Chapter Thirty-seven #2
“No.” She shakes her head. “It’s not fair to you. And Jeremy isn’t the preferred child. I admit we’re more familiar with the path he’s taking, and we didn’t want to pressure you with your grades, but you’re right to call me out on it. You can do anything you want to. Fashion, right?”
I smooth out the wrinkles on my sham pillow. “You don’t think it’s irrelevant?”
“Of course not. If I didn’t ask more, it wasn’t lack of interest but not knowing enough to comment. But that’s still an excuse. I’m going to hold myself accountable and try to do better.”
“Mom, that means a lot.” I exhale, feeling a weight lift.
A few months ago, I wouldn’t have said any of this. I would’ve laughed it off, convinced myself it didn’t matter. But it does. I was raised to keep the peace, to respect my parents and be grateful, but I’m learning that honesty doesn’t mean I love them less.
“Your dad needs to hear this too. Do you want to talk to him, or should I bring it up?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Okay. I’ve got an idea for a start.” She sits up. “I do know where to find the best tiramisu in town. And it’s still open.”
* * *
When we get back from our vacation, I head over to see Sean at his house.
After days of missing him, when we finally meet up, it’s like playing a song after hitting Pause and then realizing I’ve forgotten the tune.
Something feels off. He smiles at me, but I’m back to staring at him through thick ice.
I’ve brought the photos we took in New York.
Sean wasted a lot of storage space shooting meaningless stuff, but I printed them all out anyway.
We sit on the floor with our backs against his bed, flipping through the pictures together.
I manage to look horrendous in most of them, especially when I laugh and my features twist like I’m midsneeze.
I swat him on the shoulder. “You caught me at my worst moments!”
“You’re cute.” He pauses on a picture of me standing on the beach in St. Bart’s. “That one looks amazing. Was it fun?”
“Not really. Sorry for text-yelling at you so much.”
He shrugs, smiling. “No worries. I can’t sleep without you yelling at me before bed anyway.”
Sean isn’t one to make a big deal out of things, but I must’ve made his vacation terrible. How long can he put up with this before he reaches his limit?
I wasn’t planning on saying anything, but the moment I open my mouth, the words tumble out. “Look, something happened there,” I begin, and I don’t stop until I’ve told him everything. He listens, not interrupting.
“And then I told him I had a wonderful boyfriend. And then I went back to the hotel room and cried.”
Sean’s too smart to not get it at once. “Your wonderful boyfriend isn’t so wonderful if the idea of tiramisu made you cry.”
We fall silent, the weight of that sentence hanging between us.
We sit there for what feels like an eternity, measuring the silence, until I finally break it.
“I’m not sure . . .” My voice is small, like I’m being called on in class to solve a math problem I don’t know the answer to.
“I’m not sure I can do this anymore. Maybe we should stop before I do something to hurt you. ”
There’s no trace of surprise on his face. “You’re doing it right now.”
“I can see us going downhill, and I’d rather end it early than badly. I can’t bear the thought of us ending badly.”
Sean stays strangely calm, and like rehearsing a line, he says, “You have no faith.”
“I want to be better for you. I need time on my own to figure things out. We love each other, but we want different things, and we’re not good for each other right now.
I need time to figure out who I really am, outside of you.
” By now, I’m rambling between hiccups, not even sure I’m making sense.
“You’re perfect and I love you, but you’re not perfect for me. ”
“I’m not perfect. When you say that, it’s a slap in the face because I don’t know what I can do to fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix. It’s me, and I’m not ready.
I don’t know how to love you and myself at the same time.
I don’t know who I am anymore, and I feel like I can’t breathe without you.
I can’t keep clinging to you like you’re the only thing holding me together.
It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me.
Can you . . . can you give me some time?
” I wince at how selfish that sounds. “I still love you. I just need some time apart to clear my head.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know. A short break.”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“I want a break, not a breakup.”
“That’s exactly the same to me.”
Sean likes clear answers. It’s either a serious relationship or nothing.
My eyes well up again. I expect this to hurt, but not so much that my insides turn over. I might puke. I can’t be with him, but I can’t be apart from him either. It’s impossible to decide.
But then there’s the alternative—we learn to resent each other. Or worse, we grow so far apart that we end up strangers.
“I guess we’re breaking up,” I choke out in between sobs.
“Are you sure?” he asks, almost serenely. “I don’t want to break up, but once you decide, that’s it. I’m not doing this back-and-forth thing.”
Of course I’m not sure. But after an eternity, I nod.
“Okay. If that’s your decision, then I accept.”
He’s composed throughout the conversation, as if we’re discussing dinner options. There’s no bargaining, no pushback. He just agreed, more undisturbed than a lifestyle coach saying they support my journey while my entire world caves in.
We sit and mull in silence. He picks up the photos I brought over again. This time he examines them more slowly, his head lowered, going through each one without saying a word. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe.
A teardrop rolls down his cheek.
My heart shatters. Sean’s never like this. He’s always so poised, so in control of his emotions. In that fleeting second, he’s never looked nobler.
He’s trying to make this easier for me.
A second later, he wipes his face with the back of his hand, and he’s back to his usual self. “Sorry about that. I thought my tear ducts shriveled up back in third grade.”
“Sean . . .”
He glances up. “Can I keep the photos?”
“Of course.” My own tears fall, each one quicker than the last. “Those are for you.”
“Thanks.”
Even at the end, Sean remains the gentleman he is. There’s no bitterness, no resentment. I can’t find one bad thing to say about him. He’s perfect all the way.
“Just so you know,” he says, “I don’t regret anything that happened between us. I still think the best time of my life was spent with you.”
“Me too.”
He doesn’t answer. After a short while, he flicks his gaze to my face, and there’s a lost little boy in his eyes. “When . . . if you think of me, can you remember the good times? Not that we fought a lot and I made you cry.”
At that, a fresh wave of tears hits me, and all I can think of are the little things I love about him.
The way he drives. The sound of his laugh.
How he bites his lip absently when he does his math homework.
The thoughtful gifts he gives me. How he’s all about doing the right thing even though he can opt for the easy way out.
He’s normally calm, gracious, and confident, but his vulnerable side melts me.
How he’s cocky and innocent at the same time.
His kisses. His nerdy jokes and lame pickup lines.
He’s the sweetest, most earnest boy I’ve ever known, and every moment spent with him has been the best.
He gets up and hands me fresh tissues. “Stop crying, Flora. My parents are going to think I did something to you.”
I blow my nose. “Can we still be friends?”
He nods. “Sure.”