Page 81 of Boyfriend
Then I delete it. A text is too impersonal. I'll leave him a voice message instead.
My heart thuds with tension as I tap the microphone. “Weston, I'm sorry to snap at you tonight, but I made a decision.” As I pause to choose my words, I feel the first hit of grief. “We should just stop seeing each other now, before it gets too strained. I've had more fun with you than I've had in years, no lie. But there are things I have to focus on now that aren’t super fun. So I'm going to make the difficult choice to do that. There's no point to drawing out the inevitable. Be well and have a great time in the playoffs.”
My throat seems to be closing up, so I'll have to leave it there. I tap the stop button and send the message before I lose my nerve.
And, yup, I’m already sad. When I scroll up, I see the lengthy string of cheery texts between Weston and me.
And I just ended it. Forever.
Ow.
I force myself to lock my phone and set it down on the nightstand. Weston won’t get that message for hours. He’s busy with his team. I can picture him in his hockey gear, his bright eyes flashing as he concentrates on the game.
Now I know the warmth of that gaze when its full power is focused on me. It's more potent than I ever would have guessed. And I’ll feel so chilly when it’s gone.
But what was the alternative? A few more weeks of his loving touch, followed by an awkward parting?
It’s better this way. A clean break.
I slip down into the bed and sigh. Someday I'll look back on this time with joy, though. I'll remember when Weston got me to sing with him in the car on the way to Thanksgiving dinner. And I'll remember those gorilla noises he made as he tried to show me how to ski.
I'll have those memories and they’ll make me smile, without this terrible ache I feel right now, smack in the center of my chest.
That might be a while, though.
Grief takes time. If anyone should know, it’s me.
Twenty-Nine
Because I Wanted to See You
Weston
It’s a great game tonight. Our first line is on fire. And on defense, Tate and I make total nuisances of ourselves, keeping Merrimack away from the crease and holding them to a single goal all night.
My guys put up four goals. It’s the best kind of drubbing, and the hometown crowd is a sea of green sweatshirts and cheering. My family is right behind the bench, and Lauren even bought a pennant somewhere. She’s waving and smiling whenever I return to the bench.
I don’t spot Abbi. But I sure hope she’s enjoying herself. And, sue me, I’m hoping she got a little thrill when I stripped the Merrimack sniper during my last shift. I’m too cool to brag about my exploits, but if she happened to witness that, then I’m a happy man.
So I’m feeling pretty great as the boys blast some music in the locker room after the game. And that good feeling lasts about a half hour, until I pick up my phone and find Abbi’s message.
My hair is still wet from the shower as I’m listening to her tell me we should stop seeing each other now.
Immediately the glow of victory is extinguished. I’m not even sure she attended the game. I looked for her, too. I found my family in the stands, but I couldn’t find Abbi.
And she’s not coming over tonight.
Or ever again.
Fuck.
So this is what it feels like to be at the wrong end of a breakup. I hate it so much. It’s not because it’s a blow to my ego, either. I’m going to miss her. A lot. Even though I know Abbi is right. Even if I feel low after listening to her message.
We weren’t ever supposed to become a real couple, although it was starting to feel like we were. Tonight she’d asked why I invited her to have pizza with my family. And the answer was so easy—because I wanted to see you.
But that isn’t fair, is it? That was abundantly clear when my sister started spouting off about the wedding. The one I never invited Abbi to.
Note to self—the fake boyfriend thing is only fun until one or both of you forgets that it’s fake. And who knew I’d be the one to forget?
