Page 2 of From Now On

Ben’s always been insistent he doesn’t see Rowan as more than a friend, that nothing romantic has ever happened between them. And I believe him, but I’ve never understoodwhy. Because, honestly? They make perfect sense together.

“You discussed changing The Plan—ourplan—with Rowan before talking tome?” I’m incredulous, hurt, and pissed, all of which are evident in my tone.

The tops of Ben’s ears turn bright red. “I just needed an outside perspective. You’re…too close to things.”

“Too close to things,” I repeat.

Too close to things? Of course I’m too close to things. I’m his fucking girlfriend!

Or, Iwashis fucking girlfriend.

“Should I bring over some dessert menus?” The smiling waitress who served us dinner appears to clear our empty plates. “The cannoli are always popular. And our tiramisu is incredible.”

Ben looks to me. Ordering dessert is a decision he wants my opinion on. Just not what he chooses to do with the rest of his life.

The pasta I ate has turned into a leaden lump in my stomach. My appetite is nonexistent. But I nod because I’m desperately trying to act normal, and that’s what I’d ordinarily do—dessert is the best part of the meal.

“Great. I’ll be right back.” The waitress disappears.

“I know I handled it terribly,” Ben says as soon as she’s gone. “Honestly, I brought it up to Rowan because I knew you’d talk me back into it, and?—”

“Talk you back into it?” I scoff. “This was notmyplan, Ben. It wasourplan. What webothwanted.”

His eyes close briefly. “I know.”

Moving to New York together was mysuggestion, though. I pushed Ben to apply to NYU over other film programs. I planned the color scheme of our shoebox apartment. I gave him three guidebooks to the city for Christmas.

I reach for my wineglass, chugging the remaining inch of merlot in one go. I don’t evenlikered wine, but the chalky aftertaste barely registers.

I feel…lost. Not sure what to do or say next.

“I’msosorry, Eve,” Ben continues. “I never wanted to hurt you. I—I’m just trying to be honest with you.”

At the table next to us, a laughing couple clinks their glasses together. A celebratory soundtrack painfully ironic for this moment.

I’m not sure we’re forever.

Iwassure we were forever. Or, I stopped considering us temporary. I thought I was done dating, that I’d met my future husband at eighteen.

“So, you’re moving back to Maine,” I state.

“I—yeah. I am.”

He’s playing it safe. He’s returning to his loving, supportive,wholefamily. To the tiny town that smells like salt air and seaweed, where everyone knows each other’s grandparents. To marry Rowan and have little blond babies with her.

I can picture it perfectly. Suddenly, Ben’s future is so much clearer than I ever saw our planned life together unfolding.

There’s nothing wrong with familiarity. But I’m realizing how much of our relationship was future-focused. How it felt like we were working toward a goal together, never living in the moment. In the hour we’ve been at La Bella Napoli, I can’t recall anything we’ve discussed that was unrelated to New York. I’m sure wehavetouched on other topics; I just can’t remember a single one.

I don’t want to do long distance. Ben knows I don’t want to do long distance. That was a central component of The Plan—us ending up in the same place.

He changed The Plan, and he did so without consulting me. The sense of security I’ve always experienced around Ben is gone, shriveled up into nothing but an empty hole of loss in the hollow center of my chest.

I pluck my napkin out of my lap and toss it on the tablecloth. My skin feels tight and itchy, like it’s shrinking around me. Or maybe that’s the room itself. Either way, I can’t keep sitting still.

“I need to use the restroom,” I announce, louder than necessary.

I’ve lost my volume control tonight. Among other things.

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