twenty-two Later that afternoon, I sit cross-legged in my closet, staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. It’s over. After witnessing Sean and Sara’s coziness this morning, I realize I’ve fooled myself these last couple of weeks thinking he’d come running back, pining for me, begging for forgiveness. Couple that with certain aspects of my life that I hate at the moment—pretending Nixon’s my boyfriend, keeping the truth from Jo, spewing lies every time I open my mouth (won’t someone shut me up?), and Andrew searching for another job—and I start to feel very, very alone. I don’t like when waters get rough or lives get upturned. I don’t like letting go of the familiar. I mean, look at me. Even my appearance shouts that I cling to my comfort level. The same hairstyle since high school. Same purse since college. Same habits (except for smoking cloves, that was short-lived), same hue of pink toenail polish every pedicure.
