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*****
After peeling myself off the floor some twenty minutes and a bucket of tears later, I grab my phone charger and set about getting my phone in working order. Once my phone has been charged, I send Amy an essay text message outlining my encounter with Oliver and the emotional damage it inflicted on me. Amy sends back a crying face emoji, letting me know she is too busy at work to deal with my trauma. At this, I throw my phone back on my bed and head to the bathroom to shower off the ickiness of the past few hours.
In the shower, while I shampoo and condition my hair several times, I reflect on everything Oliver has said and done over the past weekend, starting with agreeing to be my fake boyfriend in the first place, through to the many public displays of affection, culminating in the mind-blowing kisses. He says it was all real, but if that is the case, why did he leave me to go to Emma? Why, at the first chance to prove how he feels for me, did he let me down like that? And then there is the idea that maybe I am blowing what Oliver did out of proportion. Could Amy be right? Was I being too quick to believe the worst in Oliver, instead of allowing him to be human and make mistakes? Maybe he regretted what happened yesterday and that is why he came here, to clear things up? But could it really be that simple? He was with Emma for almost a year; there must have been something real between them, more real than our weekend of make believe. And Emma is perfect for him. I will do well not to forget that little fact.
With the water running cold and no closer to understanding anything, I turn off the tap and dry myself. Dressing in my softest, most comfortable sweatshirt and pants, I towel off my hair and leave it to air dry. As I catch sight of my now legendary New Year’s resolution to-do list, sitting on my coffee table mocking me, there is a sense of sadness as I focus on number four on the list. The idea of getting over Oliver feels like a lost cause after having a taste of what being with him feels like.
With the chances of ticking off numbers one and two in my sight, I put thoughts of my doomed love life aside and do some work on my Love, Lilly Instagram page, which has been neglected over the past several days. I add a photo of myself taken by Oliver on the weekend, glammed up in the Perfect Dress and caption it, “Lilly in Love (with this dress),” which in no time at all gains a thousand likes and as many comments, and decide in that moment to do an Instagram Live video later this afternoon, to distract myself from the train wreck that is my love life. I plan to do a Love, Lilly lesson: how to bake, breakup edition. It seems like perfect timing to me, given that Valentine’s Day has just passed and there may be a few lonely hearts out there waiting to connect with mine. I spend some time looking through my recipe cards before finding the perfect treat to feature in this segment, breakup brownies, which are just brownies that are easy to make in any state of emotional turmoil.
After gathering my ingredients, I attempt to get myself camera ready, which involves some concealer on my under-eye circles (which match the ones Oliver was sporting), some blush to take away the unnatural pallor of my tear-soaked skin, and some lip gloss for confidence. I start my Instagram Live by telling the viewers the purpose of today’s session:
“Hi, friends. Today I am going to show you how to make breakup brownies, which are like my normal brownies but with double the amount of chocolate chips to help take away the pain of love gone wrong. I know we just had the holiday to celebrate love, aka Valentine’s Day, but if there are any people like me out there, feeling unlovable today, know that you are not alone!”
I continue my lesson by outlining how to bring together all the ingredients while staring at my screen and reading the many comments flying in from the viewers. Many are concerned, wanting to know if I broke up with “the hottie from the photo,” with others saying, “Why do you look so sad?” and, “We love you, Lilly!” I keep up a running commentary while I assemble the ingredients, talking to my viewers about heartache.
“It’s like on Grey’s Anatomy, you know? When Derek ‘McDreamy’ Shepherd leaves Meredith to go back to his wife, the perfect Addison Montgomery-Shepherd.” I stop to wipe a tear away. Thinking about that episode in my current emotional state is a recipe for disaster. “And then Meredith has to continue seeing him at work while knowing that he didn’t love her enough to pick her. It was brutal. And given that she was a surgical intern then, she didn’t have the time to bake breakup brownies, but I think she should have,” I continue, putting the brownies in the oven to bake. “Because in a mere twenty-five minutes, when these come out of the oven, all warm and gooey, they are going to be the cure for any pain you are feeling.”
As all the positive comments and emojis pour in, I feel a teensy bit better from the outpouring of Internet love, and once I have completed the recipe, I tell my viewers I will post a picture of the final product once baked and sign off for the evening. After I end the video, glowing a little from the success of it all, I make the mistake of looking at the last picture I posted on my Instagram feed and see that Oliver has commented, “Perfect dress on the perfect girl.” Oh, Ollie, what are you doing to me?
CHAPTER 34
Oliver
As I leave Lilly’s apartment, I am tempted to do the sad guy stroll, wandering the streets, feeling sorry for myself, you know, like they do in the movies. Except in the movies, it is always raining for the heartbroken man, and just my luck. Today is a sunny day. Also, looking around this neighbourhood, I am not sure I or my wallet would make it back in one piece. Lilly really needs to move. So instead, I get in my car and settle in for a long, miserable drive, listening to sad music and lamenting every misstep I have taken in the last twenty-four hours. How am I here? Yesterday morning, I woke up beside the woman I have loved for almost a decade, and we were on our way to being something together, something real. And now we are here, with me behaving like a lovesick fool.
When I woke up this morning, after a restless night of alternating between trying to sleep and trying to call Lilly (still no response), I finally got a few text messages from Amy. The first one cussed me out for being an idiot, well deserved. The second one took pity on me and told me Lilly’s phone battery was dead because someone had her charger (me). And the last one informed me that Lilly called in sick and would be home all day. Thank you, Amy! Now I had an excuse to see her and beg for her forgiveness. Without a second thought, I called in to work and took a personal day, unheard of for me, highlighting how out of character I have been behaving of late, and then I rushed to Lilly’s place. I thought I could fix it. Just explain to her what happened with Emma (not that I fully understand it all myself) and confess my undying love for her. Too much? Perhaps. But I was a desperate man.
When I saw Lilly, with her sad, teary eyes and red nose, I wanted to kick myself. Hard. I did that. I made her cry. And for what? An attempt to keep the peace and be the good guy? I was hoping for just a couple of minutes to explain my actions and was blindsided when Lilly refused to hear me, refused to even look at me. And then she gave me the knockout blow: “It’s OK, Ol. I know we were just pretending this past weekend.” I don’t know where Lilly’s head is at. Does she really believe that after the weekend we spent together, that I would just skip back into my relationship with Emma? Was I not clear about the way I was feeling about her? Did she think I was just pretending? Was she just pretending?
With these thoughts swirling around my mind—could it be true, could Lilly have just been caught up in the moment and was trying to let me down gently?—I drive past the local bar and decide to embrace this new, reckless side of my character and park in front. A beer or two at lunchtime sounds like the ticket to getting through this day. I pull up a bar stool and order a local brew, waiting impatiently for the numbing effects of alcohol to kick in. Unfortunately, luck is not on my side today (first the sunshine and now the propensity to remain sober), and it takes more than several beers and several hours to feel OK again. As I hear my phone ping, I dive for it. Lilly? No, just Dale. Dale, the traitor who tried to flirt with Lilly. Do I like Dale?
Dale: Hey, bud. I heard you are off sick today, are you OK?
Oliver: Nope.
Dale: What happened? Where are you?
Oliver: Lilly happened. Drinking now.
Dale: Where exactly are you drinking? I will come and get you.
Maybe Dale isn’t so bad. I text him the address, my bleary eyes making this task take longer than necessary, then sit back again and order another beer.
Twenty minutes later, Dale walks in. Dressed for work. Work, where I should have been today. Where I need to be to get ahead in life. Where I would have been if I hadn’t made a mess of everything. Boy, I am a depressing drunk.
“Hey, dude, are you OK?”
“Sure, never better,” I slur back. I am not OK.
“What happened? Last I heard, you and Lilly were off for a romantic weekend of fake dating.”
I groan as I put my head on the table and tell him everything. Dale, being a good friend, orders a beer and sits back to listen to the whole sordid tale.
“And then she asked for some space, and I know I should respect that, but I just want to call her and beg her to listen…,” I finish up.
“Man, that is quite the story. I can understand why you are here, day drinking. But I don’t think all is lost. Sounds like you have hurt Lilly and she needs a minute to lick her wounds. Give her the space she needs and then try again.” Dale is wise. He is like Yoda.
“You think?” I ask, desperate for some hope. “OK, I will give her a few days, and then I will fight for her.”
