Page 57 of The Fangirl and the Playboy

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I have to go back to L.A.,” he says.

“What?” I blurt, then clear my throat. “I mean, really? That seems sudden.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I have an audition that was supposed to be later in the week, but they bumped it up to tonight. They really want me for the part, and I can’t miss it.”

“Oh,” I say.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he offers, hope filling his voice like that might somehow relieve my disappointment.

And it does. To a point.

“Well, good luck,” I say, then gasp. “Wait. I didn’t mean that. Break a leg.”

His chuckle warms me before he says, “That’s okay. I’m not superstitious.”

Silence falls over us for a couple of beats, awkward and unsettling.

“I’m going to miss you, Willow,” he says, breaking it.

“It’s only one night.”

“Still.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” I say, meaning it more than I’d like.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he says, and I laugh, though there’s no humor in it. Then he goes on, saying, “Listen, I have to go, but I’ll call you tonight after the audition.”

“Okay, sounds good. Have a safe flight.”

“Thanks,” he says, and it feels like there’s more he wants to add. But he just clears his throat and says, “Bye, Willow.”

“Bye, Gavin.”

We end the call, and I slump back against my closed office door. He’s coming back tomorrow, and that’s great, but having him leave for even a single night drives home the inevitable––eventually, he’ll leave for good.

And I’m not ready to face that fact. Not yet.

Our camping trip this weekend was great. We had so much fun, and I want more weekends like that. I want all the weekends. All the days.

Ah, fuck.

I’m falling for him again. I can see it happening, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I suppose I could call this whole thing off now, before I fall even deeper, but the mere thought of that depresses me even more. No, I won’t call it off.

But I need to better prepare myself for the end. I need to keep my heart on a tighter leash.

I compose myself and head back out into the shop. My smiles are fake and my chipper greetings even faker, but I carry on. The day drags by intolerably, and I end up leaving two hours earlier than I’m supposed to because I can’t take it for another second.

I head home, change into some threadbare sweats, and cradle a bowl of popcorn on my lap while watching sappy romance movies. Does it make me feel better? No.

But I don’t have any better options, do I?

The hours pass, and Gavin doesn’t call like he said he would. By ten-thirty, I’m in such a deep funk, I barely notice when the movie ends and the end credits scroll up the screen. When the streaming service starts a new movie without my permission, I sigh and pick up the remote, turning off the television.

Pushing myself up, I pick up all the popcorn pieces I dropped on the couch and toss them back into the bowl. Taking the bowl into the kitchen, I dump the leftovers into the trash and put the bowl in the dishwasher. Pouring a glass of water, I chug it down and set the glass on the counter.

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