19. Chapter 19 #2
“Nah,” I say, locking the screen and flipping it face down so I don’t have to see his name anymore. “It's just people wishing me a happy birthday.” Lie number two for the night.
"What!? It's your birthday? Why didn't you tell me?
" Bry’s eyes widen, his face lighting up with a mix of surprise and this nauseatingly sweet pride.
I wince, realising my mistake. "Aw, and you chose to spend it on a date with me," he coos, leaning in playfully, "you must think we have a future then. "
He reaches out with a smile, his palm flat against the table, waiting for me to seize it.
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
Bry gulps audibly when I fail to reply, his smile faltering as the silence stretches between us.
I can’t even force a "maybe." I just drown my guilt in another sip of beer, but of course it doesn’t help. The liquid is cold and bitter, but not as bitter as the realization that I’m sitting here leading this poor guy on while my head and my heart aren't in it, and no amount of wishing will ever make it so.
The warmth drains out of Bry’s expression, leaving his smile thin and brittle. The shift is unmistakable; he’s finally catching on. The look on his face says it all, the realisation that he’s not the destination—he’s just the detour.
The hand on the table twitches and then slowly slides away inch by inch, until he clears his throat and plasters on a smile so tight it looks painful .
I look at the back of my phone, the plastic casing mocking me, reminding me that I should be home, halfway through a box of cold pepperoni pizza, screaming at Maddox for cheating at Mario Kart or fucking up a flashlight save on Dead by Daylight.
Instead, I’m watching a nice guy realize in real-time that he’s nothing more than a placeholder and I fucking hate myself for it.
The conversation awkwardly limps along until dessert, and then even that dies.
I laugh when I think I’m supposed to, though it sounds wrong even in my own ears.
Bry’s gentle and sweet, and I want to care.
I really do. But every time he says my name, it sounds wrong in his mouth, too soft.
.. too… familiar for the time we’ve spent together.
"Seriously, you alright, Ry?" Bry asks again, setting his glass down. "You've been... quiet. And that little drum solo you're giving the floor is distracting me."
I immediately stopped tapping. "Yeah, fine. Just a long week. Sorry."
I should definitely be at home, where I wouldn't have to worry about my leg tapping or my ear throbbing because Maddox already knows all of the shit parts about me and for some unfathomable fucking reason, he hasn't abandoned me… not like I abandoned him tonight. He’d just turn the volume up and hand me another drink. It’s our tradition.
And I’ve blown it to sit here across from a guy who’s perfectly nice, but who isn't him.
"Don't worry about it." He gives me a forgiving smile. "You just seem like you're fighting a battle you haven't told me about yet." He pauses, his gaze drifting to the side of my head. "Is it still your ear?"
"It's always my ear," I mutter, taking a gulp of my drink. "It just doesn't stop hurting. It makes everything else hurt, too." I instantly regret the honesty. This was a date, not a therapy session. Thankfully, Bry doesn’t try to coddle me. He just nods, absorbing the weight of my bullshit.
"That's heavy, man. Maybe we should just call it?
" he asks awkwardly. I don’t wait for a second invitation.
I nod, dropping enough cash for both meals and a tip, before he can even reach for his pocket.
The disappointment is written all over his face, but he gets the message, rising from his chair as I move to leave.
When we step outside, the air’s noticeably cooler than when we arrived. As we cross a street corner, two college-aged guys—one with The Loud Team's patch on his backpack—spot Bry.
"Dude! It's the singer from The Loud Team!" one of them beams, backhanding his buddy across the chest and pointing in our direction. "Hey, you killed it at that gig last week!" the patch guy calls out, hurrying over.
"Thanks, man," Bry replies beaming, instantly flipping into rockstar mode.
"Can we get a pic? And maybe an autograph?
" the other guy begs. Bry signs a hastily produced napkin with a flourish, exchanging a few easy words with them.
I stand back, arms crossed, watching the whole exchange.
The whole thing seems loud, chaotic, and yet completely natural for him.
He handles the attention with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly who he is and what he wants. I wonder what that's like?
Once they leave, Bry turns to me, his smile wide. "See? This is the life, Ry."
"It suits you," I concede. He walks with me to the next curb where his car’s parked, the two of us hovering in that weird, polite pause before the post-date goodbye.
"Look, I want to say I’ve had a great time, but I also feel like I’m standing across from a guy who spent the whole night with one foot halfway out the door," he voices solemnly.
And look, it was nice, in theory, but he's right and he deserves more than what I can offer. “Yeah,” I nod. “I'm sorry about that.”
He waits. Just long enough that I know he’s hoping I’ll close the gap with a kiss, an invitation, something that means we’ll do this again.
Only, I can’t. My body feels so full of someone else’s gravity, that it’s dragging me in the opposite direction, back home to the best friend who I hate to admit that I really do love.
So I smile instead, an awkward small tug at my mouth. “Get home safe, yeah?”
His expression falters, just a flicker, but it’s enough to make me feel like a huge pile of shit .
“Sure... You too,” he mumbles, and turns towards his car, then whips back, his eyes blazing.
"What part was too much for you?" he snaps, his tone suddenly flat.
"Is the reality of dating someone who's in the limelight really so awful?
You know, Nathyn warned me you wouldn't be able to handle it, but I didn't want to believe him.
" The accusation stung, but it was also a perfect distraction from the real problem.
"No, it's not that at all," I reply, perhaps too quickly. "You're great. It's just... I can't do this."
Bry takes a careful step back, crossing his arms. "Right.
I know that look," he says, his voice dropping into a quiet, dangerous register.
"You had fun, but you checked out the second I got too close.
" He pauses, his gaze boring into mine until I want to crawl out of my skin. "There’s someone else, isn't there?"
"It's... complicated," I whisper. The guilt flares up, hot and heavy, a physical weight dragging my eyes to the asphalt.
"Complicated means 'off-limits," he retorts with a dry laugh, "so who is it, Ry?
" He prods, studying me when I wont answer—watching me struggle to meet his stare for more than a fraction of a second.
Then his expression shifts from hurt to a sudden, devastating clarity.
I can practically hear the pieces clicking into place behind his teeth.
"Holy shit… It's Maddox, isn't it?" he breathes. The admission tastes like dirt on my tongue, but I can't deny it. His name feels like it’s been branded on the inside of my throat .
"Yeah," I whisper, "I'm so sorry, Bry. I only just admitted it to myself. It’s all such a mess right now."
Bry stares at me for a long beat, then shakes his head, a wry, tired grin replacing the heat.
"A mess? Nah, you two are a goddamn explosion waiting to happen." He shakes his head, the anger fading into a pity that makes my skin itch. He bumps my shoulder—a gesture that’s friendly, final, and hurts worse than a punch. "Look, he’s a lucky bastard. And for what it’s worth, he’d be a fucking idiot not to want you back.
" Bry smiles weakly, his thumb catching a tear I didn't even realise had started to track down my face.
"Now go figure out your life, Rylen James," he says as he opens his car door, leaving me alone with the weight of the confession hanging in the silent air. He gets into the car without looking back, and I stand there, watching the red haze of his taillights disappear.
My phone starts buzzing again.
Maddox.
He's absolutely fucking relentless. I reject the call and turn back towards my car.
Bry’s disappointment clings to me like a film of grease.
I could’ve had soft tonight; I could’ve had easy.
He’s a genuinely good person, and after the train wreck I just dragged him through, I wouldn't blame him if he leveled me with a punch to the jaw.
Honestly, I almost wish he had. My guilt twists like a fucking knot in my windpipe, and a bruised face would feel a hell of a lot better than this.
The apartment’s dark when I get home, but it isn’t peaceful—it’s the kind of loaded silence you learn to pay attention to when you grow up in a house full of abusive drunks.
My keys jingle too loud as I drop them in the bowl by the door. My phone, dead silent now, feels heavier in my pocket than it should. The air still smells faintly of his soap. That citrus-and-cedar mix he uses, the one that envelops every surface of the common areas, the one that feels like home.
I can tell he’s been pacing—there’s a mug on the counter, half-drunk coffee gone cold, a damp towel abandoned on the back of a chair and a path of disarray leading to the lounge room.