25. fallon
TWENTY-FIVE
fallon
M usic blares through my apartment as I sing to each song from my Spotify blend. My suitcase is on my bed while I arrange an array of shorts and tank tops in neat piles beside it. I picked up a few new pieces for California when I went thrifting. Swimming in the ocean will still be too cold, but I can’t wait to sink into the sand. Fitz has visited California often and promised to take me to all his favorite spots, including the Santa Monica pier.
We leave in a few days. Like last year, Ansel will assist Thomas with running the store while I’m gone. I haven’t told Fitz yet, but Thomas encouraged me to add two days to our sightseeing trip and experience more things together. I plan on telling Fitz the news at dinner, which will hopefully be sushi.
I haven’t heard much from Fitz today. The last text I received was an hour ago when he left Boston to come here. I can’t complain—his minimal texts were still texts. He listened to what I said and accounted for my feelings. Baby steps.
I might ask for a FaceTime call next.
I disappear into my closet momentarily to pull a few more clothes, nearly screaming when I return to my bedroom to see him sitting on the bed. I collapse against the bathroom door, clothes at my feet from dropping them, and clutch my chest. The music was so loud that I didn’t hear him coming in. I had texted him the code to enter the building and told him I’d keep the door unlocked for him, but fuck.
“Alexa!” I shout. “Stop!”
The music ceases. All that’s left is the sound of my heart thumping rapidly in my chest. “Hi,” I say, breathless.
He looks… exhausted. His eyes are sunk in, his hair matted to his scalp from wearing his helmet, and his shoulders slumped forward. He looks defeated. I didn’t ask why he had to return to Boston after just going there a couple days ago, but whatever it was, it doesn’t seem like he enjoyed it.
I approach him like he’s a wounded dog and stand between his knees, running my hand through his hair. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
He rests his forehead against my stomach, his arms encircling my waist. He doesn’t respond to my question verbally, but this response is telling.
“Hey.” I tug his hair gently. “Talk to me, Fitz.”
He releases a weary sigh, then lifts his head to look at me. “Are you hungry? Do you still want sushi?”
Again, he wants to avoid conversing with me, but if something bothers him, I want to be part of it.
I shimmy out of his arms and sit beside him on my bed, knocking his knee with mine. “I want to know what’s up.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. I’m not even sure he’s breathing. He won’t even look at me. But then, he slowly stands and leans against my bedroom door. In an instant, his entire demeanor changes. It’s as if he slips a mask on. “This isn’t going to work between us, Fallon. I need space.”
I blink. My lips part.
That wasn’t what I was expecting.
He just ripped the band-aid right off.
“I, um,” I stutter, unable to process what he said. To be fair, we never defined what this is, but this is a stark contrast to what we were just this morning. “What happened?”
His nonchalant shrug might make me crash out. “Nothing. I just realized it could never work. You’re wanting more from me than I’m willing to give.”
I stand, immediately defensive. “I haven’t asked anything from you, Fitz. I haven’t demanded anything.” A lump forms in my throat as I fight back tears. “I don’t understand. Is this because I stayed over last night?”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t convey any emotion whatsoever. I’m unable to read him.
I step closer. “Just talk to me, Fitz. Help me understand.”
But the look he gives me in return for my plea isn’t one I’ve seen before. It’s an unsettling mixture of disappointment and disdain. “Are you going to beg me to stay, Fallon?”
I fall back two steps. “You’re being cruel.”
“And you’re being desperate.” He approaches me, chasing me when I place more distance between us. “Never ask a man why he’s leaving you, Fallon. You’re better than that.” He grabs my chin between his fingers and holds me still, not even flinching when a tear slips from my eye. “You don’t know me like you think you do. You handed yourself over so easily.”
I jerk my chin away. “So, I was just a game to you?”
His replying chuckle cuts me raw. “A game would imply a challenge. You weren’t even that.”
I turn my head away, unable to stand looking at him. I’m at war with myself. Half of me wants to touch him—to ask him to kiss me. The other half of me, the feminist, logical side of me, never wants to see him again. Do I listen to my heart or my mind?
You should never allow a man to tell you more than once that he doesn’t want you. I always hoped that advice would never be relative to me. I prayed I’d never be the girl who needed to be reminded of that, but that’s precisely what I’ve become. Because I do want to hear it again. I do want to figure out exactly why he’s letting me go. I want to know what changed from this morning to this moment. But I can’t chase the snake and ask why he bit me.
I can’t tell him all the reasons I don’t deserve this.
Instead of demanding reasons, I whisper, “Get out.”
He doesn’t move. The heat of his gaze is overwhelming. I can’t breathe. Even as he breaks my heart, I long for him to tell me he’s joking—that this was some sick joke he hopes I’ll eventually forgive him for.
But he doesn’t tell me that.
He kisses my head and murmurs, “Good girl.”
And then, all his warmth disappears as he leaves the room and walks out of my life as quickly as he came.
I sink to my knees.
The room closes around me, and my vision blurs as I crawl to my bed and search for my phone. Thomas answers on the first ring. “For the hundredth time, Fallon, we’ll be fine while you’re gone. Ansel requested the extra days off?—”
I don’t let him finish.
I just start weeping.
“I’m on my way. Don’t hang up.”
* * *
The following days pass by in a blur.
I exist on autopilot. Thomas drives me to work each morning and home every night. He walks me upstairs, cooks dinner for me or has it delivered, and sits with me while I stare at my food. He’s patient while I check my phone every few minutes, sits quietly while I reiterate how I don’t understand what happened, and listens to me cry.
“You did nothing wrong,” he reminds me for the dozenth time when I break down all over again.
I blame myself constantly, wondering if I pushed Fitz too hard to open up and tell me things. I reflect on every conversation we had, bewildered by the misstep somewhere.
I’m left without closure. I’m stuck in an endless cycle of wondering where everything went wrong.
“Silence is the only answer you need,” Thomas says, forcing a spoonful of soup into my mouth. “If he wanted to talk to you, he would. If he wanted to explain to you why he chose to end this, he would. He doesn’t want to.”
“ He pursued me ,” I remind him. “He showed up to dinner with Ryan, he invited himself to California, he?—”
“I know ,” Thomas interrupts quietly. “I know.”
I cover myself with another blanket. No matter how often I turn the fireplace on or how many layers of clothing I wear, I can’t warm up. When Fitz left, he took all the heat with him.
“Why does it feel like I keep taking two steps back? I barely knew him.” I ask, clutching the blanket. It’s as if I’m physically trying to keep pieces of my heart from seeping out and soaking through the delicate fabric.
“Because healing isn’t linear,” Thomas responds softly, gentle in his tone. “One day, you’ll breathe easier. Then, it’ll hit you all over again. The memories, the texts, the possibilities.” His gaze dips to the floor with a deep sigh as if recalling his heartbreaks. “It doesn’t ever fully go away, but it does… lessen.”
I whisper weakly, “the pain?”
Thomas slightly shakes his head. “The disappointment of what could’ve been. You fell for the potential, Mads.”
A fresh set of tears fall down my cheeks. Thomas is right. Fitz might’ve avoided every deep conversation I tried to have with him, but we had such potential. I was slowly breaking down his walls, and maybe that’s why he pushed me away. Or perhaps I’m making excuses for him because the truth would simply hurt too much.
At the end of the each day, I am the one sitting on the couch, crying over him, and he isn’t speaking to me. He’s making a conscious choice to not be in my life.
But the realization doesn’t ease the pain.
I rest my chin on my knees. “What do I do now?”
Thomas places the bowl of soup on the coffee table and crawls over to me, pulling me into his arms and kissing the top of my head. “You go to California, Fallon. And you slowly try to move on.” He wipes the tear falling from my eye. “It’s going to hurt like a motherfucker, Mads, but what do I always say?”
I sniffle and rest my head against his chest. “Fallon can do hard things.” Referring to myself in the third person is bizarre, but saying his affirmation aloud oddly helps.
“And I’ll be here when you inevitably forget that,” he promises. “Remember who you are, Fallon.”
I try to remember who I was before Fitz walked into my store that day. I faced each day with excitement and a gigantic dash of anxiety, but I knew who I was. I didn’t waste time on a man. I didn’t romanticize a text. My life before him was simple. It might’ve been a little dull, but it was something I could rely on. I need to be that version of myself again. I need to harden my heart and strengthen my boundaries.
And never let Fitz in again.