It’s a relief, not having to pretend everything is perfect for once. Not that my friends and family back home wouldn’t support me if they knew I’ve been struggling. They would. My sister would gently suggest I take some time off to “complete my healing journey.” My mom would offer to let me come home for a little while, just until I get my feet back under me.
But I’ve given them no indication that I’m going through a hard time. In fact, I’ve put all of my effort into convincing everyone I’m living my best life.
Given the circumstances, I don’t think I could pull that off right now, even if I had the energy to try.
“I’ve been better.” I swallow and reach for my water glass, even though there’s only melting ice left. I fidget with the straw. “Things were okay for a while, after Griffin. I went to work for a different label, and I like it there a lot. But I might get fired soon? So that’s a bummer.”
I’ve always hated seeing Tyler frown. He’s such a mellow guy, it just doesn’t look right on his face. “What makes you think you might get fired?”
I let go of my straw and cross my arms. “My boss sat me down a couple of months ago and gave me a list of things I needed to work on before the end of the fiscal year—which is in like two weeks. I’ve tried, but…” I shrug.
Tyler makes a considering noise. “Well, what about life outside of work?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. “Uh, things aren’t going much better in that regard.”
The food was cleared from our table while I was in therestroom. Tyler rests his hand right where Adam’s plate was, fingers tap-tap-tapping while he stares at me, and I know he’s not a prosecutor, but it feels like some kind of intimidation tactic. Like he’s waiting for me to spill my guts.
“Ever since the Griffin thing, I’ve triedso hardto make sure everyone thinks I’m thriving. Especially Iris and my mom. And the more time passes and the worse things get, the harder it is to admit that I’m broke, and that work—the part of my life I’ve prioritized above all my personal relationships and made all these sacrifices for—has been going downhill. So instead I keep faking it, and doing stupid shit like buying my sister the designer wedding gown she had her heart set on, that my mother couldn’t afford.”
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t afford it either. What mattered was that she believed the lie I’ve been cultivating for years now—that I’m successful and that I don’t need anyone’s help.
Across the table, Tyler lets out a slow exhale. “I wish I’d known you were having such a rough go. I feel bad I haven’t been there for you.”
“Well. That’s hardly your fault, is it?”
I have never, not once in all the years I’ve known him, felt judged by Tyler. Not when I went through my phase of refusing to wear a coat out to parties, even when it was in the single digits or blizzarding in the part of Michigan where we attended college. Not even at the height of my social media addiction sophomore year, when I attempted to go viral with a video of me looking like an absolute fool doing a choreographed dance to a song I wouldn’t be caught dead listening to now. He was probably silently judging me, to be fair. But he never made mefeeljudged, and that’s what counts.
All that said, it was very clear he never approved of Griffin. And, like, I get it. In hindsight, I also do not approve of my decision to get involved with the man. I’ve invested a lot of time and money in therapy trying to figure out whether I would’ve been better off if I’d never met Griffin, or at least if I’d never slept with him. I’m still not sure of the answer.
But Tyler visited LA when I was in the thick of it. Right when things were turning bad, but not yet so bad that I was ready to leave. It was sunk-cost fallacy at work.
Unlike me, Tyler was considerate enough to reach out ahead of time so we could make plans while he was in town. I wound up inviting him over to Griffin’s house. I’d been spending a lot of time there, because Griffin wanted me to, and because it was a literal mansion in the Hills, whereas I lived in a run-down one-bedroom apartment in Studio City.
We were hanging out by the pool when Griffin came home. I can still picture his smile while he shook Tyler’s hand, can feel the kiss he pressed to the crown of my head as he draped his arms over the back of my chair. I remember how red his face got a little while later, when I told him I couldn’t come to the dinner he’d sprung on me because I’d made plans with Tyler—plans heknewabout. But we were standing in his kitchen, on his turf, which somehow made it seem like he had a right to tell me I had to cancel, because this was his biggest client, and he wanted me there, needed me there—This is a huge opportunity for you, Eleanor; you’d be an idiot to pass it up.
Holding my ground would only lead to an even bigger fight later, and the prospect of dealing with Griffin when he was that angry had my anxiety spiking. So I backed down, and I let Griffin walk me outside, to where Tyler was waiting bythe pool. I couldn’t tell how much of our argument Tyler had heard, whether he saw it coming when I made my excuses and bailed on our plans. He didn’t get mad, or try to change my mind. He simply told me that we’d catch up again soon.
But then, of course, we didn’t.
It makes me cringe, thinking about how long it took for me to finally accept Griffin was an irredeemable bastard. And cringe harder, being confronted with another lasting impact he’s had on my life.
Shame sits heavy on my shoulders. I shift in my seat, trying to shake it off. “I’m glad we’re getting the chance to reconnect now.”
“Me too,” Tyler says, folding both arms on the table. “Speaking of which, are you ever going to tell me the rest of the story from last night?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let’s start with the sex and then work our way back. Was it good? Adam’s built like a runner; I bet he has great stamina.”
“Holy shit, we did not have sex.” I glance around, flustered by the abrupt change in topic, but no one within earshot seems to care about us. Obviously, we are not the main attraction at this venue. “Nothing happened.”
My gaze drops to my bag. I resist the urge to peek at the photo from the chapel. That kiss doesn’t count.
“You two really aren’t a thing?”
I snort. “God, no.”
“Well, as your wingman—”
