That's what I keep telling myself. We never said the words, never made it real. He told me to go explore.
This is me exploring.. The invitation was simple, “You free tonight? 9pm. Woodbury.” The Woodbury is one of those bars that tries to look like a dive but the drinks cost as much as an MRI and the food menu is all ironic.
I hate it, but I said yes, because the only thing more humiliating than the last twenty-four hours would be sitting at home, watching my phone not light up.
I stare into the sink, then brush my teeth with the cheap blue stuff that tastes like disappointment and childhood.
I try not to look at my phone, but it’s there, face up on the edge of the sink, the lock screen still Darius and I standing in front of the Pike Place gum wall, making the dumbest faces possible because the city was so gross that day and it was the only thing that made him smile.
I think about changing it, but it feels like deleting a dead relative. So I let it be.
I put on deodorant, twice, then trade my current shirt for one that has fewer visible sweat stains. Button-up, light gray.
I try to iron it, realize I haven’t owned an iron since sophomore year, then go with the “if I keep my jacket on no one will see” logic that’s never once worked.
I look like I’m interviewing for a job I’m grossly underqualified for, which is perfect because that’s what tonight is.
Outside the bathroom, the apartment is the usual war zone.
Hockey gear in two of the four corners-pads drying on a chair, sticks balanced on the heater like they’re trying to thaw out after a near-death experience. Kitchen is a joke.
Two Chinese takeout boxes, one emptied and one still leaking sweet-and-sour sauce from the top.
There’s a pizza box on the counter, three slices left, all of them glued together by congealed cheese and some kind of existential resignation.
On the nightstand in the bedroom, the book Darius gave me. Borges.
The bookmark is a Seattle Storm ticket stub. I almost pick it up, almost bring it with me, but then I remember how he handed it to me with that look, the one that said “I remembered because I wanted to, not because I had to,” and it’s too much.
I leave it there, daring myself to get through the night without thinking about the guy who just broke my heart into regulation-sized pieces.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it, then immediately check anyway. Just a Tinder notification, “You have a new match!” Like the universe is desperate to prove I’m not doomed to die alone.
I open the app, swipe through a few faces, none of them memorable, all of them a thousand times less compelling than the one face I’m actually thinking about.
There’s a message from some girl named Clara, who says “I love hockey too!!” with a dozen exclamation points. I don’t even remember swiping on her. I imagine the conversation. It dies in my head, quietly, before it even begins.
I swipe over to Grindr, scroll the grid, recognize at least three torsos from the gym and one from last week’s scrimmage.
There’s a message from “HotBarista” who is neither hot nor, judging by the spelling, a barista. I consider replying, then don’t.
I hover over the messages app, thumb hovering for a full minute over Darius’s name.
My last message is “You sure you’re ok?” sent after he bailed on our morning run. The reply was “All good,” which is Darius-speak for “I am bleeding out but don’t want to make a mess on the carpet.”
I start to type, then erase. I do this three more times. At one point I write “If you ever want to talk…” but I can’t finish it, so Idelete it and toss the phone onto the bed. It bounces, lands face down, and I let it lie.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, and try to summon the version of myself who could go on a date with a stranger and not spend the whole time dissecting every molecule of what went wrong with the last one.
I think about what I’ll say if Vincent asks about the team, or the season, or the “girlfriend situation.” I rehearse the answers out loud: “It was mutual.” “She’s great, just not great for me.” “It’s been a weird year.” None of them sound like me. Maybe that’s the point.
I check the time. 8:43. I have seventeen minutes to get to Belltown, which is possible only if every Uber driver in the city is suddenly motivated by divine intervention.
I throw on the jacket, finger comb my hair, and pull the front door shut behind me, not bothering to lock it because who the hell would want to steal anything from my life.
The elevator smells like weed and cheap perfume, which means the college couple on three-oh-six is fighting again.
I stand with my back to the mirror, counting the seconds, watching the numbers light up with painful slowness. On the way down, I consider texting Darius again.
