“What if I’m not fine with us being just friends anymore?”
“YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!” I explode at him, turning my back on him in frustration, my hands digging into my hair, pulling, nowhere else to go. I’m using sheer will to get my tears to remain within my eyeballs, not wanting him to see how much I’ve wanted to hear these words. How many nights, over weeks, and months and years, I dreamed of hearing him say these things. But not like this.Thisis all wrong.
I’ve always known what I wanted.
Aaron.
Every single bit of him. His humor, his kindness, his ridiculously nerdy and occasionally emo self, and, yes, the parts of him that can be a downright asshole. We fit. We always have. I’ve known it since middle school.
Him? He’s always wanted sexy, trendy, someone ultra feminine, like a modern day damsel. You know, like a fashion influencer. Like Kayla. With me, he does the video game battles, the fantasy binges, the laser tag championships, the poop and boner jokes, and justlife. With them? For his sake, I hope it’s more than just sex that they share. But I’m pretty damn confident they never get to see the parts of Aaron I cherish the most.
Has he finally figured that out? That he can have it all? Someone who’s seen every side of him, his best days and his worst, and still loves him for him? Regardless of what roles he lands or gets passed for? How much money a film brings in? If he gets nominated for a Golden Globe or not?
I’m far from convinced he really wants me for me. He’s said and donenothingother than show me jealousy. Petulance. Like I’m some unique designer piece he was gifted that was never quite his style, but when you finally donate it, he sees someone else wearing it, how good it looks on them, hehasto have it back. That’s all my heart is to him; that’s allIam to him.
Facing the wall, my forehead pressed firmly against it, I pound one tortured fist into the textured plaster above my head, letting my aggravation find a way out. How is this the same surface I was backed up against moments ago, thinking all of my dreams were finally coming true for a (very mistaken) hot minute? Now it feels like the only thing keeping me upright, keeping me from fully caving in on myself and being swallowed by my confusion, my disappointment.
I just narrowly miss a framed picture (the two of us taken before he went to prom with his beautiful date, and me goingalone, forced to attend by my parents, rather than moping at home like I wanted to) as my palm slams against the surface, but the vibration from my slap shakes it loose anyway, and I hear the glass shatter as it hits the ground. My heart can relate.
The sounds of his knees creaking as he bends down hit my ears (a permanent remnant of the slight injury he sustained on his one and only attempt at an action flick), followed by the tinkling of glass, and I think I hear him set the frame down on the entryway side table.
“Just…just go, Aaron.” The sobs are coming up my throat faster than I can choke them back down, and I have to cut off my airflow to stop the sounds emerging while he can still hear them. Strangled noises are audible anyway, and I say a silent prayer that he is honoring my request, my absolute need for him to just fuck off right now, and that he is on his way out, because I can feel the massive sobs about to wrack my body as soon as I take a breath, and I just can’t handle him seeing my breakdown.
I can’t lose my self-respect on top of everything else. I refuse to.
Thankfully, his soft voice reaches my ears, respectful, but firm. “I’ll leave, but we aren’t done, Gem. Break up with him.” There’s certainty in his words now. Footsteps follow, and the door closes softly.
I let out my breath and gulp down air, as much of it as I can get into my lungs, and the worst combination of noises come out in response. My face screws up in unimaginable pain, and then the wails start. Spinning around to press my back against the wall and letting the structure support my weight, as my legs seem incapable at this moment, I slide down along the entire thing, not caring when my ass hits the glass-covered ground, and the palm of my hand takes a slice right off the bat. Honestly, feeling the pain somewhere other than my hollow chest is a relieving change of pace, a distraction I welcome.
Hugging my knees to my chest, I bury my head in them, and I cry for every future I ever dreamed of.
The ones with Aaron.
The ones where I dreamt I could get over him.
And the ones where I feared I never would.
It feels like there’s no winning this. No outcome where everyone wins, and no hearts or egos get battered. The worst part is, I have no idea which outcome I even want anymore.
I’d long since given up on the dream of him finally opening his eyes to us, our potential. There was a flash of renewed hope on Friday night, before I felt stupider than I ever have before, and I sealed my heart up tighter than ever before. But the way he looked at me tonight was everything I could’ve wished for. Like he was finally, finally seeing what’s been there all along.
I know he doesn’t deserve my love, my loyalty, but it’s not that easy to cut him out of my mind, or my heart. And after tonight? I don’t have a single clue how I’m supposed to get him out of either anytime soon.
TWENTY-FOUR
AARON
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Gemma cry. Like, full on, cry cry.
Not the angry tears she sometimes gets on my behalf when I’ve been wronged, when the tabloids cross a line, go too far to invade my privacy or say something particularly shitty. She doesn’t get those angry tears a lot, but they happen.
But, like, actuallycry? Shit, I think I’ve only seen it a few times in our lives. When her grandpa died, when we were in eighth grade. (They were really close.) When her parents finally let her adopt a puppy in tenth grade, and the night before it reached eight weeks, the day before they went to pick it up, they got a call from the shelter that it got parvo and died. She swore off animals after that. I know she wants them, but she won’t do it now. Says she can’t handle the eventual goodbye, whether it’s in a week or a decade, that she’s just not cut out for pet parenthood. Caught her with red eyes a time or two over the years, so I suspect there’s been a few other instances, too, but not many. She’s a strong one, my Gem.
But I’m positive, had I stayed last night, not left like she’d asked me to, I’d be able to put another finger down, now. I heard her cracking and breaking through the door, and I wishI could put into words for you what those sounds, the awful fucking noises did to my insides, but I can’t. I’m an actor, not a writer, not a poet. And I’m not sure there’s the right words in the English language for the internal damage that was done to me to hear her like that. Knowing it was because of me? I’ve never been more inspired to get my shit together in my life. What kind of monster am I to hurt her the way that I have?
“I messed up.” My voice sounds croaky, quieter, like the shame in me is keeping it from coming out at full volume.
“What did you do, sugar?” Hers sounds humored, amused, full of adoration, and like there’s no way I’ve really messed up that bad. It only makes the knot of guilt inside my stomach expand, eating up the surrounding organs as it does.
