The Girl Next Door (part 2)

It was the classic “walking in on your boyfriend with another woman” sort of happening, just as you see in the movies. There he was, P., in bed with no other than my younger sister. Before any of us could utter a word, I felt frozen, and the rest is sort of a blur in my mind. I guess I turned around in my heels, and walked the hell out of there, roaming the streets with no clue as to what to do next.

The situation escalated in a matter of days: there was no way I could forgive any of them. They were both part of my family and my life, and both had walked all over me like a doormat, with no respect. The final blow came when P. and my sister, now in the open, confessed they were in love, and wanted to get married. It seemed that they had felt this way for years, but never had the courage to come forward about it. Obviously, my parents were on my side, but they could not just go and forbid two grown people from carrying on with their plans. So, next thing I know, I am swallowing my pride and becoming the bridesmaid, instead of the bride.

Many things crossed my mind: suicide, murder, sabotaging the wedding, making P. jealous with other men, begging, and so on. Somehow, I thought there was no possibility for me to start over, because there was absolutely nothing to start over from. I had nothing, and I felt like a nobody. But perhaps, that was the only way to move on with my head up. Without telling anyone, I started searching the Web for a new place to live; I would visit web pages from cities and apartment rentals, and apply to jobs in those cities I liked the most. When I had the comfortable part all figured out – destination, house, and job – it was the day before the wedding.

That night, I packed my things and did something I had never done in my life: I sneaked out the window. I got into my car, and drove away. I never looked back, nor left a note with any information about my plans or whereabouts. The bridesmaid dress was on top of the bed when I left, and that is the last image I have in my mind of the whole situation: an ugly, lime, silky long dress on top of my bed.

Needless to say that, until this day, I have never left any men come near me. I mean, I go out and I have made friends since I moved here, but men have been completely out of bounds for me.
That night, drinking with C., G. and L., I finally told the truth about my moving here. They just sat there, suddenly silent, as if the whole fun of the evening had evaporated with the booze.
- That took guts, April. – said G.
- And you’ve never told anyone about this, all these years? – asked C.
I said I hadn’t, and for a number of reasons. I did not want people to feel sorry for me, on the one hand; on the other hand, I thought that if I didn’t talk about it, I wouldn’t have to go through it again. Just thinking about it for months, after I left, night after night, made me cry. I didn’t even see a therapist for this…
- You should have sought help, you know? – said L. – You’re probably messed up for life because of that.
Silence fell again amongst us. C. swerved the last of her Mojito, and just said:
- Write about it.
- What? – I asked.
- Yeah, set up a blog and write about it.
She went on and explained her idea: writing about it would help me deal with the pain, and would help me moving forward. She said that I was young, and it was not fair I wouldn’t have a chance at happiness because of two “stupid idiots”. C. also added I had to start dating again, to which I replied “No way!”.

Some days later, I was still juggling with C.’s suggestion in my mind: start up a blog about life and love, and finally try to move on with my life. The whole point of moving out had been that, so why should I wait more? Was I ready to take that leap and try it?
So… here I am now, writing these lines and sharing with you Stranger a bit about April.
Who knows what might happen next?