Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(87)

I want to, desperately, and we’ve gotten close on a few occasions. But each time, my hands got a little too clammy and my breath started coming a little too unevenly and Matthew noticed. He didn’t comment on any of it. Instead, he wordlessly pulled me into the crook of his arm and started spouting off random facts about the construction of the Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica Pier or the oldest living shark in captivity. By the time he finished talking, I could breathe again.

And now he’s leaving. And I feel like I am going to die.

I pick up his overflowing bag and dump all his clothes out onto my bed. He’s been throwing them into the bag like it’s a laundry hamper, and everything would fit better if it was folded. I shake out the last of his socks, and an envelope falls out on top of them. My name is scrawled across the front.

“Oh!” He bends down to pick it up. “I almost forgot. This is for you.” He places the envelope in my hands. “For your birthday. It’s nothing, really.”

I don’t even have time to start crying again before he snatches the envelope out of my hands. “Actually”—he scratches his neck nervously—“it’s dumb. I’ll get you something else.” He shoves the envelope back in his bag.

“I can’t believe you got me anything at all,” I confess with a shaky voice. “I already love it. Give it to me on Wednesday. On my actual birthday.”

He frowns. “I won’t be here.”

“But what if you were?” I shrug optimistically. “When’s your next shoot that you have to be back in New York for?”

He takes his phone out of his pocket to look at his calendar app. “Thursday night.”

“Stay until then.” I look up at him pleadingly through my lashes. “Please?”

He takes a step forward and puts his arms around my shoulders. “Are you sure? I don’t want you getting sick of me. And you have work.”

“I will never get sick of you. And I’ll be home every day by three thirty. Three fifteen if I’m speeding.”

He begins typing something on his phone. My heart does a flip when I see that he’s on the American Airlines app. “Okay.” He slides the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll stay.”

I pull his face down to mine and thank him in between kisses. He lowers me onto my bed and I silently thank whatever higher power brought us together not once, not twice, but three times. First in high school, then on Hinge, and finally, after I refused to listen to the universe the first two times, at Jamie’s wedding. I kiss him deeply, dizzy with excitement and gratitude, until something white hot and ugly begins coursing through my veins. I pull away.

“When we matched on Hinge,” I start. “Had you…Did you…What were you doing on there?”

His brows draw together in confusion as he looks down at me. “What do you mean?”

“Like”—I wiggle out from under him and sit up against the headboard—“were you actively going on dates?” A vision of Matthew at the Santa Monica Pier with another girl pops into my brain, and suddenly, I think I’m going to be sick.

“No.” He shakes his head. I let out a shaky, relieved breath. My nausea slowly begins to subside. “I only downloaded it because I was going through a bad breakup and…”

I can’t hear a single other word he says over the buzzing in my ears. I lie down on my pillow and stare blankly at the ceiling.

“Phoebe?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Are you okay?”

I close my eyes.

“Phoebe.”

I turn myself onto my side to face him. “The thought of you with another girl just made me need to puke,” I admit. “Sorry. I know that’s not rational.”

He smiles sympathetically. “Let’s talk about something else, then.”

“No, I can handle it.” I prop myself up on my elbow. “What’s her name?”

“I don’t remember,” he jokes.

“Just tell me and then we can move on forever.”

He eyes me apprehensively. “Anna.”

“Anna.” The name tastes like ash on my tongue that I want to spit onto the floor. “That’s really pretty.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” he assures me. “That’s been over for a long time.” His words do nothing to comfort me as a million different questions race through my head. How long were they together? Is she prettier than me? Was he in love with her? What is her record crossword time? Suddenly, I need a twenty-page single-spaced report on every girl Matthew has ever spoken to.

Intrusive visions of him splitting a corn dog with a tall skinny blonde fill my head.

What is happening to me?

Once I found my Matthew, my life was supposed to be free of nauseous pits and intrusive thoughts. So why do I want to throw up right now?

I roll over into his side and groan. “Tell me something to distract me.”

“Hmm.” He mindlessly traces shapes along my back. “I can tell you about Jamie’s wedding.”

“I was there,” I remind him. “I can’t hold it against you for forgetting that, though. I was pretty reserved that night.”

He laughs with his entire body. I want to make him do that a million more times. “Yeah, of course you were there, but don’t you want to know what was going through my head that night?”