“I have to text him,” I say suddenly. “He’s probably freaking out too.”
I grab my phone from Genna and pull up my conversation with Dylan. The last message is from two days ago—him checking if I need a ride to Cam and Nila’s Ugly Christmas Sweater party.
What do I even say?‘Sorry the world thinks we’re engaged’? ‘Funny how people jumped to conclusions’? ‘Please tell everyone I’m not your secret girlfriend’?
I type and delete at least five different messages before settling on this one:
Me:Saw the article. Sorry that happened.
Simple. Casual. Like I’m not internally combusting with embarrassmentand confusion.
I hit send before I can overthink it any further, then immediately regret my word choice. “Sorry that happened”? It’s like I’m apologizing for a minor inconvenience, not a gossip blog speculating about our nonexistent relationship?
“What did you say?” Genna asks, peering over my shoulder.
“Nothing important,” I mutter, setting my phone face-down on the counter. “Just letting him know I saw it.”
“He’s probably still asleep,” she points out. “It’s not even eight yet.”
“Right.” I nod, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. “Of course.”
I pick up my coffee again, taking a long sip now that it’s cooled to lukewarm. Jhett nudges my leg, sensing my unease, and I reach down to stroke his silky head.
“It’ll blow over,” Genna says with forced confidence. “These things always do. Tomorrow there’ll be a new hockey scandal for people to obsess over.”
“You’re right,” I agree, not believing it for a second. “It’s not a big deal.”
But it is a big deal, at least to me. Because for a brief, unguarded moment, while looking at that simple ring on my finger with Dylan beside me, I felt something shift between us. Something I’ve been trying desperately to ignore ever since.
My phone buzzes against the counter, and I nearly drop my mug to grab it.
Dylan:Not your fault.
Three words. No emoji, no follow-up, no “let’s talk about this.” Just “Not your fault,” like he’s dismissing the whole thing—and me along with it.
“What did he say?” Genna asks.
I wordlessly hand her the phone, my throat suddenly tight.
“Oh,” she says after reading his response. “Well, that’s ... brief.”
“It’s fine.” I take my phone back and stare at those three words as if they might rearrange themselves into something more meaningful if I look hard enough. “It’s not like we need to have a deep conversation about it. We were joking around, someone took pictures, people misinterpreted. End of story.”
But even as I say it, I can feel the hurt settling in my chest.
But what was I expecting? For Dylan to say he wishes the article were true? That he’s secretly been harboring feelings for me?
That’s not who he is. That’s not who we are to each other.
“I’m gonna go shower,” I announce, needing to escape this conversation and the knowing look in Genna’s eyes.
I retreat to my bedroom, Jhett following faithfully at my heels. Once inside, I close the door and sink onto my unmade bed, the rumpled sheets still warm from sleep. I read Dylan’s message again.
Dylan:Not your fault.
Of course it’s not my fault. I know that. But something about the brevity, the casualness of his response, makes me feel hollow. Like the whole thing means nothing to him. Like I mean nothing beyond friendship.
And why should that bother me? It’s what I want, isn’t it? To be just friends with Dylan, to maintain the safe, comfortable relationship we’ve always had?
