I keep having moments of sheer panic in which I envision myself driving over to Randy’s, knocking on his door, and begging him to hold me/fuck me/love me. The middle scenario isn’t the most prevalent. Shocking, I know.

I keep going over my decision to move and reminding myself I’m actually doing it for the right reasons now. The whole point of ending things with Randy was so I’d have some perspective, and to ensure I didn’t make a huge life choice based on wanting something I can’t have. I still want it, but at least I’m not pretending and holding on to something that wasn’t even real any more.

In the end I can’t say I’m moving for all the right reasons, but I do know I never want to get back together with Benji, and living in a big city will definitely be an experience. Besides, my mom’s moving in with Tim-Tom, so I’d have to find a new place to live, one way or another.

I lay my suitcase on my bed and flip it open. It’s new. I bought it two days ago on a shopping expedition with my mom. She’s okay with the move. She’s not even getting on my case about the whole Randy situation—although that may be due in part to my epic fits of snot-sobbing since the end of having fun.

Things I’ve learned about myself in the past six months: I’m not cut out for casual sex. My sometimes bitchy exterior is my Lego armor against how sensitive I am. If I’d been this insightful prior to falling for Randy, I might have come out of this with a little less angst. Or maybe not. There were a lot of mixed signals, I’m coming to realize. He was the one who insisted it be “fun,” but that week with him in Chicago… I can’t help feeling it wasn’t just me. Regardless, it’s over, and I’m sad about that.

I neatly pack my suitcase, starting with my socks. I discover I have a lot of socks, and half of them are missing their partners. It seems rather karmic, considering. Fucking karma. Such a bitch sometimes.

I put on some music—emo, of course, to match my constantly fluctuating mood—and move on to my underwear drawer. Half my panties need to be replaced because they’re old or falling apart. I still have the ones Randy bought for me over the holidays.

We didn’t so much exchange Christmas presents as we exchanged underwear. I’m missing the pretty blue pair with the lace, but I have the pair of his pink boxers I vandalized—a parting gift to remember him by.

It’s a little creepy-stalker, but I’m okay with that. I’m also guilty of creeping his social media accounts and trolling the puck bunny/hockey hooker groups. So far there are no reports of Randy going ballistic (ha) on any new bunnies. It’s a terrible form of torture, waiting for it to happen and break me all over again.

At the knock on my door, I stuff Randy’s underwear under a pile of socks. “Come in.”

My mom pokes her head in. “How’s it going?”

“Good. I’ll be done with this in a bit, and then I can help you with the kitchen.” I close the empty drawer. I feel something wet on my face and realize I’m crying. Again. Emotions blow dick. Randy’s badass scarred dick. Thinking about that definitely doesn’t stop the tears.

My mom folds me in her bony embrace. We’re both lean, so it’s nothing like hugging say, Randy, who’s all hard lines and muscle and man, and—shit I really need to stop thinking about him.

My mom strokes my hair, like she used to do when I was little. It’s soothing. “Is this because you’re moving away from me, or because you’re still sad about your hockey boy?”

“I don’t know. Both I guess.” I sniffle. It’s rather pathetic.

She lets go and takes my face between her hands. Her smile is sad. “He’s an idiot not to want you.”

“He wants me, just not the way I want him.” I try to stifle one of those horrible snot-sobs. I’m unsuccessful.

“You’re sure about that?” she asks softly.

“He made it clear from the beginning it was only ever going to be casual.”

“Feelings can change, Lily.”

“His haven’t.” I think about that phone call, the one about the girl at the bar who looked like me. In a matter of hours he’d been looking to replace me. “He said he’d fuck me over, eventually.”

My mom sighs. “Sometimes when people are scared of what they’re feeling, they push people away.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. He hasn’t tried to call me lately, or text. I think it’s just done.”

She gives me another bony squeeze. “I won’t tell you there are plenty of fish in the sea, even though there are. And you’ll find the one who’s right for you, at the right time.”

It doesn’t feel like I’m going to find another fish right now. I sniffle. “You probably shouldn’t since you turned forty and the verdict’s still out on Tim-Tom.”

“It’s Tim, honey, and he’s good for me.”

“Tim-Tom has a nice ring to it, though.”

My mom laughs, and then grows serious. “I know I made a lot of mistakes along the way, and a lot of bad choices, but I want you to know I have no regrets when it comes to you. Well, that’s not true. I wish I could’ve given you more. You deserved so much more than you got, but I did the best I could—”

She chokes on the rest of the words. Which is probably a good thing. My mom and me, we don’t have these deep, heartfelt conversations, likely because we both end up ugly-crying.