He’s going to think I’m a stalker. He’s going to think that I’m a pathetic loser who can’t move on. I can see him getting the text, wondering if he should respond, just to be nice, before sliding his phone back in his pocket, ultimately deciding that the nicest thing to do would be to let this die quietly. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could time travel, wishing I never had come home for this stupid holiday.
Wishing I never left Grant, never went to Will.
My phone buzzes, my eyes springing open. I type in my password wrong twice before finally getting the phone unlocked, my pulse rapid, dread and excitement pulsing through me with each uneven beat of my heart.
Grant
I miss you too.
Something blooms inside me, through all the ugliness of the past few hours, a sliver of hope forcing its way to the front of the wreckage. I contemplate not responding. What if it ruins it? What if this is it and he never responds again? I need to have this moment stay exactly as it is. Not responding would be an act of self preservation, but…what if hedoesrespond? What if hewantsto talk?
Really?
Stupid. Why wouldthatbe the message I send? I should have said nothing.
Still there’s some weird need for him to confirm. Like what if he is being nice? What if he doesn’t mean it?
My phone buzzes and I almost don’t want to look at his response, but then it buzzes again…and again. I look down, Grant’s name flashing across my caller ID. My thumb hovers over the green button, and I suck in a breath before accepting the call.
“Hey.” His voice is warm and my posture instantly relaxes just hearing it. It's shocking how much I missed the sound of him. Just his steady breathing on the other line fills a wound in me I didn’t even know was there.
“Hi,” I say, my voice a rough whisper.
He sucks in a loud breath and I wonder if he regretscalling, if he only picked up the phone to tell me to stop bothering him.
“So—Thanksgiving sucks,” he chuckles softly and tears prick my eyes, my face breaking into a wobbly smile.
“It really does.” I sniff using the back of my hand to brush off a rogue tear.
“My dad asked about you,” he says quietly and I can sense the sadness in his voice. The desire to be near him is overwhelming. “He was disappointed that it's over between us...” It feels like someone knocked the air out of me. Like someone took the very fabric of my world and cut it in half. The pieces of it become more fragmented with each cut.
“Is it?” I can’t hide the desperation in my tone, the need for him to say no. My face and eyes feel raw and I wish I never answered the phone.
He sucks in a shaky breath of his own, I can practically see him running a hand over his face, not wanting to say the truth out loud. “I don’t know, Gen. Look I’m sorry I called. I just—” He stops himself and gets quiet for a minute. “I should go.” My lips ache as I push them together, begging myself not to cry, not to let him hear how much of an effect he has on me. I nod, even though I know he can’t see me. Disappointment cuts away any semblance of hope I may have still been carrying.
“Gen..?” His voice is a whisper now and I wish I could lose myself in it.
“Yes,” I manage to choke out.
“I meant it. What I said. I don’t think I’ll ever not mean it. I don’t think I’ve stopped missing you since the moment I met you.”
I cover my mouth, my body shaking with the force of my cries as the line clicks off and the silence of the room swallows me.
32
Gen
Campus feels dreary—and it’s not just the weather. It’s me. I’m a walking storm cloud, augmenting the melancholy already hanging heavy in the gray skies. Reading week’s in full swing, but even the non-stop campus activities and unsanctioned parties are nothing against the wave of helplessness that moved in over break.
At least I’m busy; the conservatory eats up most of my free time in December anyway, and this year I have…friends. Friends who insist we get drinks on my off-show nights when I could be soaking in epsom salts or icing my feet or feeling sorry for myself with a bowl of ice cream. When Sloane made plans, it wasn’t a hard sell not to be alone tonight, just me and my thoughts and my achy muscles.
Last year, I would spend almost every night of the reading period at Will’s; Jean would drop me off on our way back from a show, and I’d curl up on the end of Will’s couch with frozen produce bags on my feet, zoning out to Stranger Things or The Last of Us—both of which werenever my thing. Definitely his. And I never bothered asking if we could watch my thing…it seemed like an easy concession on my part. I wanted, so badly, for him to be okay that I couldn’t even do that.
The front door of Vida’s chimes and in walks Olivia, the ultimate reminder of how different things are now. Her rich, chestnut hair is tossed forward by the wind as the door shuts, and I watch as she treks across the dark wooden planks, wondering how she keeps her sneakers so crisp. I can’t help but watch her—I don’t think anyone can—and my gaze snags on the empty space on her chest. The one where an L used to hang from a dainty chain.
She clears her throat, dipping her head with wide, hesitant eyes, clearly having noticed my inspection. “Back to hating me again, or is that just your face?” she smirks, but her eyes remain hesitant.
“It’s my face,” I tell her with an eye roll, noting the way Sloane’s gaze bounces between the two of us, still gauging whether or not this friendship she’s cobbled together will last. “You’re not wearing your necklace.”
