Chapter 26
26
DYLAN
On Monday night, I stand in front of Olivia’s door, my heart pounding against my ribs. I stretch my neck and shoulders to loosen the tension coiled deep in the muscles.
You can do this, Dylan. Be kind but firm. Direct but not cruel. It’s not her, it’s you.
I repeat the words to myself like a mantra, to erase the memory of how it feels to be left on the outside, the sting of rejection. The thought of putting anyone through that is harrowing, but necessary.
I count to five. One of Olivia’s neighbors walks by, eyeing me curiously.
“You okay, pal?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Then why so nervous? Are you about to propose to the nice lady in 2B? She’s a keeper.”
I take in the bulky guy, wondering if he and Olivia are friends and if he’d beat me if he knew the real reason I’m here. “What? No, I… uh…” My tongue has turned into a wad of cotton in my mouth. Heat creeps up my neck as I fumble for words.
He gives me a mock military salute. “Don’t sweat it, bro. Olivia is the nicest person I know.”
I cringe while waving at him as if his words comforted me. As he passes on, I turn back to the door. Okay, it’s now or never. I raise my fist and knock, my knuckles barely grazing the door before it flies open.
“Dylan.” Olivia flings her arms around my neck, nearly knocking me off balance with the force of her hug. The cloying scent of her floral perfume floods my nose, too sweet and strong.
“Hey, Liv,” I manage, my voice muffled against her shoulder.
“I’m so glad you came.” She pulls back, her amber eyes shimmering. “Can we stay in tonight? I’m still too raw after this weekend.”
“Sure, of course. Whatever you need.” So much for being direct.
She leads me inside, her grip on my hand almost painful. “I’m barely holding myself together after… everything…”
“I’m sorry. Err… How close were you and Theo?”
“I told you, he was my best friend.” She sniffles. “We grew up together; he’s the only one I regretted leaving behind when I moved to New York. And now I’ll never see him again. It’s unbearable.” She fluffs her hands in front of her face. “But Dylan, don’t make me talk about him. It’s too soon.”
I nod, searching for the right words. “I didn’t mean to upset you, only say again how sorry I am for your loss.”
She hugs me. Her damp cheek presses against my collarbone, and guilt tightens around my chest like a vice, unrelenting and sharp. She looks up at me, her eyes glistening. “I’m so grateful to have you, Dylan. You’re the only thing that kept me from falling apart this weekend.”
Her voice quivers, and my resolve to extract myself from her life crumbles. I pat her back, my carefully rehearsed break-up speech evaporating. What kind of person would do this now, to someone in the middle of grieving? Even though I’m making a mess of this, I can’t bring myself to beat her more while she’s already down. To make her doubt her worth. I know how deep inadequacy stabs, and I wouldn’t wish that sense of failure on my worst enemy.
Every word I rehearsed to let her down gently sounds callous. How can I break up with her now? It’d be like clubbing a baby seal on the head. I smile tightly. But I have to try; I’m making things worse by dragging on our relationship when it’s going nowhere.
But as Olivia talks about her grief, my mind wanders to the worst-case scenarios of how this break-up could play out. Considering the dramatic state she was in last Monday, I imagine her sobbing on the floor, smashing picture frames, or throwing them at my head. Or worse, what if she interiorizes the rejection as her fault? I can’t shake the memories of other people’s reactions when I failed them. The anger, the disappointment, how small it left me, and I don’t want Olivia to endure the same.
“…and our trip to the Hamptons next weekend is the only thing I’m looking forward to.”
The silence that follows yanks me back to the present.
My stomach drops. The Hamptons? I’d completely forgotten about that. How can I possibly tell her I have no intention of taking her, that I’ve been meaning to end things with her for days?
She leads me to the couch, and I muster the courage to steer the conversation toward the inevitable. “Listen, Olivia, we need to talk…”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide, her face crumpling like I just told her the world is ending. “Oh no,” she whispers, wringing her hands. “Did I do something? Have I been too much? Too emotional?” Her voice cracks as she folds her arms tightly across her chest. “I knew I was being too needy and now you want nothing to do with me.”
“Liv, stop.” I reach out, resting my hands gently on her shoulders. “You didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”
She throws herself at me, hugging me tight. “Oh, thank goodness, for a moment there, I thought you were about to break up with me. I don’t think I could’ve taken it.”
“Liv.” I pull her off me.
“Listen, Dylan, I want to be a supportive girlfriend and hear whatever it is that’s troubling you. Hell knows you’ve been so closed off lately.” So I’m being chastised on top of being shut down. “And I’d hate you feeling like you can’t talk to me. But…” She glances up, her expression almost pleading. “…not tonight, okay? I’m holding on by a thread.”
“But I?—”
“No, please.” She presses her hand against her chest, her fingers trembling. “I want to be here for you. I really do. But tonight, I just need to curl up on the couch and cuddle.” She exhales hard, her shoulders slumping as she looks away. “I know I’m being selfish, but I can’t deal with other people’s problems on top of mine right now…” Before I can retort, she asks, “Have you ever lost someone?”
“Oh, uh, not really. My grandparents all died when I was too little to remember them. But if any of my relatives were to pass, I’d be destroyed.”
“I hope it doesn’t happen to you for many, many years because it’s devastating. I still feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest.”
And my cold-blooded plan is to stomp on it and finish crashing it. I nod, my resolve weakening with each word out of her mouth. My entire strategy of being kind yet direct evaporates in the face of her grief. No way she’d believe the break-up isn’t about her now. About something she did.
Olivia pulls me down onto the couch, and I sink into the plush cushions. It’s ridiculously comfortable and should be pure heaven. But I’d rather be sharing that lumpy, ratty sofa at my parents’ place with Hunter like we did this past weekend. I’d prefer the old guy even creaky and soggy on his last day over being trapped on the world’s most comfortable couch with a girlfriend I don’t want, wishing I was anywhere else.
As the night wears on, Olivia leans into me more and more, asking me to hold her, nestling closer until I have no idea where to put my arms. Her warmth presses against me, more suffocating than a hot summer night, sticky and cloying.
Every time I adjust to create some personal space, she moves in closer, pressing her cheek against my chest, making it impossible for me to shift away without being obvious. I can’t stand the thought of being cruel to her, but it’s killing me not to do what needs to be done. The compression is suffocating. An invisible hand is squeezing my lungs, each inhale shallow and forced as if the air is being sucked out instead of in.
When she corners me at the end of the couch, I’m being literally and figuratively imprisoned, with no room to maneuver as she cuddles into me more insistently. The pressure builds until I can’t take it anymore.
“I, uh, I need to use the bathroom,” I say, disentangling myself from her clutches.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face to calm myself. What am I doing? I can’t keep leading her on. Enough is enough. I have to man up and tell her the truth. Once again resolved to put an end to this farce, I get out of the bathroom.
But when I return, Olivia is holding a small black box, a sad smile on her face. “I wanted you to have these—we made them in Theo’s name. All profits from the sales go to a shelter to honor his memory. We gave these to everyone at the funeral.” Olivia’s voice catches as she sets the box in my hands, her fingers trembling. “He would’ve loved it.”
As soon as I take the box, Olivia’s composure shatters. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth, but it does nothing to muffle the guttural sob that escapes her. “I—I can’t talk about him without… without falling apart. Every time I think about him, I can’t breathe.” Her voice cracks, and she covers her face with her hands, shaking her head violently. “Gosh, I’m such a mess.”
I guess, How about we stop seeing each other? is not a great segue. Acting like a half-decent human, I undo the velvet ribbon and open the box. Inside are two white socks with black writing. One says, Step Into Healing. The other, Toe-tally Here For You .
I force a smile and accept the socks gracefully, while inside, I’m wondering if anyone has ever drowned in kindness—or a load of crap because right now, I’ve toe-tally stepped into a massive pile of it.
* * *
In the week following the second failed break-up attempt, Olivia and I mostly talk on the phone. I ask to see her every single day, but she’s never available. Her friends have embarked on a mission to cheer her up and take her out every night. Apparently, my hours are too long and if she’d have to wait for me to get off work, she’d just go home and cry herself silly on the couch. She prefers to hang out with her girlfriends.
Still, as we talk, she keeps pushing for the Hamptons trip, asking if we’ll be spending the night, hinting at how it’d be the perfect occasion to take our relationship to the next level. Aka she wants to have sex. Looks like in her mind, the waiting period is over. Her timing couldn’t be worse. I have no intention of taking her to Rowena’s party, but I can’t tell her over the phone or break up in a text. I panic instead and invent a commitment in the city on Sunday as an excuse not to spend the night at the resort where Adrian and Rowena are hosting their engagement party.
I tell her I’m volunteering at a summer soup kitchen. They’re short on hands, and I committed months ago. If Theo used to volunteer—why else would socks profits go to a shelter?—she won’t ask me to skip. And she doesn’t. I also make her promise we’ll see each other on Friday night, the day before the party, so I can break up with her before we even go. She promises. So at least there’s that.
With the overnight-stay bullet dodged, I still sign up to serve meals to the homeless. If I’m going to lie, I might as well commit and actually go—cleanse my conscience with a good deed. But as I fill in the volunteer form, I don’t feel any less lousy.
The rest of the week slips by in a haze of frustration and anxiety. In my darkest moments, I draft break-up texts in my head: short, direct, apologetic. But every time I get close to dictating one out, I feel like the world’s biggest jerk. Who does that? Who breaks up with someone over text after their best friend just died? The thought makes me queasy, so I put my phone down and tell myself I’ll handle it face to face. But then another day slips by, and I’m still stuck in this fucking limbo.
At home, I almost never see Hunter. It’s strange, how the apartment is emptier without her—off balance. I wistfully glance at her closed door more often than I care to admit.
With her, I never know where we stand. Are we friends? Then why is she avoiding me?
When I bump into her late on Thursday night, she tells me she’s had a work emergency and is putting in crazy extra hours. She’s wearing that exhausted smile that people put on when they’re barely holding it together, and I’m sure she’s telling the truth. She isn’t using work as an excuse to avoid me.
“Hey, you okay?” I double-check, noticing she’s pulled tighter than a bowstring. “You look like you could use a week of sleep.”
“More like a month.” She chuckles. “But it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m in survival mode. I just have to make it another day, until my presentation tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but even superheroes need a break.” I walk toward the kitchen. “Tell you what, take a seat. I’ll make you something to eat.”
“You don’t have to do that, Dylan. I’m fine,” she insists, but appreciation flickers in her eyes.
“I know I don’t have to feed you, but I want to. You’re running on fumes, and it’s late. Have you had dinner?”
“Does a protein bar count?”
“No. And a midnight snack won’t kill either of us.”
She sits down with a sigh. “I won’t argue with food at this point. What’s on the menu, chef?”
“Grilled cheese sandwich,” I reply with a grin. “Classic comfort food.”
As we sit in comfortable silence, the kitchen filled only with the crunchy noise of teeth biting into toasted bread, I appreciate the ease of this simple moment. No pressure to fill the air with words, no awkward pauses. Just two people, sharing a sandwich when it’s dark outside. There’s something so… effortless about it. The world outside of these walls doesn’t matter anymore, and all the noise in my head quiets down. I’d take a hundred of these quiet, late-night snacks with Hunter over any elaborate plans.
She eats the sandwich like she is starving and I wonder if she also skipped lunch. I don’t ask. I don’t want to mother her; the last thing I need is for our interaction to become even more platonic. When she stands up and tells me goodnight, I linger in the hall, staring at her door for the longest time.
* * *
Then Friday arrives and tonight, things with Olivia will finally be over. I’ve barely let out a sigh of relief at the thought when my phone pings with a text from her. The phone’s virtual assistant reads it aloud to me, in her robotic, neutral voice.
“Message from Olivia: Babe, please call me when you have a minute. It’s about tonight, please don’t be mad.”
I stare at the phone, a sense of dread creeping up my spine. It might be nothing, but with the bad karma I’ve been accumulating lately, it could be anything from her asking about dinner plans to another emotional gut punch that’ll leave me tongue-tied and trapped. I rub my forehead, a headache already brewing. Only one way to find out what she wants. I press the call button.