Five, four, three, two, one—Happy New—
Instead of listening to Auld Lang Syne echo through the streets of mid-town Manhattan, while the eagerly awaiting sea of humanity erupts with hopeful joy, I sit in silence alone in my condo. The remote control falls from my hand onto the empty cushion next to me, as my head rests heavily against the back of the sofa. I can’t watch millions of complete strangers’ sweet nostalgia dissolve while they embrace their ambitious ideas for the new beginning that just presented itself. Something about this time of year leaves me feeling bitter. Maybe it’s because it’s always the same me in a new year.
My phone display continually casts a white glow on the ceiling from where it lays on my glass coffee table. Without looking, I know it’s best wishes for the new year. Probably messages from my sisters and Laken, Emerson, and maybe even the guys, too. They’re all together tonight at a big party at Gage and Laken’s new house. I declined. Just like I declined the invitation to the country club’s New Year’s Eve bash. Historically, I never miss NYE at the club; it’s a great time and the party always continues with whomever I bring home with me. Last year was especially exciting. I couldn’t decide who was the better kisser—the brunette or the redhead—so I brought both of them home. The self-images each of the pretty ladies had of themselves made this bullshit ego I exude seem like nothing at all. But that’s the beauty of the club. We’re all the same kind of people… at least that’s how I make it appear anyway. I thought for sure 2017 would be a fantastic year based on the way I brought it in, and it was. It was a damn good year for everyone around me—engagements, weddings, babies, new homes—I watched amazing things happen for amazing people. I watched.
2017 left me changed—softened by the people who had welcomed me into their lives and made me a friend. People who forced me to realize I was a person who could be so much more than who I had become. The past year also left me hardened toward the people—who in one way or another—shaped me into the cynical son of a bitch I’ve been for most of my adult life. I know the actions of others aren’t really credible excuses for where I am in life. No, I’ve made my own choices that have been—at some point—exactly what I wanted.
Yes, I’ve made my choices and now I live with the consequences. For the second time in my life, I loved someone and I let them go. I convinced myself it was for her own good. I would only cause her pain. I was successful. I’m sure she’s not hurting—not because of me anyway—she never knew how I felt. I’m the one who’s hurting. I live with the idea of what could have been. While everyone looks ahead, especially now on New Year’s Day—all I think about is what or rather who I’ve left behind.
© 2018 Victoria Monroe