The night with Alex shouldn’t have happened.None of itshould’ve happened.
“Apparently, every decision I’ve made so far when it comes to maybe figuring out my sexuality has just been one mistake after another.”
Chloe shakes her head and reaches for my untouched coffee and swaps it for her empty mug. “I’m sure that can be confusing and all that, but I don’t think that’s what this is.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think you both have feelings for each other, and you’ve been friends your whole life so you don’t know what to do with that.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay, well.” She lets her sentence linger, and I wait for her to take another bite of her breakfast and wash it down before continuing. “Have you talked to Alex about any of this?”
Oh yeah. Back tothat. I sink lower in my seat. “I haven’t talked to her all week.”
“You haven’t talked to herall week? Jules.” She sounds disappointed, and I don’t blame her. Whereas Chloe gave me room to process, we still talked. I didn’t completely shut her out or ignore her.
Not like I did with Alex.
“I know. I asked her for space so I could figure all this out.”
“How’s that working for you? Because from here, you just seem miserable.”
That’s because I am miserable. So very miserable. I run my hands across my face. I don’t ever remember feeling this tired. “I should call her, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes. You should. Now please order more coffee. It’s a six-hour drive back.”
Monday morning, after pacing my room nervously for the better part of twenty minutes, I stop fiddling with my necklace and chewing on my thumbnail and finally hit the call button. I’ve practiced my speech for her voice mail a hundred times. Timed it twice and triple-checked that she should be in class. And, yeah, sure, maybe leaving a voice mail is the coward’s way out, but I’m not—
“Jules?”
She answers on the third ring.
A nervous kaleidoscope of butterflies stirs in the pit of my stomach. “Hi.”
“Hi, how are you, hi.” There’s a bunch of rustling, and she sounds slightly out of breath.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” I ask, wondering if she saw my call and raced out of the room. Or if she’s busy doing something else.
“I’m skipping it,” she admits sheepishly. She clears her throat. “Are you…is everything okay?”
She sounds hesitant and worried, and I hate myself just a little more for pulling away like I did. “I’m sorry. About ignoring your messages,” I blurt, unable to take it anymore.
“No, I’m sorry,” she counters just as quickly. “You asked for space. I should’ve respected that.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, focusing on the message I was planning on leaving and the urge to make things right between us. “Look, Alex, I’m sorry. About New York. About after. I was confused and hurt, and I lashed out. I should’ve just told you what was bothering me. It wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about London and for breaking my promise to you. And downplaying my relationship and for keeping you in the dark.” Her words come out rushed, like she’s been holding on to them and maybe practicing them as well. There’s a stretch of silence, and part of me wishes we were on a video call so I could see her face. “Can you tell me now? What was bothering you?”
There’s another nervous swarm in my stomach. Communicating these feelings is hard no matter how prepared I thought I was. I’m still scared I’m going to say it all wrong.
“It’s kind of hard to explain.” She waits, and I wonder if she can sense my discomfort. “Do you think we made a mistake? Sleeping together?”
“You said you didn’t regret it,” she reminds me quietly.
And, yeah, I did say that. But I’ve been sitting with it for months. Watching how our relationship has seemed to slowly erode since then. I didn’t regret it then. I don’t even regret it now. What Idoregret is how I’ve handled it.
“Jules?”
