31. CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 31

“I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me”

Silver Springs – Fleetwood Mac

Nathalie

T he car is sickeningly quiet as Sawyer drives. She insisted she pick me up and I had no energy to fight her.

All my energy is being allocated to fight back my tears, to fight the overwhelming sensation of curling into a ball and crying until my brain is numb and my heart hurts a bit less.

“How are you doing?” Sawyer asks, filling the silence in the car.

“Fine,” I croak. We both know it’s a lie. “I got an email this morning about the movie premiere tickets I won.”

I try to make conversation, but it all circles back to Deon in my mind. He bought those tickets. I want to take him, to experience that with him, but instead, it’s the first of many things I’ll have to experience on my own, wishing he was with me.

“Did you want to go?” I ask though I think it’s obvious that Sawyer’s my second choice. “I know you love rom-coms.”

Her eyebrows crinkle as she drives and stumbles over her words. “I—Well, maybe. I can see.”

I want to shove the invitation back into my mouth, but nod. Once again, the car is uncomfortably silent.

“I made cookies!” She yells when the silence becomes so tense you could slice it and flings her arm into the backseat, patting around. A moment later, she drops a Tupperware container of cookies onto my lap. “Eat. It will help.”

“It will spoil my lunch.” There’s little chance I’ll be able to stomach anything today with how my stomach roils every time I think of Deon.

“The sugar will help you feel better.” With one hand, Sawyer opens the container, picks up a cookie, and slams it into my mouth.

I begin to protest and she shoves the cookie further until I’m mumbling into the chocolate chips.

“I dwidn’t wike tat,” I force out, and Sawyer's laughter bubbles.

“Sorry, couldn’t understand you with that amazing, delicious, world-famous cookie in your mouth.”

I wipe the crumbs from my lips.

“You know exactly what I said.”

I glare at her, but Maren whips my door open and hauls me from the car, forearms hooked beneath my armpits.

“Are you ready to have fun?!” Maren cheers, creating jazz hands in front of the nail salon. Her smile is overwhelmingly bright and it makes me nervous.

That’s a smile full of mischief.

I don’t like it at all.

I will admit that it is far harder to be upset about something when you have pretty nails. I stare at my lilac nails with small hearts on each of my ring fingers with admiration.

They’re so cute, and I catch myself raising my hand to look at them every few minutes.

Rarely do I spend the money to get my nails done. It’s not a luxury I can afford often, but the pretty, fun nails are lifting a small weight off my chest.

Maren, Sawyer, and I work our way through Target, our shopping cart overflowing with snacks, bottles of wine, and face masks.

I’ve been dreading today, knowing it means the end, but my friends have managed to pull my thoughts away from Deon and Gordie and the small life we’ve built together.

They’ve pulled out every trick they have to keep the conversation flowing. Even sex-shy Sawyer spilled the beans about her and Henry experimenting with a blindfold. She blushed but left out no details, including when she accidentally tightened the knot too tightly and then spent fifteen minutes trying to wiggle the blindfold over Henry’s massive head.

I may or may not have snorted so hard that my vision went black for a moment. Maren shared that she and Jack can no longer touch in front of the puppy because it wails and barks and wiggles between them.

Both of them have made a valiant and much-appreciated effort to focus my thoughts away from the inevitable. Unfortunately, now that we’re in Maren’s home, the one she shares with Jack, full of life and love, that sadness is much harder to avoid.

Photos of her and Jack pepper the walls and the evidence of two lives intertwined is so prominent that my chest aches.

That’s all I truly want. To find someone to share my life with.

“Your face mask, m’lady.” Maren bows deeply at the waist, handing me a green tea mask, “But more importantly, your beverage.”

A seltzer dangles in front of my vision and I snatch it, crack it open, and chug it back until it’s gone. Sawyer and Maren stare at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Another, please,” I say, but it comes out as a groan as my stomach riots against the carbonation.

“Uh, perhaps we pace ourselves?” Sawyer suggests and I shake my head.

There will be no pacing tonight. I want to numb the sadness swirling in my chest. I want to forget that tomorrow I’m going to leave the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Perhaps not.”

I slink into the kitchen to get myself a drink and hide behind the refrigerator door as the tears spring to my eyes. I’ve fought them all day.

Tears slide down my cheeks, each one heavier than the last.

Am I making a mistake by not telling him how I feel?

It’s the one question that’s lingered in my mind.

Am I making a mistake ?

But no matter how many pro and con lists I make or how many hours I think about it, I come back to the same answer: If he wanted this, he would have shown me. There would have been some clue or indication that he wanted more than sex.

I felt his kindness and laughter and foolishly, I thought that I could become the main character in the story.

He never wanted the fairy tale and I can’t blame him.

The only person to blame is me for putting hope into a silly, unrealistic dream: that someone like Deon Adams would change his mind because he saw me.

How foolish is that?

To believe that he would change his entire ideology because of me.

By the time Maren and Sawyer check on me, I’m sobbing in earnest behind the fridge.

“Oh, Nathalie.” Maren sighs, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and I thrash out of her grip.

I don’t want her comfort.

I want Deon and Gordie.

I don’t want to have to move out or move on or tell myself that the squeezing in my chest is normal and that it will fade with time when I know that it won't.

I want to be brave enough to face the potential rejection, but I’m not.

“It’s all over.”

None of this is a rational response but I’ve never felt such inexplicable loss before. It’s a grief for a life I’ll never experience but crave so deeply that if I thought I had even a sliver of a shot, I would beg and plead.

I don’t want to have to beg or plead for anyone to love me, to choose me, but if there was anyone I would forgo that rule for, it would be Deon.

“Come sit,” Sawyer says, guiding me to the couch, which is good because I can’t see anything . My glasses are fogged from the tears. “Deep breaths.”

I rip a ragged inhale into my lungs, trying to staunch the tears. This is supposed to be a fun night, not a Debbie Downer event where I cry over a man who never once indicated that he wanted more, but I fell in love with him anyway.

“D-Do you think he’ll let me visit Gordie after it’s all over?”

Sawyer and Maren exchange a glance, probably trying to determine how to handle my breakdown.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to see Gordie whenever you want,” Sawyer says gently, squeezing my hand.

“I feel so silly,” I admit. “For falling in love with him.”

“Why?” Maren sits on the other side of me, extending a box of tissues.

“Because I want him to love me back.”

That’s the truth of it.

More than anything, I wished he loved me back.

A sharp inhale is the only sound in the room before Maren disappears from the room and returns with a bundle of fur in her arms.

“He was sleeping in the crate, but I think you need this.” She passes the small puppy into my arms and he squirms, settling against my chest. “Jack and I are trying to get him comfortable with the crate, but screw that. Ragnar is the best cuddler and you need that right now.”

I hold Ragnar tightly against my chest, savoring the warmth and love radiating from the small puppy.

“I do feel a bit better,” I say as the small ball of fur begins to wake up, gentle eyes cracking open. After a deep yawn, he leaps from my grip and bolts toward a basket full of toys, grabbing one and thrashing it violently back and forth.

Well, that was a rapid change of personality and a testament to the accuracy of his name.

While Ragnar entertains himself, Maren and Sawyer debate on what movie to watch and my eyes grow heavy from the tears, from the energy I’ve sucked dry to keep myself standing.

I make it twenty minutes through Shrek 2 before my eyelids flutter closed and I drag myself into the guest room, flop onto the bed and fall into an unrestful sleep, chalked full of dreams where Deon is mine and not someone I’ll never have.

My phone dings and I snatch it, heart in my throat, hoping it’s Deon.

We barely spoke yesterday morning before I left. It was odd and uncomfortable and my eyes were brimming with tears every time I looked at him.

Declan: How’s the sleepover?

Fine.

That’s not a promising review.

I cried in the refrigerator.

Uh…What?

You can come over if you want. We’re eating breakfast.

My emotions are still volatile though, as a warning.

Can’t. I’m busy.

But check Maren’s front porch.

I break out in a full sprint to Maren’s porch, concerned and confused questions from Maren and Sawyer fading away as I swing the door open and find a massive box perched in the corner to protect from the freezing rain.

I drag the box into the entryway and slam the door shut to keep in the warmth.

“What is that?” Maren asks, toeing the box.

“I don’t know.” I search the outside of the box, looking for any clue, but it’s annoyingly plain. “Declan texted me and said to check the front porch…”

I trail off when I clock the excited smiles on Maren and Sawyer’s faces. Maren lifts the box from the floor, like it doesn’t weigh a ton, and drops it in the living room.

“Open it.”

There’s something I’m missing and my hands begin to tremble.

“What’s in the box?” I ask, trepidation in my voice. “Is something going to pop out at me?”

This could be a prank to try to get me to laugh, but if something pops out right now, I will lose it and go full She-Hulk.

“Open it,” Sawyer prods, handing me a pair of scissors, and I shakily cut the tape.

The flaps of the box lift and I gasp, immediately recognizing the pattern on the inner box.

“I won?” I sure as hell hope that I didn’t pay the outrageous price I wrote down for the expensive pots and pans. It was more than my monthly rent. My bank account looks no different when I check.

The box holding the high-end cookware is heavy and I awkwardly pull it out, only to find another box beneath it, slightly crushed.

I guess I opened it the wrong way.

I flip the top of the box and my chest heaves unevenly.

It can’t be…

“What’s going on?” I ask, the question shaky, as my brain tries to process the box of macarons beneath two plane tickets to Paris and the ten-day stay at the boutique hotel I jokingly bet on.

Sawyer’s eyes are shiny, but her smile is bright. She swipes at her eyes and my stomach plummets.

“Maren? What is this?”

I can’t catch my breath as Maren packs the items back into the box and hauls it up. “I think it’s time for you to go home.”

“I-I’m not ready.”

I scramble away from the door, so fucking confused that I might burst into tears—again. Where did the cookware and tickets come from? Why is Sawyer crying and Maren insisting I go home?

I’m not ready to move out of Deon’s home.

I’m not ready to say goodbye.

With a gentle hand on my bicep, Sawyer ushers me to the door and into Maren’s car.

“You’re ready,” Sawyer says gently, “We promise.”

Maren cranks her car into park and my body ricochets forward, bobbling around. I’m settling when the door is ripped open and I’m being dragged out of the car and onto the front porch of Deon’s home.

“What the fuck is happening right now?!” I yell, flailing my limbs and Sawyer and Maren each shove my back, causing me to stumble forward.

Are they serious right now?

I’ve never been upset with my friends. They’re both kind, each in their own way, but right now I’m super pissed.

Today is hard for me and this is how they’re going to behave? Is this some kind of tough love?

Shoving me in a car, nearly giving me a stomach ache from Maren’s erratic driving, and then dropping me on Deon’s front porch is not what I would consider a good friendship.

Maren and Sawyer are sprinting to the car and I begin to chase after them, fume escaping from my ears.

“You two are being real shit—”

A deep cough stops me from finishing that insult and I spin, locking eyes with Deon, who is standing on the porch, hands in his pockets.

“See ya later!” Maren screams out her window as they drive off, leaving me stranded in Deon’s driveway.

They are each going to receive a long, thought-out paragraph text message later, outlying my disappointment. This is not how friends treat other friends. Especially not when they’re on the brink of emotional turmoil in the form of irrevocable heartbreak.

“They were supposed to help me move out,” I say sheepishly as Deon stands on the porch.

His eyes rack my body and I shiver, though it’s not from the January chill.

“Will you come inside?”

Deon outstretches a palm, patiently waiting for me to make a choice.

Taking his hand feels like a catalyst to a series of events I can’t change, good or bad, I’m unsure, only that if I go inside, nothing will be the same ever again.

“Please,” he prods, eyes pleading.

The pots and pans and plane tickets to Paris. The erratic behavior of my friends. The connections begin to fall into place and my heart trembles.

“Deon, w-what is this?” I ask, unbidden tears springing to my eyes.

With a smile that could brighten the darkest of nights, Deon responds. “This is my grand gesture.”