Page 59 of Fake As Puck
“Liv?” she teases.
“Yeah. Is she good? Back to normal? Not traumatized by the weekend?”
“She seems fine,” my sister mutters. “Why?”
“Just wondering. Making sure the whole fake dating thing didn’t mess with her head.”
“As far as I know, she’s fine. Back to her regular routine. Babysitting, applying for jobs, taking care of her parents, who by the way literally do nothing for themselves, West, she goes there every other day and it’s just a wreck, but that’s the usual.”
My heart squeezes thinking about her taking care of her parents. I can’t ask her to move to Seattle. She’d have to leave behind her parents. I let the thought leave my head when I hear Tessa say something to Charlie. I say, “Good. That’s good.”
Tessa adds, “She hasn’t mentioned you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. “I wasn’t asking that.”
“You weren’t?” she says, but I hear the hint of sarcasm in her tone.
I shake my head. “No.”
“West.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay? You sound weird.”
“I’m not weird. I’m fine.”
“There’s that word again.”
“Tessa, I am fine.”
“If you say so.”
We talk for a few more minutes about nothing important, and when I hang up, I feel worse than I did before I called.
She hasn’t mentioned me.
Not once, apparently, in the week since she left.
Which is exactly what I should want. It means the whole thing was professional for her. Clean. No messy feelings or complications.
It means she’s moved on with her life like the weekend never happened.
So why does that bother me so much?
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way she looked when she was dancing in my living room Sunday night. The way she fit against me when we fell asleep on the couch. The way she said my name when she was half-asleep and happy.
I’ve been sleeping like shit all week. Every night, I dream about her laughing in my kitchen, making coffee in the morning, curled up on my couch reading a book.
Dreams where she lives here. Where it’s real. Where I don’t have to pretend I’m okay with her being gone.
I get up and walk past her room, stopping outside the closed door like I have every night this week.
I could open it. Strip the bed, put away the toiletries, pretend she was never here.
Instead, I keep walking.
Because opening that door feels like admitting it’s over, and I’m not ready to admit that yet.
