Page 129 of The Boyfriend Goal

The man is twisted in knots.

I have to give him this lifeline. I throw him some more rope. “You didn’t want to dance in the park anyway, and that’s okay,” I say gently, kindly. “The list is a lot too. I could do it with my friends. I haven’t done anything on it with them. Maybe I should.”

He breathes in deeply, nodding the tiniest amount, absorbing that.

“And the cocktail-mixing class,” I say, exonerating him more. I wave a hand. “Let’s do it another time.”

That’s a futile promise, because we don’t have time.

But he doesn’t correct me so I continue, “Right now, you should focus on hockey.”

He runs a hand down his face, closes his eyes, then breathes out. For a few seconds, I hope so damn hard he’ll resist my overture. But when he opens his eyes, he grumbles, “You’re probably right.”

My heart breaks. But I try to keep it together.

What he doesn’t say next is, “Let me hold you all night. Come to bed with me. Or we’ll figure it out together.”

Instead, he nods to my room and the bed I haven’t slept in in weeks. “I should let you go to sleep.”

What I hear is, “I should let you go.”

42

THE STEP AROUND SKILL

Josie

I’ve spent the last few weeks reading every blog post, watching every video, and gobbling up every article I can find on what to expect in your first pole class.

But Everly also tells me to expect “cardio and fun.”

I need the latter now more than ever as I tiptoe around the townhome on Sunday morning. I am quieter than I’ve ever been, and I use my morning person-ness to my advantage. I successfully avoided Wes yesterday by waking early and exploring the city, then hanging out with Eddie and his husband playing mini golf in the evening.

Today, it will be even easier to avoid Wes since he has a game.

Once again, I’m determined to escape before he wakes up. I’m dressed in leggings, a sports bra, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt, and I’ve got knee pads and a water bottle in my canvas bag, right next to the blank book where I keep the list. I’ve even slipped my book charm necklace into a pocket in my bag. I have them both with me today. Maybe because I need to feel close to my aunt.

I walk quietly past the stairs, half expecting him to hear me, wholly wanting him to call out, “Let me drive you.”

What a foolish wish. But he loved to drive me wherever I needed in the city. He’s an acts-of-service guy through and through.

The house is painfully silent. The emptiness tunnels through me as I pad to the door, carefully lift the latch, then grab my sneakers and take off.

On the porch, I lace up my shoes quickly, ignoring the onslaught of feelings I don’t want to feel. I manage to make it down the front steps before my throat hitches. Tears prick my eyes, but I suck in a breath. I’m wearing my fake lashes to pole classes so these tears can fuck off.

Down the street, I catch the bus and head to Russian Hill to a dance studio that Everly likes. But even though I’ve done my homework, no amount of prep can gird you to walk into a class when your heart is shattered, and you’re pretending you’re fine.

Everything hurts.

Everything reminds me of him.

Even this.

I would have shared the story of this class with him, told him about it, taken some pics. He would have eaten up every detail. But, I guess he can’t have love and hockey, so I go in alone—but I’m not truly alone. Everly’s a welcome sight.

She’s dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, which surprises me, but maybe she doesn’t sweat like me. She’s stretching in front of the mirrored wall in the brightly lit studio, and she beams when she sees me. “You made it!”

“I don’t back down,” I say, even though I tried to wiggle out of improv.

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