“The spotlight. The scrutiny. Your parents’ disapproval. The way you had to defend us ...” He finally looks at me, and his eyes are full of something that looks like resignation. “Maybe they see something we don’t.”
“Clark—” I want to ask what’s happening, why he’s withdrawing, but I know. He’s just not into me the way he was in high school. We’re better as friends. Right now, those are words I don’t want to hear.
Thankfully, he makes an out. “I should go. Early practice tomorrow.”
He leans over and kisses my forehead, not my lips.
Then he’s gone, and I’m left watching his taillights disappear down my street.
We have “the conversation”the next evening via text. Because apparently, we’re cowards. I’m also at his loft, house and dog sitting because I’m a glutton for punishment.
Clark: We should probably talk about Kansas City.
Me: Yeah. We should.
Clark: The campaign is almost over.
My hands shake as I type.
Me: I don’t want to hold you back. From playoffs. From your career.
Clark: You’re not holding me back. Did we move too fast? Maybe we need space to figure things out.
Me: This was always temporary, right?
Even though it stopped being fake weeks ago. Even though I love him. Even though the thought of losing him is tearing me apart.
Clark: Let’s not forget rule seven. That’s what matters most.
Friends. We’re going back to friends. Like the last few weeks never happened. Like we didn’t confess our crushes on each other. Like we didn’t arrive at the truth after ten years. But we didn’t actually say how we feel in the present, did we? We didn’t define things. We just cleared up the past and I’m afraid now there is no future.
Me: Friends. Right. That makes sense.
Clark: We’ll finish the campaign, then we can figure out the rest.
Me: Sounds good.
It doesn’t sound good. It sounds like an ending. Like giving up. But I don’t know how to pivot, adapt, find better paths—as he told my parents—when I’m not even sure he wants me to.
I set my phone down and let myself cry. The dogs—all five of them—pile onto my bed, offering comfort in the only way they know how.
This is better, I tell myself. Better to end things now before I’m in too deep.
Except I’m already too deep.
I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to save myself.
A few days later,Clark picks me up early in the morning to drive to Kansas City. His smile is uncertain and the dogs must be picking up on his vibe because all of five of them are rather subdued. Moose pokes his head up in the way back. Scout and Buster sit in the middle row and gnaw on special bones. Purdy and Lulu are cozy in their travel seats and look out the window.
“Coffee?” Clark asks, which are just about his first words since picking me up.
“Sure. Thanks. That would be good.”
We stop at a gas station. Make small talk about the weather. Avoid eye contact.
The dogs sense something is wrong, watching us with worried gazes.
About an hour into the drive, I can’t take it anymore.
