Page 141 of Fumbled Into Love

A seltzer dangles in front of my vision and I snatch it, crack it open, and chug it back until it’s gone. Sawyer and Maren stare at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Another, please,” I say, but it comes out as a groan as my stomach riots against the carbonation.

“Uh, perhaps we pace ourselves?” Sawyer suggests and I shake my head.

There will be no pacing tonight. I want to numb the sadness swirling in my chest. I want to forget that tomorrow I’m going to leave the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Perhaps not.”

I slink into the kitchen to get myself a drink and hide behind the refrigerator door as the tears spring to my eyes. I’ve fought them all day.

Tears slide down my cheeks, each one heavier than the last.

Am I making a mistake by not telling him how I feel?

It’s the one question that’s lingered in my mind.

Am I making a mistake?

But no matter how many pro and con lists I make or how many hours I think about it, I come back to the same answer: If he wanted this, he would have shown me. There would have been some clue or indication that he wanted more than sex.

I felt his kindness and laughter and foolishly, I thought that I could become the main character in the story.

He never wanted the fairy tale and I can’t blame him.

The only person to blame is me for putting hope into a silly, unrealistic dream: that someone like Deon Adams would change his mind because he sawme.

How foolish is that?

To believe that he would change his entire ideology because of me.

By the time Maren and Sawyer check on me, I’m sobbing in earnest behind the fridge.

“Oh, Nathalie.” Maren sighs, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and I thrash out of her grip.

I don’t want her comfort.

I want Deon and Gordie.

I don’t want to have to move out or move on or tell myself that the squeezing in my chest is normal and that it will fade with time when I know that it won't.

I want to be brave enough to face the potential rejection, but I’m not.

“It’s all over.”

None of this is a rational response but I’ve never felt such inexplicable loss before. It’s a grief for a life I’ll never experience but crave so deeply that if I thought I had even a sliver of a shot, I would beg andplead.

I don’t want to have to beg or plead for anyone to love me, to choose me, but if there was anyone I would forgo that rule for, it would be Deon.

“Come sit,” Sawyer says, guiding me to the couch, which is good because I can’t seeanything. My glasses are fogged from the tears. “Deep breaths.”

I rip a ragged inhale into my lungs, trying to staunch the tears. This is supposed to be a fun night, not a Debbie Downer event where I cry over a man who never once indicated that he wanted more, but I fell in love with him anyway.

“D-Do you think he’ll let me visit Gordie after it’s all over?”

Sawyer and Maren exchange a glance, probably trying to determine how to handle my breakdown.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to see Gordie whenever you want,” Sawyer says gently, squeezing my hand.

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