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Scout on Deserving Better/Five

 

Five days ago, he called. Said he was lost, that he ‘needed’ me. I’ve heard that one before, I told him, and shut the phone. I regretted it immediately, of course; I loved him, would never stop loving him, but I couldn’t do that to myself again. I couldn’t settle for carelessness when it was all I had known, when it was everything that had damaged me and everything I despised. There were sleepless nights were I had sat repeating to myself that I deserved better, I deserved someone who noticed when I was there and when I wasn’t, what I liked and what I hated, what I wanted and not just what I needed.

It's Friday night, and I sit waiting in front of my phone for his call. Deep down, I don’t believe I can do better. What made me any more deserving of love than anyone else? I should take it in any shape, way, or form that it comes because it’s better than nothing. It’s better than sleeping alone. A small, younger part of me doesn’t truly think that. It’s the part of me that doesn’t call him herself, and both sides settle on waiting.

Five days later, I saw him at the grocery store. He was picking out oranges when I saw him. I stood there, hiding in aisle 10, thinking of the times he had forgotten the strawberries I had asked for. He would forget, every time, and it wasn’t so much about the fruit but the fact that he never cared enough to remember, not once in those five years. I don’t think I ever told him that the only reason I wanted them was to make a dessert for him. He used to talk about a Victorian cake his mother made, one with homemade strawberry jam in the middle.

I dreamed of how happy it would make him; how happy he would be with me if I surprised him with it. I don’t think he had ever bought me a cake, even when I had asked. I hated asking. He saw me, lost in thought by the pasta, and our eyes met for a second. I thought of the person he could be, if I had loved him better, if I were better, if I was worth it. Just as fast, he looked away, and the thought was gone. I picked out some strawberries once he was gone.

Five hours later, he called again. I thought about his cold eyes in the produce section, even colder than the ice cream I had eaten in an attempt to freeze him out, and I couldn’t bring myself to pick up. When I saw his name on my phone, I thought of the cake he refused to bring me. No, really, I thought of the days he came from work and didn’t look at me until he wanted something. I thought of the days I did everything for him without so much as a thank you. I thought of the days he made me feel inferior to him, to his mother, to anything or anyone he could think of. After everything, I just wanted a slice of cake. I would have forgiven him if he had gotten it for me. I would have picked up today.

On Friday night, a friend of mine invited me to a party. I went because I couldn’t find a reason not to, and he was there, standing smugly in a corner with the people he used to always choose over me. This time, I didn’t stand reminiscing about fruit or desserts. I went and found my own delicacies. I was standing over the chocolate mousse and chips when he came up to me. It was like he sensed my insecurities, my inclination toward the safety I had in his neglect. He pretended to say something sincere, with that soft look in his eyes and the gentle smile that never seemed to translate to gentleness in his heart.

His entire face warped into all the material things I wanted him to replace love with: cake, strawberries, flowers, chocolates, clothes, and everything else I pretended to want. It was too late for sweet fantasies to work on me when he became just things. They only mattered when they made me happy, and he didn’t, so he was junk. I can’t remember whether I responded to him or not, but I remember taking a bite of the mousse and enjoying it. It wasn’t the flavor that made it special; it was how good it felt to not wonder how much better it would be if someone else had gotten it for me.

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