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?

The Girl Next Door

Dear Stranger,
If you are reading these lines, then that is because somehow, you have ended up in my blog.
For that, I thank you in advance, and hope you will come back often to read more.
I’m April, a 25-year old girl who is going through life with awe and excitement, even if sometimes things don’t really go the way I’d imagine them to go.

There is nothing extremely spectacular about my life until now, I guess: I have had an ordinary childhood, my teenage years were confusing but peaceful, and my college years were OK too. I work at a bookstore, and I live alone in a one-bedroom apartment with my cat, Romeo. I think of myself as a well-adjusted person, with friends, foes, likes and dislikes, laughs and tears.

The whole concept of blogging was alien to me, until my friend C. asked me why I would not do it. This came into conversation one night we were at a bar, having some drinks, and when we had one too many, I told my friends some things about myself which comprise the only part of the out-of-the-ordinary I can actually talk about concerning my life.

See, I have been living in this city for two years now, after I moved from my parents’ house. I think I had to run fast and far away from where I was brought up, and prove myself I could do it, that I could be on my own and succeed in whatever I put myself up to. Not many people do this, you know. Most people just get comfortable, stay in sight, and pretty much nothing in their lives changes. I took the chance and ran away, because my heart was broken.

When I was sixteen, there was a boy in my school. His name was P. We met casually, and fell in love. I was sure he was the love of my life; thinking of it, I never bothered to look around after we got together. We shared everything from tastes to plans. He was handsome, polite, intelligent, ambitious, proud, brave and honest. The last part, thought, time would prove I had gotten it wrong…

Two years ago, we were living together and we were planning to get married. I had a job as a secretary, and he was starting his career as a lawyer. We were more in love than ever, and I was probably the happiest girl in the world, because I had it all: love, prospects, dreams, and they were all going to come true.

Then, one afternoon, I left work a bit early than usual, and headed home. I opened the door, closed it and proceeded to the living room. I noticed P.’s briefcase and coat by the couch, and something felt really wrong, as he was not supposed to be in so early. That was when I had the instinct of going to the bedroom…