I open my mouth to correct him—it was actually ten weeks—but instead say, “At least you were allowed to have your heart shattered in private.”
“Youchoseto go on that show, Nikki! And now you’re choosing it again! So don’t act like the victim here.”
“Iwasthe victim then,” I insist, feeling the anger coating my throat, making it hard to talk.
“Anyway, why does this matter to you? About me and Sarah, or any of it.”
“Why does it matter toyouthat I might be going back onLovedBy?” I challenge.
“Asked you first,” Nate says stubbornly, folding his arms.
I sigh and do the same, hugging my body like I can protect it, even though the pain is on the inside. “It matters because… because—”I’m so frustrated, so at a loss for words. This isn’t how things were supposed to go. Isn’t it obvious why it matters to me? Do I really have to say it? And why does it feel like he’s still holding back, keeping something from me? It’s like there’s this distance in his eyes.
“It matters because this”—I gesture between the two of us—“isn’t working anymore.” My voice is quiet, trembling more than I’d like. “This being ‘just friends,’ or whatever we’re calling it.”
“I don’t get it.” His eyebrows pull together. “You said you wanted to—”
“I know.” I bark out a bitter laugh. “But I lied.”
“Youlied?”
“I didn’t know I was lying when I said it,” I try to explain. “I thought maybe I could handle that—just keeping things casual. Short term. The wayyoulike things. But I changed my mind. Or, I don’t know, I realized what I wanted all along…”
“Which is what, Nikki?” Nate presses.
“I want—I want—” I struggle to find the right words. My head has that stuffy, full-of-cotton feeling, like I’m already starting to suffer the effects of tomorrow’s inevitable hangover. “I want what Mary Moore Musgrove has,” I finally blurt out.
I don’t know how else to say it. The marriage, the kids, the house. Those were all things I thought I’d have by now. And much as it’s been fun to pretend to be this version of myself that is carefree and has no “list” whatsoever, it also hurts. Feels like just another messy thing pushing myreallife further away.
Nate blinks, then frowns, his lips tightening. “Right. You don’t want to fall behind in some bogus, imaginary competition you’ve created for yourself.”
I reel back like I’ve been slapped. “It’s normal to want those things, Nate,” I say, my voice high and brittle sounding. “I’m sorryyou’re so ‘allergic’ to the entire institution of marriage that you can’t see that.”
“You just said we aren’t a good fit,” Nate says defensively.
“Wearen’t,” I hiss.
“Exactly! I’m not the man for you, Nikki, and we both know that. I mean, look, you’re the one who insisted we sneak around, like I was some embarrassment you didn’t want to be seen with. You think I didn’t notice how you looked at me that day we ran into Mary Moore? Or when that flower farmer thought we were a couple? Or just earlier tonight—when you freaked out because you thought someone took a photo of us.”
“That wasn’t—that’s not—” Except, hearing him lay it all out, I can kind of see why he would feel that way, given how I denied any connection between us at every turn.
“I was just being protective of my privacy, not wanting the outside world to get in and ruin our little bubble… And okay, maybe I’ve been holding you at arm’s length, but you seem determined to see me as someone who’s completely heartless and image-obsessed, and it’s hurtful. I’ve dealt with enough people seeing me that way; I don’t need one more.”
“I mean, aren’t you—a little bit? Isn’t ‘image-obsessed,’ like, the definition of a pageant girl—someone who, I don’t know, prances around for attention or whatever, looking for praise for what amounts to the shallowest parts of themselves?”
“Wow.” I’ve been called cruel things many times; hell, I’ve dealt with mean girls all the time. But this hits different. His derision stings.
He seems to clock the shock on my face, and his softens, just a little. “Look, I don’t mean you’re shallow. I know there’s more to you than that. But you’re about to go home to LA and your big,beautiful life and I’m going to go home to my much simpler, much quieter one, where I’m with the people who don’t think less of me because of it.”
“Nate—I don’t. I don’t think less of you for it.”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. We had fun for a little bit there. Now it’s time to clean up our messes and move on, I guess.”
“Fine,” I rush to say. Even though this is one of the more gut-wrenching moments of my life. Even worse than the last time I put my heart on the line only for Aaron to come along and pulverize it.
I start to push my way outside and see that it’s still pouring rain. I hesitate and turn back. My heart is breaking, and it shatters even more when he pauses, staring at me, and then grabs his rain jacket and places it on my shoulders.
It’s all I can do not to cry. All I want to do is curl up on Nate’s bed and stay here until the storm ends and take everything we’ve just said back. But I know I can’t. Because Nate is right. At some point, I need to leave the lake and return to my real life. You can try to shut out reality, but it always rears its ugly head eventually. And the reality is: Nate and I want different things. I have to accept that.
