Page 156 of The Influencer

We may as well be sitting on opposite sides of a conference room table and not half-naked on the same bed with how formal this conversation feels. There’s no warmth whatsoever. He’s even moved to fold his arms over his chest, closing himself off to me even more. “And you don’t want to stay here.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Not without you. No.”

We are going to break up. It hits me with startling clarity, and I jolt where I’m sitting. Maybe he wouldn’t put it in those terms, since he’s never laid claim to me whatsoever—ha, what else is new?—but it’s definitely how I see it.

It might not happen right this second, but that’s what’s coming down the pipe. For all I fucking know, he’s already found an apartment, and the second he moves into it, we’re effectively done, whether I’m still in town or not. I didn’t go to high school for long, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that lots of people break up at the end of summer before college, and I’m guessing this is what that feels like—there’s no reason to break up—nothing is intrinsically wrong, but both partners acknowledge the fact that there’s no future—their lives are diverging too drastically, and they don’t have the love required to stick out the long-distance part.

At least, that’s how I think he sees it. And I’m not about to fucking beg. “All right. Fine,” I say.

“You don’t sound fine,” he deadpans.

“What do you expect me to sound like?” I’m off the bed now. I’m not sure how or when I got up, or what I looked like when I did, but I’m on my way to the bathroom to do my skin care. He follows me, the eight feet rule still applying apparently.

As he leans against the doorframe behind me, I turn the tap to warm the water and slide my hair band into place. I make brief eye contact with him in the mirror.

“I expect you to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” he says.

I roll my eyes. What a stupid, misogynistic thing to say. “My thoughts aren’t yours,” I say pointedly.

I’m pleased to share I hit a nerve. He visibly grimaces. “All right, that’s enough. What is this really about, Jade?”

44

asher

He’s making me sick to my stomach. As in, I’m glad we’re closer to the toilet now because I may need it if he carries through with his line of questioning and pushes this whole thing to a head right now. I am in no shape to lose him today. And it’s not just because he’s my date to the bachelor party. It’s because I thought I had more time to prepare, and I’m not fucking ready tonight.

Okay, fine—I’m not entitled to his thoughts, or any other part of him. I can accept that. Even if it may be difficult to swallow because he once played so fast and loose with everything that was on his mind. I can acknowledge, also, there’s been more relationship tension as the date he’s leaving town approaches. Up until November 1st, it had been the fun kind of tension. The exciting kind. The last man who got to fuck him practically tipped his hat at me on the way out the door and told me I was lucky, and I’d had the proudest smirk on my face because I fucking know how lucky I am. Or was.

People don’t achieve Jade’s level of success in any of the fields he’s in unless they’re somehow special, and he is. He is so damn special. Talented and beautiful, adorable and clever. He’s everything. The complete package. And I’m proud of him, even if I had nothing to do with making him into the man he is today. A man I still don’t know half as much about as I want to. But November’s been rough. The days have gone by way too fast.

He finally responds to my question with, “If you’re ready to go, just go.”

Like a fucking brick to the face.

“I’m not ready, and I’m not planning to?—”

“But you are planning to. Maybe not tonight, and maybe not next week, but you’re not planning on us, and that’s what I needed to know. It’s fine. I never expected you to.”

My stomach turns again. Not like this. Please, not like this. “You know the issues I have don’t have anything to do with you, right?”

“Sure,” he says, bending over to splash water on his face.

“Do you have issues with me?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer that, and it’s another twist in the gut. “How am I supposed to fix this if you don’t tell me what’s wrong?”

He rubs in his foaming cleanser in practiced circles. “I don’t think you can fix it, Asher. I don’t think you’re ready to, and we don’t have the time we’d need to work it out anyway. So, like I said, if you’d like to go ahead and go, I know this apartment isn’t your only option.”

“What do you mean, I’m not ready to?”

“Well, it’s like you said. You’re damaged. Dead inside. You wish we could be more, but you’re the one stopping us from doing that. You care about me, but you can’t love me. I’m not yours.”

Jade delivers this machine gun assault of my shortcomings like he’s ordering a meal. Simple, precise, unequivocal, leaving no questions unanswered. It’s fucking brutal. Which means he’s hurt, and that I’ve somehow hurt him.

And the only way I could have hurt him is by not being enough. Good enough, ready enough, man enough.

My whole life, nothing was mine. While Adam and I aren’t identical twins, that didn’t mean we weren’t forced to dress alike or share absolutely every toy we had when we were little. We were always an us. Everything we had was ours. I never did anything, but we did plenty.

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