Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(54)

I look at Jamie, only Jamie, and deliver the rest of the speech without a hitch.





15


Sunday

(Seventeen Days Left)

Sandy once told me that gray areas can feel like active war zones to people with anxiety and OCD. They’re a lawless land, filled with uncertainty, ambiguity, and worst of all, the unknown. My skin crawls at the thought. Swan diving headfirst into the Bermuda Triangle seems more appealing than floundering about in a situation with no clear direction.

In order to function properly, I need clarity. I need a well-defined path forward, or at the very least, limited options. A or B. Left or right. Black or white. Anything else is chaos.

Where do I stand with Matthew? What’s going on with Jonathan? Why isn’t Finn texting me?

My options have begun to overwhelm me.

With only seventeen days to fix the part of myself that has long been broken, I can’t afford to be asking so many questions. I’ve let myself get distracted.

That won’t do.

Now that I’m back in LA, it’s time to focus. I let myself get swept away by Matthew—an error on my part, considering I had already established that Finn is the option that makes the most sense. I have to return to my earlier mindset of picking a lane and sticking to it. It’s time to get back on track, and the first step to restoring order to my brain is letting go of everything that happened in New York. That means, as hard as this is to do, letting go of Matthew.

“So,” Alex interrupts my train of thought, shifting toward me from his end of the couch. I just finished telling him about the wedding. About everything that happened with Matthew. “That explains why you ignored us all weekend.”

I grimace, reminded of the fact that I never answered anyone’s texts. Or Jonathan’s calls.

“Sorry about that.”

Alex has been the one person I wanted to do a full weekend debrief with. He’s the only one who can relate to my romantic plight. The others have it too easy, with no shortage of successful dating experiences under their belts. Alex is the only one I can handle right now.

I don’t need Meg trying to cheer me up.

Oh, Phoebe, I’m sure he still really likes you.

Or Nora trying to pin the blame on Matthew.

There’s clearly something wrong with him.

And I especially don’t need Jonathan telling me to relax.

You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.

All they need to know about the wedding is limited to the texts I sent on my way back to LA this morning.

Phoebe:

Headline: Matthew turned out to be the wedding photographer

and I tried to kiss him in a janitor’s closet.

It’s safe to say I ruined whatever that was.

Moving on.

I can’t bring myself to answer their millions of questions or address anything else that happened over the weekend in our chat. They don’t need to know all the details. Especially when all I’m trying to do is forget them.

“Have you heard from him?” Alex asks.

“No,” I lie.

The truth is, there are two texts from him sitting on my phone, unanswered.

Matthew:

How are you feeling?

Can we talk?

I have no desire to hear what’s sure to be his final rejection. I’m removing him from my mental Rolodex of options on my own terms. Before he has the chance to do it himself.

“Well…” Alex starts, looking off into the distance as if the answer to all my problems is written on the ceiling in invisible ink. I can tell by the determined expression on his face that he’s searching for something comforting to say. Rendering Alex speechless only reinforces how badly I embarrassed myself.

I groan, allowing myself to relive the shame one last time. “Maybe I should go away for a little while.”

“Oooh, like on a trip?”

“No. Like, to prison.”

“Hey.” He scooches closer to me, placing a reassuring hand on my arm. “If getting too drunk at a family function and making questionable decisions is a crime, then I’m doing fifty years to life in a maximum-security facility. At least.”

I let myself laugh, picturing Alex and his theatrics among a ward full of high-profile convicts. Maybe he’ll end up starting a drama program for the criminally inclined. I can see it now, his production of Hairspray where he casts himself as the romantic lead opposite the Runyon Canyon Killer. He’s always been captivated by his mug shot. “I hope we get to share a cell,” I tell him.

“Bunk beds could be fun.” He smiles. “Hope is not lost, Phoebe. There’s still Finn, right?”

Yes.

There is still Finn. A clear, direct path forward, one without any complicated, confusing history attached.

“Exactly. And the next seventeen days are riddled with opportunities for advancement with him.”

Noah’s birthday party is rapidly approaching. I’ve given up on Finn texting me a more formal invitation, and because he did invite me that night at Jeffery’s, I still plan on tagging along with Meg. I’m about to ask Alex what he thinks I should wear, but the sound of a door creaking open upstairs stops me in my tracks. I smile at the thunk, thunk, thunk of heavy footsteps bounding down the steps.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” I tease as Jonathan drags himself over to the couch and plops himself down with a groan.