What’s worse than the doubt is the overwhelming feeling of something being missing. I’d gotten so used to seeing Ezra every day, to talking to him throughout, that now that he’s gone, it feels like there is a hole in my life. A big, stupid, blond-haired hole.

I miss him, and that’s the most agonizing part of all this. That the asshole I never should have come to care for could make me miss him this badly.

It’s not a good idea, I’m well aware of that fact as I place my glass on a side table and pull my phone out of my pocket; I’m three drinks in and feeling sorry for myself, and that’s a recipe for disaster. But it doesn’t stop me from finding our message thread. From hovering over his last text while something squeezes tightly in my chest.

Ezra: Don’t miss me too badly today.

My eyes well up, and I swipe away the tears forming quickly, telling myself I’m being stupid. For what, I can’t even say at this point. Am I stupid for still missing him? Am I stupid for accusing him of something that deep down doesn’t feel like Ezra? Or am I just stupid for continuing with this radio silence without even trying to talk to him, cutting him off with no attempt to meet him halfway?

I tap out a text before I can overthink it.

Me: Hi.

I stare at my phone until my vision blurs, and it takes several agonizing minutes for the little dots to appear, several more before he finally sends a reply.

Ezra: Hi.

I exhale shakily, relief flooding me.

Me: How are you?

His answer comes quicker this time.

Ezra: Really? Three days of silence and that’s what you want to ask me?

Me: Yes?

Ezra: Do you still think I went through your things?

Me: I don’t know.

It’s the truth, and right now, with my inhibitions low, I can’t give him anything but.

Ezra: How could you think that I would do that to you, Dani? After everything? I thought you knew me better than that.

Me: I thought I did too.

Ezra: Apparently not well enough.

Me: Ezra…You’ve used some pretty shady tactics in the past. You have to admit that.

The dots dance for a long time, and I bite my lip as I wait.

Ezra: You and I both know how unfair it is of you to throw that at me.

I wince. Deep down I do know it’s unfair. I know how much he loathes having to follow Alexander’s every whim. But I also know that there is a part of me, buried even deeper, that can’t just accept it. Maybe I didn’t even realize it was there before our fight.

Me: But you still do it, Ezra. I know you have a good reason, but can you really say that you wouldn’t purposefully hurt me if Alexander told you to? How am I to know if he found out about us? How do I know he didn’t TELL you to go through my things?

Ezra: That’s bullshit, Dani. you KNOW that’s bullshit.

Me: But I don’t. Maybe that’s why I’m so scared.

I realize it’s true as I say it. Maybe I ignored it before. Maybe I was too wrapped up in the glow of the thing blossoming between us to even realize how terrified I was of being left behind again. Because he would, I think. Leave me behind. If Alexander told him to. And what’s more, knowing what I know about his family, about his mother…could I even blame him?

Ezra: Dani…I would never hurt you. Not on purpose.

Ezra: I care about you too much to even consider it.

A tear slips down my cheek, and I don’t bother wiping it away. My chest hurts, because I want to believe that. I want to tell him to come find me. I want to tell him that we can work this out. That I know he would never hurt me on purpose.

But I’ve been proven wrong too many times before, and in my wine-addled brain…the idea of ending it before it can happen seems better for both of us.

Me: It’s probably better this way.

Me: It would have been a mess between us, you know?

Me: There’s almost no chance it would have ever worked out.

I hold my breath as I watch him typing, tears readily falling down my face now. I want to take the words back even as I type them. Why don’t I do that?

Ezra: Are you saying that because you believe it? Or because you’re scared of even trying?

I consider the question. I don’t think it’s one I can give him an answer to, but if I’m being honest…it isn’t because I don’t know the answer.

Me: I’m sorry about the things I said.

Me: I really am. I overstepped.

Me: But maybe it’s better this way.

The dots appear, then disappear—the pattern repeating over and over for what feels like forever before:

Ezra: If that’s what you really want. I can’t chase you if you don’t want to be caught, Dani.

I choke back a sob.

Me: I’m sorry.

His answer comes immediately.

Ezra: So am I.

I swipe out of the thread and toss my phone on the table near my wineglass, dropping my face in my hands. I’ve spent the last few days burying every emotion I had in regard to Ezra, and now it seems like the dam has finally burst, leaving me a sobbing mess. I want to believe him, I realize. I want to believe that he didn’t do the things I accused him of. Deep down, I think I might already.

But a part of me also believes what I said. That the chances of us working out with so many things weighed against us are slim to none. How could we ever make things work when his mother will always come first? When I couldn’t love him if she didn’t?

I choke on a shaky inhale.

Love?

I can’t—there’s no way that I—

But you do, a more sensible part of my brain whispers. You know you do.

I snatch my wineglass and down what’s left, pushing up from the deck chair with every intention of calling an Uber and getting back to my apartment before anyone can catch me wallowing. I can’t be around people right now. I shove my phone back in my pocket after calling a ride, wiping my eyes as best I can and hoping I can blame the redness that’s surely there on the copious amounts of wine that I’ve had.

My parents and stepparents are still laughing on the couch when I reenter the living room, but my friends are missing.

“Honey?” my mother calls, her brows furrowing as if she’s trying to suss out my emotions from just my expression. Thank God she’s already hammered. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I croak. “Where are Nate and Vera?”

“Oh, I think they said something about grabbing a game from the closet. Do you want to play?”

I shake my head. “I actually think I’m going to head out. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

“Well, okay,” my mother says with a slight frown. “Don’t work too hard, all right?”

I give her my best impression of a smile, but it feels wrong. “I’ll try.”

I head through the kitchen toward the hall so that I can tell Nate and Vera that I’m leaving. The hallway closet where we keep the board games is open, but my friends are missing. Frowning, I move around the open door just to notice the guest bedroom door beside it is ajar, sounds coming from inside. Are they fighting again?