“Oh god,” I whisper, pressing my palms against my eyes. “I’ve been stringing him along, haven’t I?”
Whitley doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
I’ve been giving him just enough to keep him around without ever really letting him in.
“I’m a terrible person,” I mutter, dropping my hands into my lap.
“You’re not terrible,” Whitley says, her voice softening. “You’re just…not in love with him. There’s a difference.”
I shake my head. “I’ve wasted eight months of his life.”
“Better than eight years.” She gives me a pointed look. “Or are you planning to marry him someday out of politeness?”
I press my lips together, hard enough to sting. I don’t answer right away because the truth tastes bitter in my mouth.
“No,” I whisper. “But I think I was hoping I’d get there. Eventually.”
“Violet…”
“I know,” I say quickly, blinking against the burn in my eyes. “I know I have to end it. It’s not fair to him. But I think I wanted it to work so badly, because if it didn’t, it meant I was still waiting for someone who walked away years ago. And how pathetic is that?”
Whitley snorts, breaking the tension with a sudden burst of laughter. “Okay, let me get this straight. You’re afraid you’re pathetic because you’re pining for some guy from your past, so instead you’re dating a human saltine cracker?” She tosses a throw pillow at me. “That’s not pathetic, that’s just bad math.”
I catch the pillow and hug it to my chest, unable to stop a reluctant smile. “Travis isn’t a saltine.”
“You’re right. Saltines have salt.” She raises her eyebrows dramatically. “He’s more like unseasoned tofu.”
“Whitley!” I protest, but I’m laughing now, the heaviness in my chest lifting just a little.
She leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Look, you have two choices here. You can keep pretending to be attracted toMr. Beige Is My Personality?—”
“Whit—”
“—or,” she continues, louder, “you can woman up and talk to both of these men like the grown-ass adult you are. Tell Travis the truth and then figure out what the hell Rowan is doing back. I’m not sayingthrow yourselfat the guy. But you’ve been stuck for six years. Maybe it’s time to unstick yourself.”
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and both of us glance at it. Travis’s name lights up the screen.
Travis:
Hey, babe. Dinner on Friday? That new Italian place?
I stare at the text, my stomach twisting. The casual endearment, the assumption that I’ll say yes, the fact that he’s already planning our next predictable evening together while I’m sitting here unraveling over another man.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
Whitley peers at the phone. “Perfect timing. The universe is practically writing your breakup speech for you.”
I don’t answer right away, instead I just watch the screen go dark.
I press my fingertips to my temple, as if I can physically rub away the guilt curling under my skin. “I don’t even know how to start.”
Whitley doesn’t hesitate. “Start with the truth. And go from there.”
Easy for her to say. She’s always been good at ripping the Band-Aid off. Meanwhile, I have no problem giving it the time it needs to just fall off.
four
. . .
