Ted has been talking at me nonstop for the entire hour we've been here. Not talking to me, at me. My mind drifts as I pick at my lunch, barely tuning in. Is this how my exes felt before breaking up with me? The thought is humbling.
I think back to my first boyfriend, Brian, the first friend I ever came out to in high school. I can still feel the way his long arms wrap around my back, his slightly sweaty basketball jersey pressing against my cheek. Brian was a lot of firsts for me.
I push the memory aside before it can get too vivid.
Meanwhile, Ted keeps going, uninterrupted.
"So, that was basically the entire weekend in a nutshell," Ted says, pausing to take a sip of his soda. "I might get a new wetsuit on Wednesday. Are you even listening to me?"
I blink, jolted out of my thoughts. "I am. You're getting a new wetsuit on Wednesday."
"You're not listening," Ted snaps, slamming his hand on the table hard enough to rattle my iced tea.
I flinch, gripping the edge of the table.
"Honestly, you're a really bad listener," he continues.
"I'm sorry," I say, trying to keep my voice even. "I did zone out for a second, but that doesn't mean I wasn't listening, Ted."
"I don't even know why I bother sharing anything with you," he says, crossing his arms. "You make me feel like everything I say is pointless."
That's dramatic, even for Ted. I roll my eyes before I can stop myself, and a faint smile tugs at my lips.
"Don't roll your eyes like that," he says sharply. "You know I hate it. Quit doing it."
The way he's looking at me, all puffed-up indignation, makes me want to roll my eyes again just to prove a point. Instead, Ifocus on the condensation dripping down my glass, watching it pool on the table.
Ted's like a toddler throwing a tantrum over a toy he doesn't even want. All this drama over a wetsuit and a moment of distraction. My fingers trace patterns in the water droplets, anything to avoid meeting hiseyes. I've seen this side of him before—this pouting, demanding child who needs constant validation—and it never fails to grate on my nerves. Right now, it's all I can do not to push back from the table and walk out.
Lately, our age difference glares, obvious and unignorable. He's twenty-two, and I didn't think that would be an issue at first, but it's becoming clear how much it influences our communication. Or lack thereof.
"Well, I can't get a word in, Ted. Of course I zoned out. You always do this. You keep going on and on about yourself.”
My phone pings on the table next to my hand.
Vince: Hey, dimwit.
Vince: New park has been selected for tomorrow.
Vince: I'm changing it up, keeping you on your toes.
Vince: You never know what you'll get with me.
Andrew: You're pretty predictable, actually.
Vince: Cool.
My phone pings three more times, this time with photos of the park Vince has chosen for tomorrow's run, along with apin droplike I need directions... despite him being the one drivingthe bothofus there. Dork.
I silence my phone.
"Is that Vince?" Ted spits.
I clench my jaw, my patience already thinning. "What does it matter?"
"It matters because he's constantly texting my boyfriend. It's really starting to piss me off, Andrew."
I laugh dryly. "It's not constant. Stop being so dramatic, Ted. Most of the notifications are from the groupchatGary added me to. Everyone's always—"
