Page 35

MARLOW

By Monday morning, I’m convinced there isn’t a drop of moisture left in my entire body.

It’s all leaked out of my eyes and – if we’re being honest – my nose, which is painfully raw from constant blowing and blotting.

My eyes are so puffy they might as well be swollen shut.

And my stomach is doing nervous somersaults because I know that I’ll see Ryan today and I still don’t know what to say to him.

I’m not sure if there is anything that I can say to ease the hurt of this situation.

All I can do is hope that in time I can find a way to coexist with Ryan without bursting into tears every time I see him at work.

As much as I am dreading seeing him for the first time after our breakup, something even worse happens: I don’t see him. Not once all day.

Or the day after that.

Or the day after that.

And so it goes all week.

Every time someone says his name, it sends my heart flying up into my throat. When I reflexively look up and don’t see him standing in front of me, my heart makes the long, slow crawl back down into my chest.

I know he’s around, somewhere. His personal truck has been parked outside every day, while his work truck is noticeably absent. My best guess is that he’s relegated himself to fieldwork in hopes of avoiding me until I either get a new job or move away.

Trust me, I’ve considered both options. My browser history is littered with job openings that I know I’ll never actually apply for because, even though I ruined things with Ryan, I like my life here in Gatlinburg.

I love my job and the friends that I’ve made and even my weird little apartment that always smells like freshly baked bread.

And if I move away, I’ll have to accept that things are really over between us, which is proving harder to acknowledge than I would have ever imagined.

Emmett catches me in the break room on Friday afternoon and asks if Ryan and I are going to happy hour. Apparently, the news of our breakup hasn’t yet reached the rest of the station. I shrug and say that I’m not sure if I can make it, ignoring the other half of the question entirely.

On one hand, I want to go if only to catch a glimpse of Ryan. It’s selfish. He obviously doesn’t want to see me. But my heart is still in need of something from him. Closure, maybe…even if it comes in the form of seeing him with someone else. Or with her.

When five o’clock rolls around, I’m nearly set on going to happy hour with everyone.

I follow the others out of the building, but when I see that Ryan’s work truck is already parked back in its spot and his personal truck is missing from the parking lot, I change my mind.

He won’t be there, and I shouldn’t be there either.

Instead, I make a beeline past the bar and straight to my apartment. My after-work yoga routine has been replaced by my new routine of eating day-old German pastries for dinner while standing in my kitchen. After that, I’m pretty much biding my time until it’s a reasonable hour to crawl into bed.

Tonight, that routine is interrupted by a knock on my door. I assume it’s Olga, who seems to sense my inherent need to stuff my face with carbs and sugar these days, but I open the door to find Abby standing there instead.

“What’s going on?” she says. It’s not a casual greeting so much as an interrogation. Before I can step out of the way, she’s already inside my apartment.

“Um, hi,” I say.

“Nope. You had your chance to say hi during any one of the hundred text messages and phone calls that you’ve ignored from me this week.

The only reason I haven’t shown up here sooner is because you happen to work with my husband, who confirmed that you are in fact still alive.

And after no less than eight thousand follow-up questions, I also managed to deduce from him that something weird is going on between you and Ryan. ”

“Hunter said that?” I ask, surprised that our boss, of all people, figured that out.

“Of course not. You know how he is – he’d rather rub a pissed-off skunk on his face than get involved in other peoples’ relationships.

But he did say that Ryan has been avoiding the office all week.

Between that and the fact that you’re obviously avoiding my calls, I figured that something must be going on between the two of you. ”

Abby has waddled her way into my kitchen as she berates me for ignoring her, which yes, I am guilty of. She pours herself a glass of water, which she quickly abandons in favor of a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream she finds in my freezer. She takes a large bite and stares up at me expectantly.

“We had a fight,” I say slowly.

“About what?”

I cringe even before the words come out. “Another woman.”

Abby’s eyes grow comically large as she sets down her spoon and abandons the ice cream. “Are you into another woman?”

“What?! No, of course not.”

“Well, then there must be a mistake because I’ve seen the way Ryan looks at you and heard the way he talks about you, and I can’t imagine that he’s even glanced in the direction of anyone else since you two have been together.”

Abby’s words make me crumble a little. The tiny bit of resolve I’ve mustered since the breakup collapses under my feet, making my stomach tilt and my heart tumble.

And, because apparently this is who I am now – I start crying.

My eyes burn as the fresh tears trace the path of all the old ones. A familiar lump lodges in my throat.

Abby rushes to my side, taking my elbow as she directs me to the sofa. Our butts hit the cushion at the same time while Abby circles her arms around my shoulders to pull me in.

“I’m sorry,” she says against my hair, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Normally, you hate all this emotional stuff, so I was just trying to cut to the chase. I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

I straighten up slightly, the set of my shoulders subtly breaking Abby’s hold on me. Her words ring in my ears while their meaning twists and turns in my brain. They intertwine with Ryan’s parting words to me during our fight, leaving an unpleasant taste in my mouth.

“I don’t hate the emotional stuff,” I spit out defensively.

Luckily, Abby takes it in stride and gives me a patient smile before she replies. I can tell she’s choosing her next words carefully.

“I know,” she says after a minute. “I’m just saying that you’re stronger than most people when it comes to your emotions.

You had to cope with a lot more during your childhood than most people have to deal with over the course of their entire lives.

And even though that’s completely unfair, it also made you the most emotionally intelligent person I’ve ever met. ”

A ghost of a laugh cuts through my sniffles, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“You think this is what emotional intelligence looks like?” I ask.

“There’s nothing wrong with crying,” she says, “and there’s also nothing wrong with not crying. You show your emotions less than most people because you’ve learned to deal with them on your own. You don’t need validation about what you’re feeling from anyone else. Most of the time…”

It takes a lot of effort for Abby to reach over her baby bump and pluck the last tissue out of the box on the coffee table. Since the breakup, I’ve been keeping my place well-stocked with tissues and ice cream, but both are running dangerously low. I thought I would be over it by now.

Okay, maybe not over it , but definitely crying less about it.

“And what if I’m second-guessing myself and my emotions now?” I ask as Abby hands me the tissue.

She ponders this for a moment before replying. “Then maybe it’s worth giving a second thought.”

I chew my lip, wondering if she’s right.

“Who was this other woman anyway? Do you need me to kick Ryan’s ass? I could probably take him since he can’t fight back against a pregnant woman.”

I have no doubt that Abby could take him, pregnant or not. The woman survived a literal bullet not so long ago. She may be way smaller than he is, but Abby has a lot of fight in her.

“Bonnie,” I say. “Do you know her?”

Abby scrunches her eyebrows together as if she’s trying to remember something but shakes her head slowly. “Should I?”

“Probably not. She might be an ex of Ryan’s…but who knows with him.”

“Well, what does Ryan have to say about it?” Abby asks softly.

“He has a whole story about how they were just pretending for her sake, trying to make the bartender jealous.”

“Wow, Ryan may actually have more pretend girlfriends than real ones.”

“Right? I’m just having a hard time believing him, and if I can’t trust him, I can’t be with him,” I say.