Page 20 of The Dixon Rule

Yeah, so… I wasn’t interested in a relationship with you last night, and I’m even less interested in one now. Again, I’m sorry you’re hurt. But I’ve entertained about as much of this conversation as I’m willing to.

I send a final text to punctuate that.

ME:

I’m not interested in seeing you again. Best of luck.

Then I block her.

Fucking hell. All we did was make out. How is this even a thing?

And why do I still feel like a total asshole?

As I throw on a pair of black basketball shorts and a Bruins T-shirt, I reread the entire conversation to determine whether I deserved to be yelled at. But my brain truly can’t comprehend what I did wrong. The level of Crystal’s vitriol is completely disproportional to what actually occurred.

I jump when the phone vibrates in my hand. For a moment I’m afraid Crystal found a way to get around the blocking, but it’s my dad asking when they should expect me tomorrow. I’m heading to my hometown, which boasts the very cheesy name of Heartsong, Vermont, to visit my family.

As for today, I was planning on golfing, but now I’m too annoyed to golf. Maybe I’ll swim laps instead. That’ll require less concentration.

Fuck. Why are women so exhausting? Even Lynsey was exhausting, and I liked our relationship.

My heart clenches as her face flashes in my mind. Her big dark eyes. The cute little smirk she wears when she’s proven right about something. Before I can stop myself, I sit on the foot of my bed and creep her social media, yet another thing that makes me feel like a chump. She unfollowed me after we broke up, but I still follow her. Just haven’t been able to press that stupid button to click her out of my life. Besides, she has a private account, so if I did unfollow and then felt the pitiful need to cyberstalk her again, I’d have to send a request, which is even more embarrassing than the fact that I’m still following her.

I’m a stray dog begging for scraps, dying to see what she’s up to. I eagerly scroll through new shots of her at the dance studio. A black leotard is plastered to her lithe body, pale pink tights hugging her shapely legs. Lynsey is constantly lamenting that she wishes she were shorter. She’s 5’6”, which is tiny compared to me, but apparently the average height for a ballerina is like 5’4” or something.

Lynsey is beyond talented, though. She attends the Liberty Conservatory of Fine Arts in Connecticut, one of the top performing arts colleges in the country. Like Juilliard, the Liberty Conservatory offers a highly sought-after dance program and accepts a shockingly small number of students. I took Lynsey for a steak dinner when she received her acceptance letter.

I keep scrolling, until I reach a photo that raises my hackles. It’s of her and some guy. Their hands all over each other. I can’t see his face, but my fist itches to punch it.

I relax when I read the caption.

DAY 1 OF REHEARSALS FOR #NUABC.

She tagged Sergei, her best friend, who did the competition with her last year too. He also happens to be gay, so not a threat.

Guilt tugs at my gut. She’d always wanted me to be her partner. Thought it would be fun to do it as a couple. Which, frankly, always surprised me because there are far better dancers than I am, and Lynsey is incredibly ambitious. To her, winning an amateur ballroom dance competition is equivalent to securing an Olympic gold medal. I suspect she was secretly relieved whenever I would balk and say absolutely not.

Now I’m wondering if my resistance is yet another reason she dumped me.

Yeah, bro, you got dumped because you didn’t want to do the damn salsa with her.

Who knows. Maybe that is the reason.

I’ve had a lot of time for self-reflection since the breakup, and I’m honestly questioning if maybe I’m just a shit boyfriend. I’m too focused on hockey and I’ve never been willing to compromise about that. My game schedule was and is nonnegotiable. But, damn it, I did make an effort. I went to all her dance recitals, sitting front-row center. I attended all her family events, often picking them over my own. I did my best to put her first.

Guess it wasn’t good enough.

I let out a breath, staring at her picture. My fingers slide across the cool surface of my phone.

I should call her.

No, you shouldn’t.

No, I should. We’re still friends. Friends call each other.

You shouldn’t call her, and you’re not friends. You’re still in love with her.

Friends can be in love with each other.