Heartbroken isn't the word for it. (I don't know what is.)
So J.H. and I are back to square one because P.F. will be leaving for Seattle in July, and I think he still loves her. She is seventeen and long-limbed and doe-eyed, and her lashes are as thick as fern leaves, while I'm this 25-year-old half-moth, half-woman...thing. She's got confidence and glitz and glamour, and I've got - what? - my crappy writing?
When we were all together last night just snapping photos and having a good time, I was pulled away by an old friend for a chat. He didn't come looking for me. When I returned to the front room, I found him hovering around the stage with his guy friend where P.F. was having her photo taken. They were all grinning from to ear-to-ear.
All week, there had been a quaking fear in me that things would go awry, and I would have to confront him about it, but it never happened because before he could turn back to see me, I motioned for my sister, who was watching them with a look of disdain, and mouthed, "Can we go home now?"
And we slipped out together, turning up our collars against the wind. My sister put her hand in one of my coat-pockets, and we huddled closer, trying to not feel sorry for my crappy life and even crappier relationships.
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