Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
They were quiet for a moment. Perhaps he, too, was thinking about the push and pull of those early days. The spinning desperation. The despair. The longing to be with someone who understood everything. The anger, though that had come later, at least for her.
“And . . . are you dating anyone?” He’d been playing with the edge of a paper napkin, and his hands stilled now as he waited for her response.
She shook her head. “I went on a couple dates a few months ago . . .” Noelle bit at her lip. “But that’s over.” She’d ghosted the guy she’d agreed to go to coffee with, and then a movie. He’d tried to hold her hand, and she’d felt like her skin was crawling.
The air around them seemed to have stilled, the background blurring so that only he was clear and crisp. Her sole point of reference. “Why?” he asked, and his voice had grown soft. There was a scratchiness to it as though something had gotten caught in his throat. “I mean, is it . . .”
“Difficult for me?” She swallowed, her eyes sliding away. “Yes, I freeze up,” she whispered. “I don’t even seem to tolerate hand holding. And . . . I worry that I’m not capable of feeling pleasure. And eventually . . . you know, if things go further with someone, it will take so long . . .”
“He’ll take it personally?” Evan asked.
“Yes. Yes, exactly. And then it’s a vicious cycle. The more tense I become, the less likely it is that I’ll get there.” So why even try? Why do that to someone? Maybe she’d just accept that she was broken.
“You could explain that . . . to the right person,” he said. Her face felt hot. Even with him, even with him, this was hard. And yet she’d offered the truth willingly. Because he’d asked, and she wouldn’t lie to him. For whatever reason, doing so felt like lying to herself.
“I could,” she agreed. “With the right person. Eventually.” And yes, it felt good to be honest. There was so much she couldn’t be honest about with anyone.
She saw a tick in his jaw. His hands remained utterly still. She had the sense that he was jealous, that he didn’t like talking about her love life. And perhaps that was true. They were both damaged by what had happened. Like they’d already admitted, their emotions were not based on healthy things.
Their emotions were not based on anything real.
Or lasting.
Which was why their reunion would be brief and uncomplicated. Two old . . . friends? Were they friends? Sure. Two old friends, talking about their struggles regarding the thing they had in common. The things they’d endured that only they could talk about. She needed to move on. He needed to move on. He should move on.
And they both had. At least enough to live a mostly normal life. She’d learned to leave the house without constantly looking over her shoulder. She’d learned to laugh again. She’d learned not to burst into tears at the drop of a hat. He obviously had too. He seemed to be doing well, despite questioning his current path. But lots of twenty-year-old guys did that.
“And you?” she asked. “Are you . . . seeing anyone?”
“No.”
He answered quickly, and she felt her muscles relax. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding them taut. She was jealous too. That strange tether was twisted together with so many varying emotions. “Why not?”
He shrugged and lifted his hand before stretching his fingers. “I’ve been busy focusing on getting my strength back and . . . you know, hating my classes, wondering what the hell I should really be doing with my life.” A breeze stirred, and a tree near the low gate shivered, its leaves rustling. He turned his head toward the soft noise, the smile that moved over his face fading. “And I haven’t met anyone I’m interested in.” He paused, and she waited. “I get stuck emotionally too. A lot.” He tapped the table. He didn’t like admitting that, she could tell. But he’d told her, and she was glad.
“Are you still seeing that therapist you mentioned in your last email?” she asked.
He let out a soft chuckle. “I sent that email six months ago.”
“Sorry. I don’t check it very often.” She didn’t like to go online. It felt like a field of virtual land mines. Everything was a trigger for one reason or another. The last time she’d gone on Instagram, a post appeared on her feed of a girl comparing two lip liners, and she’d cried for an hour. Because you were robbed, Paula had said later when she’d told her. Robbed of the possibility of being a girl who cared about which lip liner possessed the most lasting color. She’d laughed, but then she’d cried some more. She wanted to care about that. Desperately. She did feel robbed.