Being busy is a gift of distraction.
Busy keeps me from overanalyzing my feelings about my love life.
Matt’s been busy too. I noticed he went back to workearly. Pretended I didn’t. Told myself it was fine we hadn’t connected because I’d been on planes, in stadiums, chasing stories with a headset pressed to my ear and adrenaline pumping through my veins.
We haven’t really talked in days. A text here and there. But now I’m home. Alone with my thoughts for the first time in too long.
Desperately needing cover from the heat, that’s when I see it—the library.
Not the familiar brick building I grew up going to on school field trips or the one on Dad’s campus when the boys were busy and I had to tag along.
This one is massive. All glass and steel and quiet confidence, like it knows it holds answers whether you’re ready for them or not.
The doors slide open, and the cool air causes my bare arms to pimple. Sunlight spills across long tables in the enormous lobby. People are tucked into corners of their own worlds. Some reading. Some on laptops. Others wander around, in just as much awe as me.
Without a plan, I roam the first floor. History. Architecture. Travel. I take the escalator to the second floor, hoping I can find the sports section. I’ve never been one to ask for help. I’m an O’Ryan, and we are wired to figure it out.
Then I freeze. Parenting. A section much larger than I would have ever anticipated. I’ve never thought about babies other than J.D. and Greyson having children of their own.
My stomach flips, sharp and sudden, like my body’s trying to tell me something my brain isn’t ready to hear. I tell myself it’s curiosity. Curiosity is normal. I’m a journalist, and journalists tell stories. Stories need context.
I reach for a book before I can talk myself out of it. *FirstTrimester Basics*. I stare at the cover with a grape inside a cartoon belly.
“You know those don’t bite,” a voice says gently.
I jump.
The girl beside me smiles, pushing her glasses to the bridge of her nose. “You wouldn’t believe how many women just stare.”
I laugh, a little breathless, unsure of why I’m here.
She tilts her head. “Research?”
“Something like that,” I say. “I just stumbled in here to get out of the heat.”
She hums like she doesn’t entirely buy it but won’t press. “I’m Clara.”
“Noelle.”
Clara isn’t like any of my so-called friends. She talks quietly, lacking confidence. Her skirt hits mid-calf and makes her look frumpy, but her brown hair is thick and shiny. I tell her I’m a reporter and one of the stories I’m working on is about a football player learning his ex-girlfriend is pregnant. She nods her head and confides she comes here when the world feels loud.
It makes me wonder what feels loud. What is she going through? Because most of us are just trying to keep our heads above water. One minute you feel like your world is upright, and the next minute it’s upended. Just a couple of weeks ago I was in a daydream with Matt, and now something has shifted between us. Men suck.
“If you’re ever here again, I’m usually in the thriller section. Sometimes romance.”
“My work is just around the corner, so if I’m here, I’ll look for you.”
When we part ways, I stare at the enormity of parentingbooks. I find the sports section, and, of course, there are two books facing forward about the Austin Armadillos. One features G and the other J.D. I check them both out to see what this writer has to say about my family.
Outside again, the sun feels warmer. Heavier.
I check my phone. No missed calls or messages, and I tell myself not to read into Matt’s silence.
Easier said than done.
By the time I get home, the silence presses in. My roommates are nowhere to be found. I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and wander from room to room, pacing back and forth.
Fake dating was supposed to be armor. Something sharp and temporary to get me through the fallout. But somewhere between pretending and surviving, it became the place I felt comforted and most alive.
