I am Not Lost

I was holding him standing over the sink, his hair tied back roughly, and I put my hand on his back.

“How you doing?” I asked.

“Debbie?”

“Yeah, no.”

“Miranda?”

“There ya go.”

I have never met Debbie, nor even seen a picture of her.  And I hate her.  Maybe I hate her because he loved her once.  Maybe I hate her because part of me is afraid he still does.

All I know of her is what he’s told me.  She used to hit him, not like the playful way I do.  Not like when we wrestle.  I’m talking balled fist punching.  She followed him out to California.  She cheated on him.  She broke up with him.  She hurt him.

I hate her.  I would never do those things to anyone, let alone him.  It’s pathetic, but I love him.  I would rather become Christian than hurt him.

So, every time he mentions her, I get mad.  He doesn’t know.  I think I hide it well.  But it pisses me off.  I hear her name and I want to buy a ticket to California, find her house, knock on her door and, when she answers, PUNCH HER IN THE FACE.

I want to grab her by her shoulders and shake her and say, “How could you do that?  What kind of person are you?  You had this wonderful person in your life and you destroyed him!  Here is this rare diamond in a field of shit and you ground him up for fertilizer!”

And then, on the other hand, I want to thank her.  Because if she hadn’t ruined his life, he would not have come back to Texas.  I would NEVER have met him.  And I still hate her, but I’m grateful too.

Even if this turns out badly.  Even if it ends.  I love him.  He makes me want to finish my books, to enjoy the things I’m good at and try to make the best of a job I hate.

He doesn’t know that he’s diamond.  I asked for a knight in shining armor.  I got a musician in acid-washed jeans.  I never can believe my good luck.