Page 39 of Your Only Fan
“What makes you think I didn’t break up with her?” he mumbles.
“I don’t know. Because you’re madly in love with her? I don’t know, Linc. Does it matter?” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes it does.Idumpedher.
“Really? But-but why? I thought you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her,” I say and sit down next to him.
I feel like an idiot with the comforter wrapped around me like that, taking up so much space, but it’s not exactly like he’s given me any time to get dressed or anything.
“Why? You know why?” he says.
I shrug like I don’t, but he purses his lips and nods.
“I just sat down and thought to myself, ‘Is that the person I want to spend the rest of my life with? Is that how I want to spend my time with her? Apologizing for shit that’s not my doing or that is out of my control?’
“And?” I ask when the pause drags on for a little longer than comfortable.
“I don’t,” he says with a sigh.
I unearth my hand from the top of the comforter and grab his knee.
“What happened?”
“She was telling me her dad’s looking for people,” he replies.
“Oh, that old nugget,” I say.
“Yeah. Because, you know, working in construction is much more honorable than teaching and producing.”
“Well, I don’t know what kind angel possessed you, but I, for one, am glad you finally realized she was no good for you,” I say and pat his leg.
I stand up and look for my underwear. It’s under Linc’s foot. Of course.
“I don’t know, man. I really don’t. I was just sitting there after our gazillionth fight this week, and I thought to—” he pauses as I reach for my boxer briefs. “I thought to myself, she doesn’t trust me, she doesn’t trust the people around me, she doesn’t like my job, my car, my everything. Why the hell is she with me? So I told her. If she wants to change so much about me, why doesn’t she go find someone who is what she wants.”
“And what did she say?”
“That I was being stupid,” he says with an eyeroll.
I respond with my own roll, and we stand there, looking at each other and letting the silence do all the talking.
My boxers hang in the air between us like an unnecessary white flag—or pink, more accurately—and I finally juggle them back on me under the cover.
“Oh God! Not another show. Please. Have mercy,” he says when I throw the cover off me and reach for my pants.
“Oh, shut up. As if you’re not enjoying it,” I tease.
He gags. “I’m not.”
“You’re such a monster to me,” I fake cry. “How do you feel?” I ask.
He takes a few deep breaths and then puts his hands on his hips.
“Relieved.”
I can’t help the laugh that comes out of me.
“Come on. I’ll make us dinner. Champ,” I say.
When we’re back in the living room and into the candlelit vibe, I remember Ezra and how nice he was about cancelling literally at the last minute.Afterthe last minute, even.
Could he be any more perfect?
And could I be any bigger of an asshole for taking advantage of him like that?
