Chapter 15 Sunday
Sunday
(Seventeen Days Left)
Sandy once told me that gray areas can feel like active war zones to people with anxiety and OCD.
They’re a lawless land, filled with uncertainty, ambiguity, and worst of all, the unknown.
My skin crawls at the thought. Swan diving headfirst into the Bermuda Triangle seems more appealing than floundering about in a situation with no clear direction.
In order to function properly, I need clarity. I need a well-defined path forward, or at the very least, limited options. A or B. Left or right. Black or white. Anything else is chaos.
Where do I stand with Matthew? What’s going on with Jonathan? Why isn’t Finn texting me?
My options have begun to overwhelm me.
With only seventeen days to fix the part of myself that has long been broken, I can’t afford to be asking so many questions. I’ve let myself get distracted.
That won’t do.
Now that I’m back in LA, it’s time to focus.
I let myself get swept away by Matthew—an error on my part, considering I had already established that Finn is the option that makes the most sense.
I have to return to my earlier mindset of picking a lane and sticking to it.
It’s time to get back on track, and the first step to restoring order to my brain is letting go of everything that happened in New York.
That means, as hard as this is to do, letting go of Matthew.
“So,” Alex interrupts my train of thought, shifting toward me from his end of the couch. I just finished telling him about the wedding. About everything that happened with Matthew. “That explains why you ignored us all weekend.”
I grimace, reminded of the fact that I never answered anyone’s texts. Or Jonathan’s calls.
“Sorry about that.”
Alex has been the one person I wanted to do a full weekend debrief with. He’s the only one who can relate to my romantic plight. The others have it too easy, with no shortage of successful dating experiences under their belts. Alex is the only one I can handle right now.
I don’t need Meg trying to cheer me up.
Oh, Phoebe, I’m sure he still really likes you.
Or Nora trying to pin the blame on Matthew.
There’s clearly something wrong with him.
And I especially don’t need Jonathan telling me to relax.
You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.
All they need to know about the wedding is limited to the texts I sent on my way back to LA this morning.
Phoebe:
Headline: Matthew turned out to be the wedding photographer
and I tried to kiss him in a janitor’s closet.
It’s safe to say I ruined whatever that was.
Moving on.
I can’t bring myself to answer their millions of questions or address anything else that happened over the weekend in our chat. They don’t need to know all the details. Especially when all I’m trying to do is forget them.
“Have you heard from him?” Alex asks.
“No,” I lie.
The truth is, there are two texts from him sitting on my phone, unanswered.
Matthew:
How are you feeling?
Can we talk?
I have no desire to hear what’s sure to be his final rejection. I’m removing him from my mental Rolodex of options on my own terms. Before he has the chance to do it himself.
“Well…” Alex starts, looking off into the distance as if the answer to all my problems is written on the ceiling in invisible ink.
I can tell by the determined expression on his face that he’s searching for something comforting to say.
Rendering Alex speechless only reinforces how badly I embarrassed myself.
I groan, allowing myself to relive the shame one last time. “Maybe I should go away for a little while.”
“Oooh, like on a trip?”
“No. Like, to prison.”
“Hey.” He scooches closer to me, placing a reassuring hand on my arm. “If getting too drunk at a family function and making questionable decisions is a crime, then I’m doing fifty years to life in a maximum-security facility. At least.”
I let myself laugh, picturing Alex and his theatrics among a ward full of high-profile convicts.
Maybe he’ll end up starting a drama program for the criminally inclined.
I can see it now, his production of Hairspray where he casts himself as the romantic lead opposite the Runyon Canyon Killer.
He’s always been captivated by his mug shot.
“I hope we get to share a cell,” I tell him.
“Bunk beds could be fun.” He smiles. “Hope is not lost, Phoebe. There’s still Finn, right?”
Yes.
There is still Finn. A clear, direct path forward, one without any complicated, confusing history attached.
“Exactly. And the next seventeen days are riddled with opportunities for advancement with him.”
Noah’s birthday party is rapidly approaching.
I’ve given up on Finn texting me a more formal invitation, and because he did invite me that night at Jeffery’s, I still plan on tagging along with Meg.
I’m about to ask Alex what he thinks I should wear, but the sound of a door creaking open upstairs stops me in my tracks.
I smile at the thunk, thunk, thunk of heavy footsteps bounding down the steps.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” I tease as Jonathan drags himself over to the couch and plops himself down with a groan.
“Welcome home,” he replies as he gives my shoulder a light squeeze before leaning his head back, curls flopping over his tired eyes.
“Late night?” Alex asks. Jonathan’s always been known for his ability to sleep in, but I don’t remember the last time he slept this late. It’s almost two p.m., and even now, he’s clearly fighting to keep his eyes open.
“Mm-hmm,” he confirms, while—in classic Jonathan fashion—offering no additional details. I was too distracted by the chaos of this past weekend to keep up with his whereabouts, but I do know that Nora had a shift last night and Alex and Meg went to the movies. He must have been with Sydney.
And by the looks of it, they were up all night.
“So…do you want to fill me in on the details of the wedding?” he asks, a slight edge to his voice. “I barely heard from you.”
“I will, I promise. But right now, all I want to do is watch some shitty TV and order food. We can order from that Indian place we’ve been wanting to try! Alex, will you stay? I think a new season of Love Is Blind is out.”
“I’m in.” Alex claps his hands enthusiastically.
“Shoot,” Jonathan sighs, running his hand down the length of his jaw. “That sounds great, but I made plans.” Plans? It’s an unspoken agreement between us that Sunday afternoons and evenings are reserved for couch rotting.
Alex and I exchange a look.
I can’t understand why Jonathan won’t come out and say that he’s seeing someone.
Our friends’ faces are the first ones I want to see when I have a piece of gossip to share.
They’re the only people I want to be around after a long day at work.
Their phones are in danger of overheating from a mass influx of texts when I have a new crush.
So why doesn’t Jonathan feel the same way?
My face starts to heat, thinking about the possibility that Jonathan doesn’t value our friendship in the same way that I do.
After eleven years of walking across the street arm in arm, how did we get here?
How could it be that he’s sitting right next to me and, at the same time, feels so far away?
Between his “plans” and his weird behavior at Jeffery’s the other night, it’s starting to feel like he’s distancing himself, and I know it has something to do with Sydney.
My stomach knots into a ball of anger, and before I can stop it I’m bubbling over like a pot that’s been forgotten on a burner.
“Okay, what is going on with you?” I blurt. Jonathan’s eyes shoot open. He raises his brows, an unspoken challenge that dares me to keep going. Alex is suddenly enraptured by something on his phone. A game that involves slicing fruit. “You’ve been acting so weird.”
It comes out more aggressive, more accusatory, than I would have liked. But I can’t help it.
“How have I been weird?” He crosses his arms defensively. There’s an edge of confrontation in his voice that I’ve only ever heard him use on the phone with our landlord after we’ve been overcharged for our electric bill. It’s more than unsettling to be on the other side of it.
“You’re seeing someone. It’s obvious. You’re spending nights out. Making vague plans. Changing the subject when I ask what you’ve been up to. Why won’t you admit you’re dating Sydney so we can be done with all the weirdness?”
“My god, Phoebe.” He lowers his head into his hands, running his fingers through his tangled hair.
“Are you capable of talking about anything besides dating? I’ve barely spoken to you this past week and when I have, it’s only been about boys, your list, and this thing you have with Sydney. You’re driving me crazy.”
“I’m driving you crazy?”
My organs have rearranged themselves. I can feel my stomach in my throat.
My heart beats frantically in my lower abdomen.
I open my mouth to protest but close it immediately when I take stock of his heated expression.
We’ve gotten into small fights here and there over the years, but he’s never looked at me like this, with his nostrils flared and jaw clenched.
Alex stands abruptly. “I think I left something in my car.” He shuffles over to the dining room table to gather his things, making a scene as he accidentally drops his keys on the floor, trips over his untied shoelaces, and races out the door.
It slams as it closes behind him. The whole display is so absurd that I’d laugh if I wasn’t stunned into silence.
Jonathan continues. “It’s always Finn and Matthew this.
Sydney that. It’s like you don’t care about anything else.
You didn’t even text me back this weekend.
You haven’t come up for air in weeks. I just want a break from it all.
Maybe that’s why I have other plans. I just…
I have more important things to do than gossip about crushes. ”
Crushes.
Is that what he thinks is going on? A schoolgirl fixation I can’t help but gossip about?
I was under the impression that he knew me better than this, but maybe we don’t know each other as well as we once thought.
Plus, he has no right to be mad at me for not texting him back when he’s being just as cagey about his random nights out.
A wave of sadness overwhelms me, but I channel it into anger. For the first time in our friendship, I raise my voice at him.
“Then tell me what those important things are, Jonathan! If there’s a reason that I’ve been talking too much about what’s going on in my life, it’s because you won’t tell me anything about what’s going on in yours.
Friends are supposed to share these things with each other.
You should want to hear about my crushes,” I spit out the word.
“I’m dying to hear about yours because that’s the type of thing friends talk about.
It’s standard practice in friendships!” I take a breath.
“I don’t get it. Why you feel like you can’t share things with us.
With me. Unless you don’t value our relationship the same way that I do? ”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps.
“You called me crazy and I’m the one being ridiculous?”
“I didn’t call you crazy,” he says with a sigh. “I said you were driving me crazy.”
“That’s not much better.”
He inhales deeply, seemingly gearing up to say something.
But nothing ever comes.
Instead, he scratches his stubble in silence, narrowing his gaze on a spot on the wall behind me.
The tension in the air fades with every passing second. There’s a resigned energy between us, an unspoken agreement to stop pushing.
I decide to break the silence.
“I just…want you to be able to share things with me. And I want to be able to share things with you…without driving you crazy.”
“I’m sorry I said that.” His voice softens. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did.” I shrug in an attempt to hide how much it hurt. “Just give me permission to be crazy for seventeen more days.”
He nods. “And for what it’s worth, I do want to hear about everything. I want to hear about what happened this weekend.”
“Deal. But that means you have to tell me about yours also. Specifics!”
He checks his watch. “Let’s catch up later.” Then he stands up and begins to walk in the direction of the stairs. “Tomorrow?”
I don’t have any fight left in me. “Sure,” I respond with a nod, curling farther into myself under my blanket. “Are we okay?”
“Definitely.” His voice sounds far away. By the time he reaches the top step, I can hardly make out his words. “We’re all good,” I think he says.
But we aren’t.
I can hear him upstairs, opening his dresser drawers and slamming them shut in a frenzy, rushing to get ready.
He is itching to get out of the apartment.
To get away from me. And the worst part is, for the first time ever, I want him to leave.
I’m still mad. His words are still bouncing around in my head.
You’re driving me crazy.
So, no. We are not good.
Because above all, when he walks out our front door just moments later, he still hasn’t told me where he’s going.