I thought I was building a life. Turns out I was just filling time.
My breath catches weird in my throat, that pre-cry hitch that means I’m about thirty seconds from losing it completely, and my nose is already prickling, my phone rings again and I almost decline it automatically until I see the name: Olivia.
My little sister. She’s getting married in February to Owen, her college sweetheart, and they’re one of those couples that are perfect together in this way that makes people smile when they see them, easy and happy and uncomplicated, everything a relationship should be.
Garrett is Owen’s best friend.
Oh God. Garrett is Owen’s best friend.
I stare at the phone, watching it ring, and the screen lights up with her contact photo, both of us at the Space Needle last summer, squinting into the sun. Olivia probably doesn’t know yet. If she’s calling about bridesmaid dresses or centerpieces or whatever wedding crisis has come up today, she doesn’t know that her future husband’s best friend just blew up my life.
The call goes to voicemail.
Thirty seconds later, there’s a text.
Olivia
Call me back! Need to finalize bridesmaid dress orders!!
I can’t call her right now and pretend everything is fine, can’t talk about her wedding and her happiness and her perfect future with Owen while my own relationship is bleeding out on my apartment floor.
Ankle is killing me. Can we talk tomorrow?
It’s not even a lie. My ankle does hurt, a dull ache that’s spreading up into my calf now. I’ve been on my feet too much today, taught two beginner classes at the rink this afternoon, then stopped by the grocery store on the way home. The stress fracture has been healing for eight weeks now and my physical therapist keeps saying I’m making good progress, another month and I can start attempting single jumps again, two months until I can consider doubles.
The qualifiers are in March, but I won’t be ready. That dream died the same day I ignored the pain in my ankle for one too many training sessions, and kept pushing when I should have stopped.
Olivia
Okay! Feel better. Love you!
I set the phone down on the bed beside me. My apartment looks exactly how I like it: clean, organized, everything in its place. The bedis made. The dishes are done. My skating bag is packed by the door, ready for tomorrow’s lessons.
Nothing has actually changed.
Everything has changed.
I should finish my meal prep, should stick to my routine because that’s what I do, I maintain control, I follow the plan, I do what I’m supposed to do.
Instead I go to the kitchen and scrape all the food into the trashcan, leave the dishes in the sink, and crawl into my bed even though it’s barely eight o’clock, pulling the covers up over my shoulders until the fabric is tucked tight around me.
I don’t sleep that night. I just lie there and stare at the ceiling, replaying every conversation from the past four months, looking for the moment I should have known, looking for something I missed.
He was supposed to move here in three weeks.
There had to be signs. I’m not stupid. But I was so focused on my training, on healing my ankle, on finishing my degree and getting accepted into grad school, that apparently I missed something massive. We had a plan. I thought we had a plan. I guess it was only my plan.
At 2 AM I get up and go to my closet, flipping on the light and pushing my clothes back until they fill the empty space, and the hangers scrape against the metal, harsh and final. There. Like it never existed.
At 4 AM I give up on sleep entirely and start getting ready because I need to do something, need to move and feel like I have control over something, even if it’s just my appearance.
The water runs hot enough to turn my skin pink and steam fills the tiny bathroom until the mirror fogs over completely. I dry my hair and smooth it into a bun, my hands moving through the familiar motions automatically. Minimal makeup, just enough to look like I haven’t been crying. Leggings and a sweatshirt, the fabric soft and worn from too many washes. I look at myself in the mirror and see thesame person I was yesterday. Same dark hair, same serious expression, same everything.
He said he loved her.
Not “I’m sorry.” Not “I made a mistake.” Just “I love her.”
Like it was that simple, like three years with me could just be erased by a few months with someone else.
