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He huffs a sound that could be a laugh or a scoff. “Do whatever you want, Auden. That’s what you’re doing now, right?”
“What doesthatmean?”
“I just…I don’t…Nothing.”
“Sure didn’t sound like nothing.”
“I just—I just wasn’t expecting to hear you went out with some guy.”
“I went out with mymom—some guyjust happened to be there.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat.
“I didn’t call to fight with you.”
“Why did you call, then?”
Silence. That stretches and expands. “I wanted to talk to you, Denny.”
I bite my bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. This is the problem when it comes to Elliot Reid: he’s heartbreakingly attractive—literally, just ask mine—and he also says things like that to me. But it always ends the same way. He pulls me in further and then I’m just left hanging here, wondering if it will ever end differently.
Spoiler alert: it won’t. That’s what the past few days taught me. I got a glimpse of what being more than his friend would really be like, and it was just as magical as I thought it would be. It also told me that while there are some lines Elliot will blur, there are others he won’t.
“That doesn’t really tell me anything.”
“Like I said—”
“I want to know the things you never said, the things you thought and kept to yourself. Because…I have a lot. There were a lot of things I never said, and I’m sick of not saying them.”
“Auden…”
“You want to be friends, right? We’re friends. I’ll always be here for you. I’ll always support you. But you have lots of friends. Next time you need to talk, call one of them, okay? I need space. Time.”
Another silence. “How much time?”
I have no idea how long it takes to fall out of love with someone. “Just focus on hockey, Elliot. You’re really good at that, remember?” A little bitterness creeps into my voice, which tells me I need to end this conversation—soon, before our friendship takes a hit it can’t recover from.
He hears it. “Nice, Auden.”
I say nothing. Neither of us hangs up. I stare up at the ceiling and tap my fingers against my thigh under the covers, needing to expel some anxious energy. The sheets smell unfamiliar and feel stiff. My hair is still damp, the pillowcase can’t absorb any more water, and the air can’t reach the back strands. I roll over and stare at the curtains.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says.
“I’m not. I wouldn’t change it—any of it.”
“You don’t regret ever meeting me?” There’s a sad, almost ironic note in his voice.
“Of course not.”
“I wouldn’t blame you…if you did.”
“I don’t. I just—”Need to get over you.“Need time.”
“Okay.”
I wish he’d fight me on this. Argue. But he doesn’t, because he thinks it’s what Ireallywant, not just what Ishouldwant; should be brave enough to embrace.
