It’s fine. You’re fine. This is fine. Usually, this mantra pours concrete over the fresh green shoots of my feelings, but this time, it’s not working. I love Brad Graeme. And I am not fine at all.
The white chips of stone beneath our feet crunch with every step. Trees as tall as ten of us stand solemnly to each side. We take one of the path’s winding bends and I look down the jagged face of the hill toward our campsite. How far away are we? How many bends and silent, knowing trees will we pass before I can slip into my tent and cry in peace?
“Here’s the thing,” Brad says, then breaks off with a nervous exhalation that clouds in front of us. I look down to see his fingers tapping against his thighs, one two three four five six seven eight.
“God,” he mutters, “just say it. Okay. Okay.” He stops walking and turns to look at me.
But I can’t let him leave me first. “I think we should stop.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Stop. You know.” I nod at the space between us and grit my teeth, imagine them rattling with each panicked thud of my heart. “This.”
Brad blinks some more, like his glasses have suddenly stopped working. His eyes are huge and dark and endless. “I don’t…” He presses his lips together, then lets them part. I wonder if he knows what a torturer he is. “You mean…we should stop…seeing each other?” Now the blade of his jaw, his cheekbones, stand out as harsh as the cold. His dimple is nowhere to be found.
I force a laugh but it’s more like a bark. “I mean, we were never seeing each other—”
“You know what I mean.”
“What are you looking at me like that for?” Because instead of relief—I just made it easier for him, I just broke my own heart like the excellent friend I am—Brad looks…devastated. Gaze pained, mouth sad. I know that expression well.
Not on him, though. I don’t want to see this on him. My nest of snakes seethes and writhes and I have the sickening feeling I’ve done something very wrong.
You’re avoidant.
Brad’s throat bobs as he swallows. His jaw shifts and his nostrils flare.
I wish you would trust me, Celine.
“Fine,” he whispers.
When I was a kid, I jumped out of a tree and broke my ankle. It hurt so much I wanted to be sick, and all I could do was lie there in the dirt and sob and think, Just let me go back in time and I won’t jump again. I won’t do it again.
But you can’t snatch back some choices as easily as you make them. Now I’m stuck in the dirt with this anxious, burning nausea I can’t undo.
“Brad,” I say, uncertain, lips numb—
“What?” His whole body is a stark straight line and it’s arrowing away from me. He strides down the path. “What else do you want me to say?”
“It…it was only supposed to be temporary anyway,” I blurt, hurrying after him.
“I know.”
“It’s not like we’re breaking up. We’re not breaking up. We weren’t—”
“I know!” he shouts. Above us, a handful of wood pigeons burst into flight.
“Well, what are you being a dick for, then?”
“Oh, piss off, Celine!”
“You piss off!”
He whirls around to face me. “You—”
Someone clears their throat. We turn in unison to find an older white lady standing on the path in front of us, clutching a wash bag. “Pardon,” she says. “I, uh, may I…？”
“Pardon, pardon,” Brad mutters, gaze lowered. “Pardonnez-nous.” We step aside. The lady scuttles past. As soon as she’s gone, he heads off again.
“Where are you going?” I shout after him.
“Away!” he shouts back.
Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t I’m sorry. “You…you still have my bag!”
“What do you think I’m gonna do, Celine, EAT IT?” He disappears around the bend.
I growl and kick a tree. Of course, I’m only wearing slides, so all I do is hurt my toe. The tree stares down at me judgmentally while I hop around hissing in pain. Well, what did you expect? it seems to say. You’re soft and fleshy. I’m literally made of wood.
“Shut up,” I mutter, then realize I’ve officially hit rock bottom. “FUCK!”
The tree does not reply.
What is his problem? He wanted to “talk” to me.
Maybe he wasn’t ending it.
Or maybe he was.
He clearly wasn’t.
Well, he would’ve eventually. He’s done it before. He would’ve reached into my stomach and yanked out my guts with big, greedy fists and he wouldn’t even know he was doing it because he doesn’t know I love him. I can’t believe I love him. What the bloody hell am I playing at, loving him?
Except I can’t quite bring myself to care about the danger of it all, not when Brad’s expression is front and center in my mind, looking like someone just yanked out his guts. That someone being me.
Oh, God. It was me. My hands shake. My tongue feels sharp in my mouth.
I take a deep breath and squeeze my prickly eyes shut. The sky is too bright a gray today, even with all these old, thick branches obscuring my view. The forest smells like fresh, green frost and slowly rotting bark. I press my palms to my thighs and bend forward and refuse to cry.
I lied to Brad’s face just to save my own feelings. I didn’t even let him speak because—
Because I’m scared of everything, I’m scared of loving him, I’m scared of being hurt—
And so I hurt him instead. Is that the kind of love I have to give?
My chest burns. I messed up. I’m messed up. I took my worst fear and did it to him.
Take it back.
I run.
BRAD
After approximately ten seconds of self-righteous storming I realize I’m being a dick.
Whatever happened to friendship first? Celine never promised to want me back. In fact, she’s always said the exact opposite, but here I am throwing a hissy fit because my stupid heart is broken. Ugh, I’m that guy, aren’t I?
Still, this hurts. It hurts like there’s a hole in me. I drag my glasses off my face and swipe angrily at my cheeks. Tears feel even hotter when it’s freezing. For God’s sake, who falls in love with their best friend? Doesn’t everyone know that’s a bad idea? Especially when said best friend is still working through 27,000 issues and has goals that have nothing to do with you and—
Well, I guess everyone was right: I love Celine. I love her so much, I could throw up right now. Thank God I didn’t tell her. I would’ve told her, and then what? Did I really think I could just, what, teach her to want a relationship by sticking my tongue down her throat? How arrogant is that? Later, when I’m not literally splintering in two, I’m positive my brain will present me with a sixty-five-page annotated essay on what a douche bag I am. She didn’t want to change the rules; I did.
I put down her bag and grasp my forearms, let my fingers dig into my flesh, but it doesn’t stop all the pieces of me drifting apart. Shit. There’s a rapid crunch sound coming up behind me, like fast footsteps against the stone, and my stomach drops. I can’t talk to anyone right now.