8. MAYBE IT’S ME
MAYBE IT’S ME
I’m sitting on Emerson’s couch, feeling despondent and completely helpless as I glance at my phone every few minutes.
It’s been three days—three long fucking days—since I left Kenneth’s apartment.
He still hasn’t called, and I don’t know whether I’m pissed or spiraling into a deep sadness that I’m not sure I’ll get out of any time soon.
It was four in the morning when I got home from spending the night with him.
A night he was right about—one I’ll never forget.
I woke up later in the afternoon, still tired enough to need two mugs of coffee, then jumped in the shower before sitting on my couch and noticing that he still hadn’t texted or called.
I told myself it was still early, that he was probably having a slow day just like me, but by that night, I began to question everything.
Did last night mean nothing to him after all?
Did I give him exactly what he wanted, and now he’s discarded me as if I never mattered in the first place? The thought made me ill.
By the second day, I was pissed off. I felt used.
The feeling didn’t go away all day, even as I went to work.
I snapped at everyone, taking my anger out on anybody who dared to speak to me.
My coworkers gave me weary glances and steered clear of me, and Emerson came to talk to me at the end of the workday to tell me to chill the fuck out.
That just because I had a leadership position didn’t mean I could speak to people the way I had.
I can’t lie—it humbled me. I didn’t know how to apologize, so I brought coffee and donuts for everyone this morning.
It seemed to do the trick, and now everything has gone back to normal.
Now, on the third day, I feel like I’m going fucking insane.
Nothing I do distracts me from looking at my phone, and Emerson is convinced that I need to leave it at home and forget about it.
The problem is that I’m still holding out hope—a cruel, useless feeling that has no right to live inside me right now.
He’s done with me, that much is clear, but here I am, dreadfully infatuated with him.
If I thought I was obsessed before, it has nothing on how I feel after he rocked my world.
He shook the very foundation of my life, and now I have to watch helplessly as it crumbles around me. I fucking hate it.
I look at my phone screen one more time, huffing at the lack of messages and missed calls.
He’s gone as if he never existed, as if he were only a figment of my imagination.
Someone who only breathed in my dreams. It’s made me feel crazier than I care to admit, because what if none of it was real to him?
What if he did play me after all? But even through the doubts and the pain, I do the unthinkable.
I search for him on Instagram, and much to my dismay, his profile does come up.
I don’t know what I was expecting, considering he’s a public figure.
Maybe that he’d be a recluse and not share his life with anyone.
But even I know that’s not him at all. He’s the life of the party, the center of attention in any room he enters.
He’s a bright star in the darkness, and people can’t help but watch him shine.
I hold my breath as I tap on his most recent picture, a view of the horizon from the beach, endless and vast. The setting sun reminds me of our date, how it paints the sky in orange and pink hues.
I think that might be the color of my heartbreak.
Or maybe it’s the lighter blue shade of his eyes when the sun casts its golden light upon them, as if it can’t help itself.
As if even the sun can’t help but be drawn to him.
I can relate deeply. It’s then that I notice the date he posted the picture—yesterday.
Last night, to be exact. My chest grows hot, but I can’t name the emotion I’m feeling now.
Not quite heartbreak, not quite anger. But somewhere in between. Somewhere only pain resides.
Emerson must see something on my face from his armchair across from the couch, because he speaks softly but clearly. “You have to stop looking at your phone. Conrad, you have to stop waiting around for him.”
“I can’t,” I say to him, voice breaking. “I don’t know where I went wrong. We had a great time. I—”
“Unless he tells you the reason why he ghosted you, you’ll never actually figure it out,” Emerson says softly, as if trying to lessen the blow of what he’s about to say. “I really did want him to give you a chance, Con, but maybe it’s not meant to be. He doesn’t seem to want what you want.”
“I thought he did,” I reply. “It felt like he did.”
“Maybe you read it wrong.”
I feel my heart break a little more at those words. Did I really read it all wrong?
“You ever feel like someone cracked something open in you?” I ask quietly.
“Not really.” Em shakes his head. “I don’t go falling in love this easily.”
I narrow my eyes, wanting to scream that I haven’t fallen in love this easily. That I’ve been in love with him for ages. That the love that lives inside of me is endless and has existed for a very long time—I just can’t explain how I know that.
Instead, I tell him, “Then you wouldn’t understand.”
He shakes his head. “No, probably not.”
“I gotta go,” I mutter, getting up from the couch and running a hand over my face. My shoes are by the front door, and I slip them on in a rush, wanting to get out of here as soon as possible. “I’ll see you later.”
“I’m here for you, Conrad,” he tells me, but I just shake my head, not wanting to hear anything else that comes out of his mouth. He’s said enough—he doesn’t get it. He never will.
“Thanks,” is all I say as I leave his place.
The streets are busy at this time of day; the sidewalk packed with bodies that I dodge as I walk aimlessly.
I’m not entirely sure where to go now, especially since Em and I were supposed to spend the evening together.
I’m even dressed up for it. Navy-blue chino pants and a short-sleeved white linen shirt.
Not quite fancy, but a little overdressed for the bar I have in mind.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I stumble, hoping against all odds that it’s him.
I steel myself for my heart to hurt a little more.
Brace myself for the disappointment I’m sure is coming any second now.
But as the unknown number flashes on my screen, all I feel is a little dizzy.
I unlock my phone with facial recognition and stop in the middle of the sidewalk.
People bump into me, shoulder-checking me as they pass me by, but I feel nothing.
Nothing except hope for the first time in a long time. The sneaky, useless little feeling.
Unknown: Want to see something beautiful?
I frown, reading the text over and over again.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown: Should I be concerned that you’ve given your number to another man? Are you waiting on a call from someone else, too?
Me: Ken?
Unknown: Your one and only.
Your one and only.
My stomach does a stupid little cartwheel, and I glare at my screen.
I want to demand an explanation, accuse him of playing me, and tell him I’m not playing his game anymore.
Instead, I sigh and save his contact to my phone, unable to stop myself.
I’m embarrassed to say I fold like a fucking lawn chair, because all I feel is relief when I should be pissed.
Me: How are you?
Kenny: Better now that I’m talking to you. I’ve missed you.
Three words shouldn’t shake me up this much, but my hands begin to tremble.
Me: Oh, I hadn’t noticed, considering you ghosted me.
There—it’s out. I can finally breathe again after getting it off my chest, but when he doesn’t reply for a full minute, I begin to panic.
Kenny: Let me make it up to you.
Me: How?
Kenny: Let me take you out again. Now. I’m at a rooftop bar. Come take pictures of the sunset with me.
Me: You want me to go out on a date with you after you didn’t call me?
Kenny: I’m doing it now, am I not?
Me: Unbelievable.
Kenny: I’m sorry, Conrad. I really am. I want to see you again. If you want to join me, I’ll send the address.
I don’t reply, but he doesn’t give up. Instead, he sends me the address of the rooftop bar.
I contemplate what to do for all of thirty seconds, but when I put the address into my phone, I notice it’s actually just a few blocks from here.
It’s pointless to pretend I don’t want to see him, but I still ask myself what I’d do if he stopped talking to me once more.
I’m not sure I can survive it. Still, my feet carry me forward without my consent, and before I know it, I’m standing outside the entrance of the bar.
The air conditioning feels nice when I enter the establishment, and it looks even fancier than the other bars around my place.
I’m grateful I dressed nicely as I walk slowly through the bar, looking around in awe.
Its low lighting makes it feel intimate here, resembling a restaurant, its tables set up with two or four chairs.
There’s a long bar with velvet barstools to my left, and a set of stairs to my right.
I’m assuming the stairs lead to the rooftop, and so I go toward them.
I stop short at the first step, considering my options.
But I also know there’s nothing to consider—that I’m going to do this whether I want to or not. I have to see this through.