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“You make compromises in a relationship, Tarryn. That's what a relationship is in case you didn't know.” It was a defensive and condescending response, and I wasn't proud of it. But I didn't care.
“Okay, but where's the compromise in one person getting exactly what they want while the other has to give up something important to them?” she countered, her eyebrows raised with the challenge.
“I can stilltalkto Dylan,” I pointed out to her for the thousandth time. “I just can't see him.”
“So, talk to him.” She reached across the table and nudged my phone closer to my hand. “Text him right now and ask if he's playing any shows nearby. Better yet, ask if he can score you some tickets and backstage passes.”
I could do exactly what she had said. I had his number right there in my phone—a privilege I'd once dreamed of having.
Yet I didn't text him then, and I knew I wouldn’t later.
Despite the fact that his guitar string lived permanently on my wrist, I was further away from him than I'd ever been. I couldn't even listen to their music anymore, knowing the emotions his voice incited. It all felt wrong and scandalous, like hearing him sing was an act of infidelity in itself. How could I possibly attend one of their shows without it feeling like a line I was never meant to cross?
No. It was safer to quit cold turkey, stay away, close the door, and melt the key down to nothing but a memory. And I'd found it was for the better. I was more focused now on finishing my book and finding an editor. I had weighed out my options and decided to self-publish, and while I knew it was going to be more work on my end, I enjoyed the thought of having complete control over my art.
On top of that, there was less doubt and worry regarding my relationship with Peter. I rarely second-guessed why I was with him now without Dylan’s influence clouding my judgment. We were even talking about moving in together. And I knew Dylan would've held me back. He would've been a distraction, a deterrent, and if having him out of my life meant being able to live, then it was for the better. It had to be.
I just wished everybody else would stop bringing him up.
“So, what are you doing tomorrow?” I asked Tarryn, steering the subject away from problematic rock stars and upcoming concerts.
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she plucked another fry from the carton. She was onto me—of course she was. But thankfully, she didn’t ask any more questions, and she didn’t push the Dylan subject further. Instead, she shrugged and chewed like it was a chore.
“Nothing that I know of,” she replied. “I gotta be honest; I’m kinda looking forward to doing nothing for a couple days.”
With the exception of my birthday, Tarryn had seldom gotten time off work since taking the role in the upcoming television series. Between filming, interviews, photo shoots, and various training courses, she had been stretched thinner than a sheet of tissue paper. No amount of love for her job could erase the dark circles clinging to her bottom eyelids, and there wasn’t enough caffeine in the world to keep her running through an entire day without a nap.
I could only imagine how delicious it was to have a few days without obligation. Yet that didn’t stop me from asking, “But what if I asked if you wanted to come hang out at the condo? We could watch horror movies and—”
Her nose wrinkled with a hint of distaste as she replied, “But won’t Peter be there?”
And she says she likes him…
I nodded, dipping a fry into the ketchup. “I mean, yeah, he lives there, so …”
“No offense, girlie-girl, but the idea of being a third wheel to you and your boyfriend doesn’t sound like a good time to me,” she said without apology.
Connor snorted as he lifted the bottle of beer to his lips. “I don’t think there’s anybody on the planet who’d think that was a good time.”
After shooting a glare at my brother, I addressed Tarryn with a plea. “He can hang out in the bedroom. Or I could tell him to invite one of his friends.”
“And set me up?” She snorted and rolled her eyes, allowing them to linger for a second too long on Connor, who was obliviously finishing his drink. Then, she shook her head. “No, thanks. But, yeah, I’ll come over to check out your soon-to-be home sweet home.”
The topic of moving in together had only been brought up a few times and never as a promise for the near future. It was always anif, never awhen, and although we’d already been together for months, I was surprisingly okay with it being a loose possibility as opposed to a definite.
But hearing Tarryn refer to his house as my eventual home made the idea seem more real and serious than when Peter had cleared out a dresser drawer for me. It brought the butterflies in my stomach to a manic hysteria, bumping into the walls of my gut and making me regret ever ordering a large fry instead of a small.
His condo was nice and clean. It was small—only one bedroom and one bathroom—but it was fine as a bachelor pad, and it was certainly passable as a starter home for a couple. We could make it work for a little while, but what would happen when we needed more space? What if my writing career took off and I could use an office? What if we had kids?
God, what if we had kids before any career of mine took off? What if I never had a career at all? How would we afford anything?
These were the questions that kept me up long after Tarryn and Connor left and well into the night. It was my anxiety talking and the pressures of being a disabled person in a relationship with someone able-bodied. They were all things I had never had a reason to think about before, but I thought about them now.
There was a big chance he could end up being the sole provider for our household. The money I received from the government was supplemental, only given to those with nothing else, and if he and I got married, I’d no longer qualify. Would he be okay with that? What if I ended up pregnant and his salary was suddenly spread too thin to afford the condo? Would he want to move his family into his parents’ house or mine?
After hours of tossing and turning, I finally resigned myself to a night of no sleep and put on an episode ofSupernaturalto distract my weary, tortured mind. The Winchester brothers rarely worried about money or where to sleep or what the future held. They lived in the moment, taking each day as it came, and before long, I was jealous of fiction.
But this is what I wanted, I had to remind myself, sounding like an old, broken, annoying record that probably should’ve been tossed years ago. I’d wanted this, and now, I had it. Whatever came next would be a result of having my wish come true, and what kind of ungrateful brat would I be to complain about that?
