28. Some Boneheaded Thing

CHAPTER 28

SOME BONEHEADED THING

ABBI

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror as I wash my hands. I see flushed cheeks and tired eyes. I feel so off tonight. Like the world is too bright and too loud.

There was really no need for me to pick a fight with Weston. I don’t know why I lit into him for being a little stunned that I have a job offer here in Burlington. For months I’ve been telling him that I wanted to move to Boston or New York.

But it’s hard to ignore the inevitable. I know he doesn’t want a real girlfriend. I hadn’t expected to change his mind. So it was almost a relief to force the issue.

And—fine—it hurt to hear that I hadn’t been invited to Lauren’s wedding. It’s coming up so soon. My life is happening in fast forward. Graduation is just weeks away. I’m supposed to take one of these jobs and sail into the future.

The future seems scary and lonely, even if I never say that out loud. Even if that’s not Weston’s fault.

“Hey, Abbi.”

I swivel to see Lauren walking into the bathroom, and I’m so tired that it hurts my eyes to move them. “Hey.”

“Congratulations on the job offers. Both of them.”

“Thanks,” I whisper .

“The Vermont one sounds better than the squicky mortgage banker.”

“Maybe,” I hedge. “It’s risky. They’re trying something new.”

“But trying new things is important.” She cocks a hip against the sink. “I know my brother freaked out a little. Weston isn’t good at this stuff. But I think he’s really into you.”

I give a slow blink, because I am just not in the right head space to discuss this with his sister. I think she’s wrong. But I don’t know what to say to shut this awkward conversation down. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She grins. “You already know how ugly things have been for my family. You saw it yourself. The next time Weston does some boneheaded thing, just remember that he’s gun-shy.”

“I’ll try,” I say. “Thanks.”

Then I leave the bathroom and go back to the table. Weston pulls my chair out for me as I arrive. He even gives me a tentative smile. Like he realizes our snit is stupid, and he’s sorry.

He’s so damn polite. He’s such a good guy.

But he’s not my good guy. And I’d better remember that.

Weston is the first to leave the restaurant, because he’s required to arrive at the arena ninety minutes before the game. He kisses me on the cheek and I wish him good luck.

“Come out to the ice cream place with us, Abbi,” Mr. Griggs says. “We can all walk over to the game together.”

“I thought I’d run home and change before the game, and leave my favorite designer bag at home,” I say instead. “Maybe I’ll see you there?”

“We’ll save you a seat,” Lauren assures me.

Leaving them behind, I head home. The February chill slices through me as I walk uphill toward my apartment. Inside, my place is freezing. So I wet the cloth and toss it up onto the thermometer valve again. It’s time to put on a pair of jeans and my Griggs sweatshirt for the game.

But I just don’t feel like it. My head is achy, and my throat is scratchy. Instead, I make a cup of mint tea and climb into bed wearing Vermont Tartan pajamas.

I honestly don’t know what to do about this sudden job offer. They want to pay me a real salary that’s about eighty percent as much as the New York job. With benefits, too. Burlington is cheaper than New York. I could move into a nicer apartment here on a smaller paycheck than I could ever afford in New York.

So it’s a great offer, but I’m still unsettled. I hadn’t pictured my future here in Vermont. I thought I’d escape to a city and start over from scratch. But that’s proving harder than I thought, when every day already feels like starting over from scratch.

Is it a sign of weakness that I’d rather walk into the tiny flannel company every day and see the faces of people who appreciate me? Does that make me smart, or does it mean I’m not ambitious?

I sip my tea, hoping the hot liquid can make me feel less confused. Less shaky and sad.

As the start time of the hockey game inches closer, I just can't make myself get up and go to the game. Thinking about Weston makes my heart ache. He told me he's not a relationship guy. He's always been up front about that. The problem is that I’m not capable of keeping up our fling without wishing for more. Does that make me a cliché? The clingy girl who agrees to be casual and secretly pines to be the one who changed his mind?

How did I let this happen?

I watch the clock. My eyes feel dry and achy. I must be overtired as well as overwhelmed. I’ve got too much on my plate.

Maybe it would be better to end things with Weston right now, on my own terms. At least without him at the forefront of my mind, I can make my job decision with cool, calculated logic. It will be my decision alone. As it always should have been.

Soon the clock tells me that it's ten minutes until the puck drops. So I pick up my phone and begin to compose a breakup text.

Then I delete it. A text is too impersonal. I'll leave him a voice message instead.

My heart thuds with tension as I tap the microphone. “Weston, I'm sorry to snap at you tonight, but I made a decision.” As I pause to choose my words, I feel the first hit of grief. “We should just stop seeing each other now, before it gets too strained. I've had more fun with you than I've had in years, no lie. But there are things I have to focus on now that aren’t super fun. So I'm going to make the difficult choice to do that. There's no point to drawing out the inevitable. Be well and have a great time in the playoffs.”

My throat seems to be closing up, so I'll have to leave it there. I tap the stop button and send the message before I lose my nerve.

And, yup, I’m already sad. When I scroll up, I see the lengthy string of cheery texts between Weston and me.

And I just ended it. Forever.

Ow.

I force myself to lock my phone and set it down on the nightstand. Weston won’t get that message for hours. He’s busy with his team. I can picture him in his hockey gear, his bright eyes flashing as he concentrates on the game.

Now I know the warmth of that gaze when its full power is focused on me. It's more potent than I ever would have guessed. And I’ll feel so chilly when it’s gone.

But what was the alternative? A few more weeks of his loving touch, followed by an awkward parting?

It’s better this way. A clean break.

I slip down into the bed and sigh. Someday I'll look back on this time with joy, though. I'll remember when Weston got me to sing with him in the car on the way to Thanksgiving dinner. And I'll remember those gorilla noises he made as he tried to show me how to ski.

I'll have those memories and they’ll make me smile, without this terrible ache I feel right now, smack in the center of my chest.

That might be a while, though.

Grief takes time. If anyone should know, it’s me.