Page 162 of Hate You More

It’s been a ride. It’s been a lot of things, but ultimately, it hasn’t been real.

To be part of Troy’s life in any way is more than I would’ve expected at the start. So maybe being in his life will be enough, because loving him openly—outside of the boundaries we’ve set—isn’t an option. Not for him, at least. And not for me without risks and heavy penalties.

Not without unraveling everything we’ve rebuilt.

A friend. This could be the version of him I get to keep. Something steady and manageable. A place in his life where I don’t ask a lot and I don’t take up too much space. Where I can love him quietly from the fringes as I try not to secretly wish I could have all of him.

I’m not crying as I hit “Send.”

It’s just the dust in this place.

Welp, so much for that version of Clara.

Clara the martyr might have a certain ring to it but there’s no truth in the name.

It’s evening now, and I’m telling myself that I’m not waiting for Troy. That the kitchen light is on only because I forgot to turn it off. That my phone is face down on the coffee table just because, and not because I’m angry with myself for checking it every five minutes to see if it still works.

Troy’s huge TV plays in the background, the sound muted and set to a sports channel I have no interest in as I stare out at the darkness, trying to concentrate on something other than this knot in my stomach. It’s not a nervous reaction. It feels way more violent than that.

Because it’s almost 9:00 p.m., and Troy hasn’t come home yet.

Oh, I know. I’m not his mother. I’m not even really his wife. Except on paper. But it felt like we had a breakthrough this afternoon, and he can’t pick up the phone?

We opened up to each other. Laid some ghosts to rest. Then later in the afternoon, I persuaded myself I could survive just being his friend. Settle for a small place in his life where I wouldn’t ruin everything.

All I can think now is those fucking pheromones must’ve been the slow-release variety, because something made me delusional this afternoon. Sitting at his dining table all misty eyed, ignoring the pink elephant dressed in a frilly tutu, holding a neon sign that read: Clara is delulu. I mean, I told myself I could settle for making over his apartment—make it all nice—before stepping to the sidelines of his life.

What a crock! I would end up ripping out my own hair—ripping out the hair of the first woman he brought home to sit on the sofa with the covers and cushions I chose! If I’m crawling the walls with this kind of intensity because he hasn’t the courtesy to return my texts, then what chance is there of friendship between us?

Zero fucking chance.

I was trying to be gracious—trying to be good. But I’m obviously not that girl.

I love him, but he doesn’t feel the same. And that’s fine (it’s really not fine). He’s kept to his side of the bargain, fulfilled the promises he made. I’m the one who broke the rules, and I guess that’s why I’m angry. But I’m also angry with Troy that he’s failed to communicate his evening plans like a fucking adult!

I blow out a breath. It’s fine. It’s not all about me.

It’s anything but fine as I give in to the impulse to swipe up my phone.