“I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen. We work together, and?—”
“How long?”
He hesitates and his eyes finally dart away from the camera and honestly that’s answer enough, that’s everything I need to know written across his face.
“Garrett. How long.”
“Since August.”
August. Four months ago. When I started really pushing my training for nationals into high gear, spending six plus hours a day at the rink, pushing through the pain in my ankle that turned out to be stress fractures that derailed everything. I assumed he was happily finishing up his projects in Toronto, we texted every day and FaceTimed weekly and made plans for our future, for when he finally moved here.
And he was with someone else the entire time.
“You’ve been hiding this and lying to me for four months.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. You were training so hard, and I didn’t want to…”
“To what? Distract me?” The laugh that comes out sounds wrong, sharp and bitter. I can feel the anger spiraling up in my throat. “How considerate of you.”
“Jules—”
“So, what? Were you actually going to move here? And then just keep lying until—what, until I figured it out on my own?”
“I was trying to figure out what I wanted.”
“What you…wanted?” I’m standing now. “So you just dated two people while you figured out what you wanted. How nice for you.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, Garrett? Explain it to me.”
He runs a hand through his hair and it’s such a familiar gesture it physically hurts to watch.
“I love her.”
Three words. That’s all it takes.
I end the call.
My hands are shaking, trembling so hard the phone nearly slips from my grip.
The phone starts ringing again and the buzzing travels up through my palm, insistent.
I decline the call and block his number, my thumb moving automatically across the screen. Then I sit back down on the edge of my bed because my legs suddenly don’t feel very steady and my ankle isstarting to ache, that deep throb that means I’ve been standing too long, that means stress is settling into my joints like it always does.
Three years. We’d been together for three years. Since my sophomore year at UW when I met him on a spring break trip to Toronto. Long distance the entire time, but it worked, we made it work with video calls and visits during breaks and all these plans for after graduation when he’d move to Seattle and we’d finally, finally be in the same city.
He was supposed to be here in three weeks. I already cleared space in my closet for his stuff, bought extra hangers because I’m that person who cares about the hangers matching, made room for him in every part of my life.
My phone buzzes again and a text pops up from an unknown number, he must be texting from his work phone now.
I’m sorry. Please let me explain.
I delete it without reading the rest and block that number too.
The meal prep containers are still sitting on the counter, half-filled, Monday through Friday, the same routine I’ve always followed. Go to the rink, teach my classes, eat my pre-portioned meals, maintain my schedule, everything planned out, everything controlled.
