Yours Truly (Part of Your World, #2)

by Abby Jimenez

There were times when I just wanted to be pissed off, careening forward on the strength of my pure rage. I was grateful for my ability to stay furious, especially over the last year. Anger is a powerful fuel. It can be very motivating. Fortifying. The only problem with anger is that it burns hot and fast. It doesn’t tend to burn long. Sadness burns long. Grief. Disappointment.

So it was finally happening. The woman I loved had moved on. She was marrying someone else. And the someone else was my brother.

“Jacob,” Mom said carefully, “you have always been the diplomatic one. I love that about you, but you do not need to put yourself through this. It’s fine to set boundaries.”

I think deep down my family wanted to be okay with this wedding. They loved Amy, and they loved Jeremiah. They were upset on principle and for my benefit, not because they hated either of them. They just hated how they thought it made me feel. It was obvious that as long as I was unattached, I was the jilted ex in need of their protection and indignation. Amy and I would never get back together, so what was the point? Why make this stand in my honor? I didn’t want it. Amy and Jeremiah would get married with or without my family’s support. And they’d have kids, and those kids would be blameless. Even if the whole family shunned my brother and my ex for the rest of their lives, it wouldn’t change a thing. So if I had to tell a white lie to redirect the focus, that’s what I was going to do.

I knew from years of therapy that I was ruminating. That the encounter had probably been nothing to her, but to me it felt like the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened. A decade from now I’d be lying in bed and my eyes would fly open and I’d remember the incredulous way she’d looked at me—me, the guy who had the audacity to walk into her ER room and talk to her about running toward a critical patient, one she obviously knew and cared about.

Normally after a day like today I’d just want to go home. But I needed to have a positive social interaction so the last one wouldn’t be all I could think about. If I didn’t put something between me and what happened, I’d fixate on it the rest of the night.

“How’s the anxiety?” Zander asked me. “Not easy being the new guy.” “It’s been okay,” I lied again. “Starting a new job has gotta be like your own personal hell,” Zander went on. “The grown-up version of standing up in front of the class and introducing yourself.” I scoffed. It was exactly like that. Only I was naked too and my dog ate my homework.

I was glad I came. I needed this. A reminder that there were people who liked me. Interactions like this one didn’t wear me out. They knew me. They didn’t take it personally if I slipped into silence and just listened. They didn’t give me a hard time about not having any alcohol, which is something I never did either, to anyone. You never knew what someone’s reason was for not drinking.

I will however accept your invitation to be invited and never come. That sounds like an excellent time. I also enjoy not answering calls, not networking, never leaving the house, and hanging out with my dog.

I relaxed a little. I had to remember that not everyone overthought everything the way I did. Wouldn’t it be amazing to live like that? To not carry that burden around with you. To not feel constantly overwhelmed and overstimulated and second-guess every little thing.

I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything at all. Silence was always my default response. Sometimes things are easier to understand when unsaid. Sometimes words complicate things and make them murky. This moment didn’t need them.

“Briana, why don’t you give that old man a cigarette?” Mom asked. “He’s on oxygen, Mamá. It could make him hypoxic.” “So? Does he have dementia? He can’t decide if he wants to smoke himself to death?” “No, he doesn’t have dementia.” “Then why no cigarette? You tell him, ‘Look, I give you this, and maybe you can’t breathe. You still want it?’ And if he says yes, then it’s yes. I’d give him one. You should give him one.” “Joy doesn’t want him to have them.” She waved me off. “Uno no lo va a matar. He’s a grown man, you give him what he wants. He’s going to die, you let him die happy. And that goes for me too. Don’t you tell me I can’t have what I want because you’re trying to make me live forever. I want to die doing the things I love. I want to be happy until the very end.” “Okay, Mamá.”