains. “To not give yourself over so much this time. To not give up your power to be his booty call at midnight and there waiting whenever he decides to show up.”
“Number two is where you finally learn what you’re capable of,” she continues, tucking a loose strand from her ponytail behind her ear. “You start getting demanding. You grow bold, not afraid to start calling some shots. You’re also not afraid to be greedier in the bedroom, because it’s about what you want and not what he wants. Number two is to be used. In a way.”
“Love.” She snatches the bottle away. “When the lessons of your weakness with
number one and your selfishness with number two sink in, and you find a medium. When you know who you are and you’re ready to welcome everything he is, and you’re not afraid anymore.” She puts the bottle back in its place. “You still might not have a happy ending, but you’ll engage in a healthy relationship and handle yourself in a way you’re proud of.”
“The notches go all the way to the buckle,” I point out. “I’m flattered, but my waist isn’t that small.” Noah leans in, whispering, “But your wrists are.”
