Learning to Let Go of What Hurts

I resented Yves, but I knew he had no obligation to save me. I had no right to blame him.

Even so, I couldn't help myself. He was my boyfriend; we'd talked about marriage. He could've given me just a few seconds of his time and let me speak instead of hanging up right after saying he was busy. Or, he could've called me again when I did not return home the entire night and realized I was hurt.

I had never stayed out all night before.

He knew where I was. I'd told him where I was going. I really did.

The scattered papers across the floor only emphasized my foolishness. My stubbornness was just a joke.

When I was a child, I insisted on taking up painting. No one took me seriously, so I was all alone in my endeavors. I eventually made a name for myself.

But the universe played a cruel joke on me. Everything I'd ever achieved was temporary, it turned out. It was time to give it all back.

I threw my art supplies into the trash can and stuffed the remainder of the papers into a folder, intending to throw them out the next day.

That night, a friend messaged me. Yves had announced our engagement at the banquet.

He probably still didn't know about my situation.

How could I sign up for art competitions when I could no longer paint?

He had celebrated his success and announced his engagement at the banquet, but he hadn't announced the name of his soon-to-be bride. Everyone was congratulating him. All eyes were on Clarisse, who was standing beside him. They looked like a match made in heaven.

Meanwhile, I sat in my tiny apartment, surrounded by torn-up papers, the evidence of my folly.

The next day, Yves' and Clarisse's names appeared as trending topics.

"Piano Prodigy Yves Chapman Announces Engagement To Mentor's Daughter, Clarisse Tatcher—Wedding Date To Come Soon."

All the comments below the headline were good wishes.

That afternoon, Yves came to my apartment. It was the first time he'd been here.

It was just as well—I needed to talk this out with him.

I opened the door for him. When he saw that my apartment was empty, he paused for a moment. "Where are your paintings?"

"I can't paint anymore."

"What? Are you kidding me? What happened? Why did you block me?" He stared at me, displeased, and told me off as if I was a misbehaving child. "Stop this, Summer. We're getting married in a month.

"I know I've neglected you recently, but you need to grow up. Get yourself cleaned up and come home with me."

He acted like all this was just a dramatic show I was putting on.

I laughed. Tears came out of my eyes. "Home? What home? Where is my home? The one you share with Clarisse Tatcher? Your engagement is all over social media. Why would I go there?"

He frowned. His eyes were cold and distant. "I announced our engagement last night as a surprise to you. You weren't feeling well and didn't attend, so of course the reporters misunderstood. I'll admit that I didn't handle this properly. I'm dealing with it now. This has nothing to do with Clarisse. She's a victim too."

He was still defending Clarisse and blaming me for not attending last night's banquet. She, a victim? An innocent bystander?

Then what was I? A joke?

Tears began running down my face again, but for once, he did not look impatient.

"Why didn't you pick up your phone that night?" I demanded.

"I did. I was practicing at the time. You know how important that competition is to me," he said with displeasure as he dropped himself onto the couch.

"Stop throwing a fit. I told you I was busy, yet you called me three times in a row," he continued, raising his voice. Then, realizing his mistake, he softened. "Come on, Summer. I'm sorry, okay?"

I stared at him, tears still flowing. "Did Clarisse tell you not to pick up my call?"