Chapter 3 #2
I don’t say anything. What can I say? Travis is stable. He’s never made me cry. But he’s also never made my heart ache in that messy, dangerous, real way.
I think I thought I’d outgrown that kind of love. That craving.
“You’ve been dating him for eight months,” Whitley continues, her voice careful but pointed. “And you’ve never once looked at him the way you looked talking about Rowan just now.”
I pull the blanket over my head completely. “Travis is…good for me. Safe.”
But safety, with Travis, always comes with strings—plans that can’t shift, opinions that need agreeing with, small corrections disguised as concern.
He doesn’t yell or slam doors. But he does make me feel like I’m supposed to be grateful he chose me.
Like being with him is a favor I shouldn’t screw up.
I used to tell myself I could look past it. That it wasn’t a big deal. That all men had something, and this was just who he was.
“You deserve someone who makes you feel like you’re coming alive, not someone who makes you feel safe.”
“Safe isn’t bad,” I argue weakly.
“Violet.”
“What?”
“Take the blanket off your face.”
I peek out at her, and she’s got that look. She’s probably about to say something I don’t want to hear but probably need to.
“Safe isn’t love, either.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Look, I’m not saying run off into the sunset with your high school crush. But maybe figure out what you actually want before you shack up with someone because he shows up on time.”
“Travis is fine,” she continues. “He’s nice enough. He has good teeth. But you talk about him like you’re describing a dentist appointment you don’t mind attending.”
“But nice is good, right?”
“When’s the last time you felt excited to see him?” she asks. “Like, genuinely thrilled that he was about to walk through the door?”
I open my mouth, then close it. The truth is, I can’t remember. Travis and I have settled into something comfortable. Predictable. Thursday night dinners, weekend movies, good morning texts that have started to seem more like checking boxes than anything else.
“And let’s not forget the elephant in the room,” Whitley says, her voice dropping to that tone she uses when she’s about to say something uncomfortable. “You’ve been with Travis for eight months and you still haven’t slept with him.”
Heat rushes to my face. “That’s not—”
“It is relevant,” she interrupts, holding my gaze. “Every time he stays over, you make some excuse. You’re physically avoiding intimacy with a man you claim to be in a relationship with.”
I sink deeper into the couch, wishing it would swallow me whole. She’s right, and we both know it. Travis and I have done…things. But I’ve always stopped short of that final step, finding reasons to pull back when things get too heated.
“Maybe I’m just not ready,” I mumble.
“Maybe,” Whitley says, her voice softer now. “Or maybe your body knows something your brain doesn’t want to admit.”
I don’t meet her eyes, because the thing is…she’s not wrong.
Every time Travis kisses me, really kisses me, something inside me…flickers. And not in that breathless, back-against-the-wall, god-I-want-this way I always imagined. It’s more like a switch being flipped off. A dimming.
I’ve told myself it’s nerves. Pressure. That stupid voice in my head that’s always made me feel behind. Like I missed some crucial milestone years ago, and I’m too old to show up to the party now.
But the truth—the one I don’t say out loud, not even to Whitley—is that it’s never been about Travis. Or timing. Or fear. It’s that I’ve never wanted it enough. Not with him.
A knot forms in my stomach as Whitley’s words sink in. The truth I’ve been avoiding crashes over me like a wave.
“Oh god,” I whisper, pressing my palms against my eyes. “I’ve been stringing him along, haven’t I?”
Whitley doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
I’ve been giving him just enough to keep him around without ever really letting him in.
“I’m a terrible person,” I mutter, dropping my hands into my lap.
“You’re not terrible,” Whitley says, her voice softening. “You’re just…not in love with him. There’s a difference.”
I shake my head. “I’ve wasted eight months of his life.”
“Better than eight years.” She gives me a pointed look. “Or are you planning to marry him someday out of politeness?”
I press my lips together, hard enough to sting. I don’t answer right away because the truth tastes bitter in my mouth.
“No,” I whisper. “But I think I was hoping I’d get there. Eventually.”
“Violet…”
“I know,” I say quickly, blinking against the burn in my eyes. “I know I have to end it. It’s not fair to him. But I think I wanted it to work so badly, because if it didn’t, it meant I was still waiting for someone who walked away years ago. And how pathetic is that?”
Whitley snorts, breaking the tension with a sudden burst of laughter.
“Okay, let me get this straight. You’re afraid you’re pathetic because you’re pining for some guy from your past, so instead you’re dating a human saltine cracker?
” She tosses a throw pillow at me. “That’s not pathetic, that’s just bad math. ”
I catch the pillow and hug it to my chest, unable to stop a reluctant smile. “Travis isn’t a saltine.”
“You’re right. Saltines have salt.” She raises her eyebrows dramatically. “He’s more like unseasoned tofu.”
“Whitley!” I protest, but I’m laughing now, the heaviness in my chest lifting just a little.
She leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Look, you have two choices here. You can keep pretending to be attracted to Mr. Beige Is My Personality—”
“Whit—”
“—or,” she continues, louder, “you can woman up and talk to both of these men like the grown-ass adult you are. Tell Travis the truth and then figure out what the hell Rowan is doing back. I’m not saying throw yourself at the guy.
But you’ve been stuck for six years. Maybe it’s time to unstick yourself. ”
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and both of us glance at it. Travis’s name lights up the screen.
Travis:
Hey, babe. Dinner on Friday? That new Italian place?
I stare at the text, my stomach twisting. The casual endearment, the assumption that I’ll say yes, the fact that he’s already planning our next predictable evening together while I’m sitting here unraveling over another man.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
Whitley peers at the phone. “Perfect timing. The universe is practically writing your breakup speech for you.”
I don’t answer right away, instead I just watch the screen go dark.
I press my fingertips to my temple, as if I can physically rub away the guilt curling under my skin. “I don’t even know how to start.”
Whitley doesn’t hesitate. “Start with the truth. And go from there.”
Easy for her to say. She’s always been good at ripping the Band-Aid off. Meanwhile, I have no problem giving it the time it needs to just fall off.