It’s right in a general sense, and all wrong in the particulars.
A steady partner. A family. Good friends to take trips and share boozy brunches and throw Halloween parties with. A home.
But I don’t want Peter’s too-big house, whose mortgage doesn’t have my name on it.
And I don’t want Peter’s friends, who don’t care about me.
And as much as I’d dreamed of being a part of Peter’s tight-knit family, I realize now I’d also never cried in front of them, never complained about work or opened up about how hard I found it to trust new people. I’d never even used a curse word in front of them. Their perfection hadn’t drawn me in—it had intimidated me. I spent our whole relationship auditioning, the same way I always feel when I’m with Dad, praying I’m doing enough to make the cut.
And I’m not sure why I wasted all that time and energy, because when I think about family—that thing I’d always longed for—it’s never been a Norman Rockwell painting that I picture.
It’s me and Mom, on the couch, eating microwaved corn dogs while Dial M for Murder plays on TV. It’s running out from the library at night to her car, a greasy box of Little Caesars pizza in the passenger seat, her joking, I thought we’d do Italian.
It’s being pulled away from watching the frost melt on the living room window to make stovetop hot cocoa from a packet, and that last tight hug at the end of the airport security line, and packing up cardboard boxes, knowing I’ll always have what I need, no matter how much I leave behind.
My life, five months ago, was picture perfect, but it wasn’t the picture I wanted.
And I don’t want him.
I’m totally over him.
If any part of me had wondered whether this thing with Miles was just a distraction, a rebound, or an act of vengeance, that part is brutally dispelled.
Because even now, in my misery, no part of me jumps at the chance to go back to how things were before.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” I say. “I don’t want that.”
His voice wobbles. “You can’t mean that, Daph.”
“I do,” I whisper.
The corners of his mouth twitch downward. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am, that these are ironic last words for our relationship.
It takes him several seconds, several nods and throat-clears to regain control.
Then he starts toward the door. My hosting gene kicks in and I follow, walk him out of my home and life.
He opens the door and steps into the hallway, but he doesn’t leave. Instead he stands there, maybe considering a Hail Mary, or maybe a fuck you.
Finally, he faces me. “If you need someplace to stay, you can come home while you’re looking. I’ll take the couch.”
He reads the blank expression on my face, and I see a flicker of something like smugness in his not-quite-smile.
“They’ll get back together,” he says. “You know that, right?”
I stare at him, determined not to say anything, even as a sinkhole opens in my low belly, everything collapsing as it falls through.
“He already spent all day helping her move her shit out,” he says.
“What?” I don’t mean to give him the satisfaction; it just slips out. And he pounces on it, almost smiling.
“Yesterday,” he says. “Like five minutes after we ended things, he’s there, moving her out. You honestly think they’re done with each other, Daphne?”
I tuck my elbows against my sides to keep from shaking.
To hide that my insides feel like a hurricane. Not the calm eye of a storm, but the vicious edges, tearing everything to shreds.
He’s wrong. He has to be.
Even if he’s not, it doesn’t matter.
That’s not why I’m not getting back with Peter, though I now understand that’s what he thinks.
That I’d never turn him down unless there was someone else. That I’d always rather be with someone than by myself, even if that person is completely wrong for me.
Even in this bleak moment, I feel a spike of something cool and bright.
Hope, or relief, or a tiny tendril of joy, the thinnest silver lining of a jet-black cloud. Because he’s wrong.
I don’t want to be a part of the wrong we. I’d rather be on my own, even if it hurts right now.
Someday I’ll be okay, someday.
“Goodbye, Peter.”
I shut the door.
OceanofPDF.com
32
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 7TH
10 DAYS
I should’ve checked the weather before I left for work on Wednesday. But when I heard Miles moving around his room, I ran for the front door.
I didn’t have the time or energy for a serious conversation.
So I left. Without car keys, or a jacket, or an umbrella.
At the library, things were a bit less frosty between me and Ashleigh. Her curt politeness feels even worse. We’ve fully reverted to coworkers.
And now I’m walking home in pouring rain, even though she offered me a ride, because I didn’t want her to feel obligated.
I stop at an intersection, and a soft-top Jeep flashes its lights, signaling that I can cross.
I dart to the far side of the street, managing to stomp through three oily puddles in the process.
As I’m passing the car, it honks, and I jump, readying myself for a debaucherous catcall.
The window slides down and the driver leans across the passenger seat.
A messy head of dark hair. An upturned nose. A scruffy face that makes my heart feel like it’s been double-bounced on a trampoline.
“Thought you might need a ride,” Miles says.
All I can think to say is, “Did you get a new car?”
“Long story,” he murmurs. “Tell you on the way?”
I don’t want to be furious and devastated. I want to be indifferent and dignified. It’s hard to be either with sewer rat hair and mascara streaks to your jaw.
“You can just take me to Cherry Hill and I’ll get a cab,” I say awkwardly, climbing in. “No need for you to be late to work.”
My teeth instantly start chattering from the AC. Miles turns the heat knob all the way up, the windshield fogging at the edges where the wipers can’t reach.
“They won’t be slammed yet,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not worth getting in trouble,” I say.
At a red light, he looks over at me. “I was trying to meet you at the library, but there was an accident on Tremaine.”
I focus on the world of blue, green, gray outside the windows, keeping him safely in my periphery. “Thanks anyway.”
“Daphne?”
“Hm?”
He pulls to the curb. “Can we talk for a minute?”
Our eyes tentatively meet. I look away, stomach dropping when I spot the taffy-green cottage two houses down, like a cruel joke: You thought you could be different, want something different, but you’re you.
“Daphne,” he says quietly. “Can you look at me? I want to apologize to you.”
“For what?” My gaze judders back.
“You know what,” he says.
“I don’t,” I say. “All I know is, I waited an hour for someone who didn’t show up. The rest—why you totally disappeared for twenty-four hours—that’s just a guess.”
A guess loosely drawn by Peter, in the most painful way conceivable.
“So if you want to apologize for something,” I say, trying to lean into the anger, away from the ache, “you’re going to have to explain what it is, exactly, that you did.”
