“You’re making a mistake.”
Andrew’s voice snapped harshly behind me, too calm, too certain, like he was reciting a script he’d written for both of us. The porch boards creaked as he stepped closer, the porch where he’d first kissed me and told me he loved me…My front porch.
But I didn’t stop walking. I knew if I gave him enough space, I’d let him back in—that I’d fold into his words like I always did, confused between what he said and what he meant. He had a knack for sounding right while making me feel wrong.
“I have to go,” I said, gripping my suitcase handle tighter. “This is what I want.”
“You want to throw everything away?” he asked, all mock-hurt and blame. “You think New York is gonna fix what’s broken in you?”
I flinched. He always knew where to aim and how to make it just sharp enough to make me doubt myself, but subtle enough to make it seem like love.
“I’m not broken,” I said. “I just finally stopped believing that love has to hurt.”
He laughed under his breath. It was his slow, condescending laugh that always made me feel small. “You’ve always been so dramatic. You think you’re special, Rachel? No one is going to love you like I do.”
I turned to face him with my heart pounding. “I don’t plan on finding someone that loves me like you do, because you don’t really love me at all.”
His expression flickered for just a moment until a smirk crawled across his face. “You think they’ll care about your little stories up there? They won’t. You’ll be back.”
Andrew is still there, in that same town, on the same street, probably drinking a beer down at the same bar, where men retell their glory days every night so they believe they are still hometown heroes.
Andrew stayed.
I left. And I am still trying to prove to everyone that leaving meant something. That I wasn’t just a girl who walked away from the golden boy.
I want to be remembered for more than leaving.
I want to be remembered forbecoming.
I’ve been typing for what feels like only minutes, preparing for this interview, when I hear my name being spoken—a distant echo attached to a blurry, bouncing form in my peripheral.
“Rachel!” Emma’s voice is clearer now, her tone brighter. “It’s quitting time!”
I blink, wiping away the haze that comes from looking at a screen too long. “Sorry, I just fell deep into the world of football.”
I make a mental note to wear those blue-light glasses I purchased months ago.
“Um, gross.” Emma’s nose wrinkles, making her pink glasses scrunch up to her eyes.
Emma is adorable, which is why there have been so many not-quite-Prince Charmings in her life. Her blonde hair is cut perfectly at the ends, grazing her shoulders. She always styles it straight, and she also always wears pink lipstick to match her glasses.
I return Emma’s look of disgust as if I hate sports, too. As if I wasn’t the cheerleader on the sidelines screaming for number fifty-one every Friday night in the fall during my high school years. As if I didn’t know what a blitz was or the difference between zone or man-to-man defense coverages.
“What are your evening plans?” Emma asks, hopping up to sit on my desk, revealing her polka dot tights under her sleek, black dress.
“The usual,” I reply. “Writing the next chapter for Barrett. Weekends are prime time for getting ahead for my readers.”
My Friday nights typically consist of a subway ride home, eating a bland frozen meal made lukewarm by the wonky microwave that sometimes sparks but at least works—mostly, and then staring at my screen for another four hours, getting lost in Barrett’s arms and lips through my own words. It is as close to a relationship as I care to get right now. Fictional boyfriends that I write myself always meet my expectations.
“Well, you know I’m going to read it, but tonight, I’ve got other plans,” she croons before shoving her phone in my face, revealing a handsome man with dark hair that swoops low over one eye and full lips. “I’ve got a date, and I have a really good feeling about this guy.”
I smile. “Where’d you meet this one?”
“A new dating app,” Emma squeals. “Everyone says this one is better. You don’t get to see the profile picture until you’ve had a conversation on three different days. Then, the photo appears. His name is Taylor. Musician.”
I tried dating apps for a while, but I deleted them all three years ago. Emma knows that. It’s not that I think love can’t exist online; it’s just that I have this impossible romantic need to experience a ‘meet cute’ that doesn’t start with a swipe right.
“He looks dreamy,” I reply.
