Page 10 of Something Forever

What do I do? Should I go over there and try to comfort him? If I asked, would he tell me what’s wrong? Does he even want my help?

If it were me, and he caught me crying, I’d be embarrassed. I’d probably try to play it off somehow, make it seem like it wasn’t that big of a deal. Make up some excuse about something being stuck in my eye or some shit.

Indecision keeps me rooted in place, unsure what’s the best move right now. Wanting to protect my friend’s pride while worry and sympathy flood my system. Another sob racks through Luke, and I tense.

What the hell am I doing? Just standing here like an idiot, watching my friend cry?

My gaze flickers over to my jacket, and I tense my fingers. Wrapping my hand around the doorknob, I take a silent step back, and tug the door closed, not making a sound. I’ll have to brave the cold, but at least nothing has to change between Luke and me.

I’m not running away, I tell myself.

This is for the best, I tell myself.

But as I wrap my arms around myself, stepping out into the crisp air, I can’t stop seeing Luke’s slumped, defeated figure in what is supposed to be our happy place. I can’t stop replaying the image of my best friend, crying and alone, and wondering: did I just make a huge mistake?

My chest aching with agony, I press the backs of my shaking hands into my eyes with a sigh. Every time I think of that night, I hate myself. Hate that I couldn’t see whatever it was he was hiding behind his eyes. Hate that I walked out of that room instead of sitting next to him, wrapping him in a hug, and asking what was wrong. Hate that I feel like it’s my fault. All of it. My fucking fault.

My phone buzzes with an alarm telling me it’s time to head to work. It’s the last place I want to go, but I’m relieved to have the distraction. At least it’s something to do, so I don’t have to sit here and wallow in memories.

It’s time to move on.

The only question is… how?

4

WHITNEY

My first day as a soon-to-be-married woman begins with a meeting with a lawyer. As solid as Trent seems, I figure I should get a second opinion. I find some guy online and fork up an obscene amount of money to meet with him and go over the inheritance documents. My hope is that the whole marriage clause isn’t legally binding and, somehow, I can access my inheritance another way.

No such luck.

After two hours of research, there’s not a single loophole to be found. It looks like if I want my money, I’ll have to put a ring on it and soon. If I don’t complete the terms of the marriage clause, my entire inheritance sum gets passed to the next beneficiary, whoever that is.

When I get home that afternoon, something is different in the apartment. At first, I’m not sure what it is. I think maybe it’s me — that my new mission has somehow changed my perspective on life — but then I realize that’s ridiculous, and what’s changed is that in the entryway where my shoe rack is, there’s a pair of size twelves sitting on the ground.

Men’s shoes.

He’s here? Already?

I tiptoe towards the kitchen, listening intently for any indication that he’s here.

What am I doing? Sneaking around my own apartment like some thief in the night? This is my home! Part of me wants nothing more than to march right up to his door, introduce myself, and explain that he really cannot be living here. But a bigger part of me needs to shower. Like, now. So instead of confronting my mystery roommate, I go to my room to get my towel. It’s not until I’ve stripped down and wrapped my towel around me that it occurs to me.

I have to share a bathroom with this man!

What if he’s in there?

What if he’s shitting?

Okay, Whitney. You really need to get it together.

Ignoring the crazy voice in my head that happens to be my own, I slip out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom, which is mercifully empty. I take my time in the shower, shampooing and conditioning my hair and even doing a face mask, if only to prove that this bathroom is mine, and I will not be changing my habits for anyone.

When I get out, the apartment is still quiet, so I slink back to my room and order some ramen for delivery. I open and close every app on my phone and doomscroll on Twitter for at least twenty minutes before I finally give up and take out my notebook.

Step one: get married

I start over.

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