In three hours, the road would be theirs. An autumn road trip with leaves shimmering like gold–all to celebrate the girl’s birthday.
Unfortunately, three hours was not soon enough.
The boy barely knocked on the door when she threw it open, smiling and jabbering excitedly. And then he just said it: “I don’t think I can go.”
Disbelief. Sadness. Anger. She felt it all. Allowing the anger to consumer her most, she screamed at the boy: “How could you do this? I gave you the opportunity to back out a week ago, and you choose the day we’re supposed to leave?”
He told her to chill and shrugged it off, emphasizing how it was “just too much for him right now.”
As if in slow motion, she punched him. And it felt good even as tears streamed down her face.
He left, and she cried.
Just how many times would she let him make her cry?
I'm 30. When did that happen?
I don't feel 30, so I guess this is my attempt to figure out who I am at this point in my life that has snuck up on me oh-so-quickly.