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Doliver stares at me—still—easy smile abandoned, eyes glassing with moisture. His lips shake when they part, but no sound comes out, and I can’t decode what’s going on.
Only that the hum of insects around us is suddenly much too loud in my ears.
And I’ve done something very, very wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, still holding my cheese-less fries. “I got too emotional. I know. I know I shouldn’t talk bad about other people. My ex… He just hurt me a lot. And I know that’s not an excuse to badmouth him, but…”
Doliver shakes his head. “No. Sunshine, no. You’re…” His eyes close, and his grip around his milkshake indents the styrofoam cup. “Don’t worry. You’ve not done anything wrong. You’re right. You’re completely right. I’m sorry something so horrible happened to you.”
“It’s fine.”
A growl laces his words when he replies, “No. It’s not.” Forcibly, he eases his grip on the cup, exhales a deep breath, and gives his head a firm shake. “It’s not fine that someone hurt you. He must be a blithering idiot if he ran from a woman who moved her entire life to be with him. That…that’s sacrifice. That’s love.”
“It wasn’t. My sister says it was desperation. I don’t know if it’s true or if it’s just what it feels like, but with our mother, love comes at a price. A high price. Perfection, really. I thought I found someone willing to love me for less, so, you know? I didn’t move because I loved him even though that’s what I thought at the time. I moved because I wanted to be loved with fewer strings attached.” It’s sour to admit, burning in my mouth like acid. “I ran away so I wouldn’t suffocate beneath the weight of my parents’ expectations. He left because he got everything he wanted out of me.”
Doliver’s milkshake hits the ground, scattering gloopy remnants across the sidewalk. I jump back to avoid the spray and lose a fry.
Jerking my attention to his face, I stop short.
Something feral gleams in his eyes—stern and hard as diamond. Breath barely whispers from his chest. The hand that had been holding his milkshake closes into a shaking fist. Lowly, he says, “Your…ex…he…” Doliver pulls a breath in as he stuffs his fist in his pocket and shakes his head. “No.” He’s practically hoarse. “No. Never mind. I’m sorry, Brittny. It’s late. We should—”
“What were you going to ask?” I whisper.
“I have no right to…”
My mind whirls, spinning down a hundred questions and avenues. I search the barely-restrained pain and anger on his face, trip through topics that wouldn’t be appropriate to mention, and arrive at the most viable conclusion. Sex. “No. We didn’t. I wouldn’t let him.” Pressing my lips together, I draw the rest of the limp fries I’m still aimlessly holding in, offering a soft, “I wanted to get married first. Like…a fairy tale. Or something ridiculous like that.”
“That’s not ridiculous,” Doliver exhales. More composed, he says, “It isn’t. A fairy tale is exactly what you deserve. Something…perfect.”
Perfect.
Perfect is the nightmare that’s haunted me for my entire life. Perfect is the chains that have kept me stumbling through mediocrity ever since my gifted kid moniker ran out. Perfect is a curse. Because perfect isn’t a set definition. Perfection for one isn’t perfection for another, and trying to please everyone’s concept of perfect is too exhausting to handle.
I hate perfect.
Daring to lift a soggy fry to my mouth, I murmur, “I’d prefer something honest and stable. Nothing extravagant. Just someone who promises to be mine and means it.”
Doliver mouths a word I can’t quite make out, shakes his head again, and pulls a weak smile to his face. “Someday, someone will have to see how wonderful you are.”
I laugh. “Oh yeah? Someone will have to?”
He nods, eyes warm, hot, indecipherable, fixed on me. “It’s hard to miss. At least where I’m standing, it’s as bright as the sun.”
Chapter 7
~~~~~~~~~~~~
My memory isn’t that bad, right?
Brittny: Let me know when you want to go mini-golfing! I found a cute place about half an hour away.
It has been three days since I sent that text, four days since the not-date, two days since I started panicking. Maybe it was too forward to text first and impose another excursion on Doliver so soon. Maybe I’m being insensitive by inviting a celebrity somewhere during broad daylight. Maybe the sour way things ended—with me blubbering about how desperate I am to be loved—undid all the niceness of the evening. Maybe I wasn’t helpful, and he was just being polite by not telling me to my face. Maybe he thought over what I told him, figured out he was incredible, confessed to the girl, and is now planning his wedding, so he doesn’t need to play pretend with me anymore.
I was free therapy, and now…
Now he’s ghosting me.
Whatever happened, whatever he decided, whatever he did or didn’t do, I am no longer a required piece of the picture, so he’s not dragging things out. It’s better to quit while we’re ahead. After all, he can’t be practice-dating me and real-dating the girl.
