Page 108 of Okay, Cupid

I can’t do that to Cal.

I can’t do that to Huy.

And, most of all, I can’t do that to myself.

As pathetic as it is, I don’t leave my bed the whole weekend.

Leah dotes on me, taking my temperature and making me soup. I know that I need to get out from under the sheets, I know that I need to sit Leah down, to have a conversation with her, tell her the truth. There’s a chance she already knows. If Cal told Richard, he would’ve told her.

I don’t know if Cal would betray my trust like that. Or if the more cruel choice is to make me do it myself.

I feel so unfair for forcing those feelings onto him. Cal has never been anything except kind to me, beside me for every mistake that I’ve ever made, encouraging me when I needed it the most.

He’s always been there. And I never noticed how he felt.

The hand-holding, the kisses, the moments of affection … they always just felt so natural with him. I never questioned how I showed my love for him despite me knowing it could be read as romantic, even if I never saw it that way.

This is my fault.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the pain on Huy’s face as he told me to leave.

He’ll forget me. He’ll forget the way he looked at me, why he was on that beach for so long. He’ll never remember the glances that we stole from each other across the classrooms. He’ll forget that day in culinary arts when I mixed up the salt and sugar and made the most repulsive yellow cake ever. He’ll forget the repeat trips to NaYa after school, and the shared dessert. He’ll forget my love of chocolate donuts. He’ll forget taking my hand. He’ll forget showing me his favorite movie. He’ll forget our night shared on the phone. He’ll forget me watching him play soccer.

He’ll forget me.

Every inch of me.

But how can I ever forget him?

“How are you feeling?” Leah asks when I brave the living room, with my Crocs on for comfort.

“Not great,” I tell her, slumping onto the couch.

She reaches over, putting the back of her hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever, so that’s good.”

“I’m not sick,” I admit to her. “I just didn’t want to leave my bed.”

“I could tell,” she says. “I wanted you to take your own time.”

“You could tell?”

“You’re a lot whinier when you’re sick.”

“Am not.”

“You so are, Jude-bug. But that’s not what’s important right now.” She readjusts on the couch so that she’s facing me, her legs tucked underneath her. “What’s going on in that little head of yours? How did the festival go?”

“Terribly.”

She frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you still think you can meet the deadline? We could talk to Richard. What can I do to help out?”

“It’s not that,” I start to say. “I mean, it’s impossible. We can’t fix what happened.”

“Jude, you’re worrying me.” She puts a hand on my knee. “Tell me what happened.”

I take a deep breath. There’s no reason to hide the truth from her, not anymore. Not when there’s nothing to protect, nothing to hide from or behind. I have to learn how to face the consequences of my actions.

Again.