Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(79)
Jonathan’s eyes widen as he turns his entire body toward me. “Tell me everything,” he says.
“I will. I promise. But I haven’t been up this late since I was nineteen and don’t think I have enough energy to make it up to my room, let alone do a full debrief.” We sprawl out on the couch so that we’re both lying down with our heads on opposite ends. My feet are pressed up against his chest while his extend far beyond my head.
When I close my eyes, I think about kissing Matthew, lulling myself to sleep the same way I used to when I was younger. If he ever does decide to kiss me, I only wish that twelve-year-old Phoebe could be here to see it.
* * *
—
By the time I wake up in the morning, Matthew has booked a flight back for next weekend.
24
Monday
(Nine Days Left)
Jonathan had to have some hard conversations over the weekend.
The first of them took place on Saturday night, when he came out to our friends. Their reactions were pretty much in line with what I had anticipated. Meg said all the right things. Nora wasted no time asking for sexually explicit details. Alex needed to be consoled.
“It’s gonna be okay.” Jonathan patted his back.
“It’s not,” Alex moaned like he was in pain. “All the guys at gay poker are going to want you. Hot Craig, Dante, Regular Craig.” He threw his head into his hands in resignation. “Just when I thought I had a shot with Regular Craig.”
“I’m not going to join gay poker,” Jonathan assured him.
“WHAT?” Alex’s head shot up. “You have to join gay poker!”
Jonathan managed to deflect all of Nora’s inappropriate questions by feeding me to the wolves. “Phoebe is seeing someone!” he said.
“Hey!” I hadn’t planned on telling anyone about Matthew until I was sure that Jonathan had his moment. Three pairs of confused eyes blinked at me, waiting for an explanation.
“Did something finally happen with Finn?” Meg asked, blissfully unaware.
Jonathan and I exchanged a look. “Turns out he wasn’t the one for me,” I said, and I left it at that. At Jonathan’s insistence, I ended up telling them all about my night with Matthew.
By the time I finished, Alex was folded over himself with his head hanging between his knees. “I really am so happy for everyone,” he insisted, his voice so high-pitched I was worried it would break my wineglass.
“Oh, by the way, Alex. Jerry asked if you were single.” This at least managed to get him upright again.
Once everyone cleared out, Jonathan went over to Finn’s. I expected him to be out for the night, but he came back only an hour after leaving, looking defeated.
“Finn’s not coming out anytime soon,” he said with a sigh, running his hand through his hair and pulling at the ends.
“So what are you gonna do?” I asked.
“Take some space, I think.”
I frowned. “I’m sorry, J. I know that’s not what you wanted.” After giving him a sympathetic hug, I walked over to the TV and queued up the only movie I own on demand: Grease.
“Don’t be,” he said. “At least I got some clarity. And I feel sadder for him than I do for me; I’m glad he’ll have you at work. Speaking of…” He grimaced slightly. “He knows you know everything. He freaked out just a little.”
“Oh, good,” I deadpanned. “Monday should be fun.”
* * *
—
Monday has not been fun.
Finn is avoiding me, and he couldn’t be any more obvious about it. He won’t make eye contact. Every time I start in his direction, he quickly moves to the opposite end of the playground.
Please! I want to yell from across the way, but I know I should let him be.
At lunchtime, Finn collects his class and leads them up the hill to their classroom. I try waving as he passes. Nothing.
“Trouble in paradise?” Cheryl teases, sneaking up behind me.
“Something like that,” I mumble.
* * *
—
I’ve just finished setting up the classroom for tomorrow and I’m about to pack up my tote bag for the day when I hear a knock on the classroom door.
“Hi.” Finn leans against the doorway with a nervous expression on his face. It’s hard to believe that the first time I ever saw him, standing in that very same spot, wasn’t even a month ago.
“Finn.” I rush toward him anxiously, coming to an abrupt stop when I reach him at the doorway. “Hi.”
He walks past me into the classroom, circling the four small tables that make up our lunch area until he chooses one to sit on. He runs his palm down the length of his face as he looks at me apologetically. “I’m sorry for being a dick today.”
“You weren’t a dick.”
“Yes, I was,” he insists. “You didn’t deserve that. You’ve never been anything but kind and helpful to me.”
I sit down on the table next to him. “It’s really okay,” I tell him. “I completely understand.”
We sit there in uncomfortable silence.
“You know.” I clear my throat, preparing to say something that I’ll probably regret. “This whole time I had convinced myself that we”—I gesture between the two of us with my pointer finger—“had something going on.”