Don’t cry. He will hear you.
And you have nothing to cry about.
I got on the toilet, like peeing might distract me from crying, but instead I found myself peeing and crying, which, if you’ve never done it, is probably the most pathetic you will ever feel as a human being. You realize you have no control whatsoever and everything is horrible and you might as well just give up.
Angry with myself, I balled up some toilet paper and wiped my nose. I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. Was I sad about the argument? Was I sad about Miles moving to San Francisco? Was I just scared of being alone? I thought about it for a moment, and decided it wasn’t that. I could’ve handled being alone after the breakup with Dan. What I couldn’t handle was this crush on Miles that couldn’t go anywhere. But it was my own fault—I’d let myself think I could turn off the emotional switch and just fuck around, but that wasn’t me. And now I was left with these powerful unrequited feelings for him, feelings that he’d never return. I dissolved into tears one more time, and gave myself permission to mourn something that could never be.
After a few minutes, I pulled myself together, cleaned up and opened the door, switching off the bathroom light. The bedroom was completely dark, which I was glad about because I didn’t want him to see my puffy, tearstained face. I felt my way along the foot of the bed to the side I’d slept on last night, crawled in and pulled the covers up to my shoulders, totally focused on not touching him.
Except that once I was there, I missed him. I wanted to touch him. But I couldn’t let him know I missed him. The touch had to be accidental.
I let one foot stray toward him. It strayed, and it strayed, and it strayed…nothing.
I bolted upright. Felt around.
He wasn’t there.
What an asshole!
Really? He wouldn’t even sleep next to me if there was no promise of sex?
Fuming, I threw myself back onto the pillow and punched it a few times. Good! I’m glad you’re not here, asshole! I didn’t want your stupid amazing body next to me anyway! I’d have probably ended up banging you in spite of myself!
Wide awake, I shoved my face into the pillow. It smelled like him. I missed him. I wanted him. Even though I knew exactly what he was and that sex would probably only make me feel worse afterward…I still wanted him. What the hell was the matter with me?
After lying there sleeplessly for at least a half hour, battling with my urge, I got out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs. The TV was on with no sound and Miles was asleep on his back on the couch. He’d taken his jacket and shoes off, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned and untucked. I bit my lip, wishing more than anything it was my place to take his hand and guide him up the stairs. Peel the rest of his clothes off him. Pull the sheets up to his chest and tuck my body in next to his.
But it wasn’t. He didn’t want that.
He’d made that clear tonight.
So I went back up to his bed and curled up alone, telling myself this was how it had to be.
I am the biggest asshole on the planet. I know this.
I knew it while I was acting like a dick at the restaurant. I knew it on the unbearably silent ride home. I knew it while I sat berating myself on the couch as she packed her bags upstairs. I knew it as I lied to her about San Francisco—where the fuck had I come up with that, anyway? I had totally been about to tell her I loved her, and panicked—and I knew it when I heard her feet on the stairs a moment ago.
Now she was standing there at the foot of the couch, looking at me. Wondering. Possibly wanting me.
Silently, I begged my dick not to give me away, because if she saw it move, if she touched me, I was gone. I wasn’t a good liar. It took everything out of me. Keeping up the facade at the restaurant and then making up that bullshit story upstairs had totally drained me. And it killed me to think I’d hurt her feelings.
If she put a hand on me, if she kissed me, if she whispered to me right now…that was it. I’d give in. I’d tell her the truth. We could still be good together. Somehow.
But she didn’t.
She left me alone, tiptoeing back up the stairs as quietly as she’d come down.
It was just as well.
Christ. Love sucks.
? ? ?
The next day was rough. I think she spoke a total of five sentences to me on the ride home, and they were all something like this.
“I need coffee.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Do you want to stop for lunch?”
“I’ll have the chicken sandwich.”
“Thanks for the ride.”
In her driveway, she pulled her keys from her purse and opened the door.
“Natalie, wait.” I put my hand on her leg. “Shut the door, please.”
Reluctantly, she closed the car door and sat looking straight ahead.
I love you. “You’re still mad.”
“I’m not. Really.”
I love you. “Tell me I didn’t ruin our friendship.”
She sighed, turning to look at me. “You didn’t ruin our friendship.”