Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(39)

Who, who, who?

That’s been the sound of my racing heartbeat since Monday night, and by the time I woke up this morning, I had had enough of it. I couldn’t hear myself think. I decided that the only way to quiet the noise was by choosing only one man to invest all my energy in.

It’s time to pick a lane and stick with it.

Whatever’s been going on with Jonathan, he has Sydney. Thinking about him as anything other than my best friend is nothing but a distraction, and it stops now.

And Matthew…we live across the country from each other. It just wouldn’t make sense. Plus, all the anticipation…it’s another Lucas Johnson situation waiting to happen.

Finn and I live in the same city. With the exception of him not texting me, things are going great. And most importantly, I’ve experienced zero puke-inducing Finn-related panic attacks.

I can’t say the same about Matthew. I had every intention of going through with seeing him this weekend, but every time I tried to picture it, the beginning stages of panic started to appear: my palms would sweat, my mouth would dry up, and the dreaded lump in my throat would form.

Which is exactly why, right before putting my phone in airplane mode, I texted him to tell him that I had canceled my trip.

I haven’t even mentioned Jamie’s wedding to him, so he has no reason to think this trip was more than a casual visit home, a completely acceptable thing to cancel because I wasn’t thinking when I booked this trip during the second week of school.

So that’s exactly what I said to him. I just hope that he’s not too upset with me.

Finn makes the most sense, I remind myself. This is the right decision. It’s for the best.

I let out an audible sigh, closing my eyes and pressing play on Matthew’s playlist. We’ve been exchanging playlists for a while now. The last one I sent him clocked in at just under seven hours. It was an expertly curated collection of my top fifty favorite Broadway hits, accompanied by thirty voice memos of in-depth analysis of each, converted into audio files. He said his favorite was “Without You” from Rent, which made my stomach do a weird flip because I’ve always found it to be one of the greatest love songs ever written.

Matthew’s taste is much more indie than my go-to catalog of show tunes and boy bands, but most of his favorite songs include some form of yearning, which is why I like them. My mind wanders while I listen to a medley of the 1975, the Smiths, and the Kooks, and before I know it, I’m caught up in a fantasy of leaning on Matthew’s shoulder while he strokes my hair and presses a kiss to the top of my head.

Not helpful.

I squash the thought.

This most recent playlist is five hours and thirty-two minutes long—almost the exact length of my cross-country flight. It could very well be a coincidence, but knowing Matthew, I don’t think it is. My chest tightens with guilt. He is so thoughtful, and in return, all I’ve done is lie to him. I don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of this perfect mix of songs. He’d be better off sending them to someone else. Someone who hasn’t canceled on him. Twice. And then lied about the reason. Twice.

I can’t bring myself to listen to anything else, though, so I let the soft crooning of Matthew’s favorite bands lull me into a dreamless sleep.



* * *



—

The list catches my eye while I pack my belongings into my Teacher Phoebe tote and get ready to deboard the plane. It’s sandwiched in between the newest addition to my barf-bag collection and my heatable eye mask, and I spot the task I could easily complete now: Find the cutest guy on the plane to help me with my luggage. Luckily, my spot in 35B serves as the perfect vantage point for scanning potential candidates.

The ginger in the window seat of row twenty-nine would have been a perfectly acceptable candidate had he not stood up the second the fasten seatbelts light turned off. There’s nowhere to go! I wanted to yell. So, not him.

I stay vigilant and watch as others stand to reach for their carry-ons in the overhead compartments.

I find who I’m searching for in 27A.

There he is.

I decide to look past the aviator sunglasses he’s wearing while in an indoor setting and instead focus on the crisp white T-shirt that hugs his back in all the right places, his perfect set of white teeth, and his head of swoopy, dirty-blond hair. He’s more conventionally attractive than I’d typically go for, more Ryan Gosling–esque than my preferred boy-next-door type, but for the purpose of this task, he’ll more than do.

I keep a respectable distance as we follow the signs to baggage claim. More than once I wonder, Could 27A actually be Ryan Gosling? LAX to JFK flights are notorious for celebrity sightings, and it’s entirely possible that Ryan has business to attend to in New York.

I turn off airplane mode, anxious to tell the group about my celebrity sighting. My stomach sinks when I see a text from Matthew.

Matthew:

Aw, man

I can’t say I’m not disappointed

But I get it, I know how much those kids need you!

Why is he so nice to me? I want to tell him to block my number. That nothing will ever come of this. To stop trying. Instead, I send him an invitation to a new game of Words With Friends, because selfishly, I’m not ready to let whatever this is go.

I open the group chat, ignoring the collective line of questioning in regard to a date with Matthew this weekend.