She’s thinking, he told himself. She’s making up her mind. He only hoped that she wasn’t dwelling on the TikTok mess; that she wasn’t reconsidering him or rejecting him completely; ghosting him again.
“Give her some space,” Lincoln told him, over dinner at a bar that night. “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.” He tilted his head. “A wise man told me that.”
“I hate you right now,” Sebastian said, glaring at the table and his barely touched burger.
“Hate yourself,” Lincoln said. “That’s what you told me when Lana and I broke up. And that worked out!” He clapped Sebastian’s shoulder. “Just be patient. What will be, will be.”
“You like seeing me suffer,” Sebastian said.
Lincoln shook his head. “No,” he said. “But it’s possible that it’s your turn. You know?”
Sebastian considered this. He thought about how lucky he’d been, right up until Alyssa had posted that TikTok, how his life was an unending stream of Frisbee games and bike rides, drinking with friends and sleeping with an endless variety of girls. He had work he loved, a nicer apartment than he should have been able to afford, the guaranteed advantages that being a white guy would give him, even as some of his fellow white guys complained that those advantages weren’t real, or that, at least, they weren’t as meaningful as they’d once been.
He wasn’t used to losing, he realized. He picked up his burger, feeling the ketchup on his fingers, and set it down without a bite.
“Can I make a suggestion?” Lincoln asked.
“Can I stop you?” Sebastian replied.
Lincoln visibly steeled himself. “If you really want to be in a relationship with Abby, or with anyone, maybe you need to think about what’s been going on. Why you felt compelled to sleep with so many different women.”
“I didn’t feel compelled,” Sebastian said. “It was more like feeling, Why not?”
Lincoln tore open a wet wipe and didn’t respond.
“Are you going to tell me that I’m compensating for some hole in my heart? Some void in my life? My mother didn’t love me, my dad was never home?” Sebastian was trying for sarcasm, but Lincoln was still looking at him, without his usual expression of tolerant forbearance. Instead, his friend was looking at him pityingly. Which, of course, made Sebastian remember the many occasions when his mother had been unavailable and his father had been busy tending to her; how neither of them had ended up with a lot of time or energy for him.
Sebastian couldn’t stand it. “Not all of us have perfect nuclear families. Not everyone gets lucky the way you were lucky,” he said.
“You’re right,” said Lincoln.
“I don’t need therapy,” Sebastian said, feeling his lips twist as he almost snarled the last word. He was remembering the family sessions at his mother’s rehabs; how frustrating and pointless they’d felt. What was the point of blaming your parents, when you couldn’t go back in time and make them do it differently? Why dwell on the past when it couldn’t be changed? Just keep moving ahead. That was Sebastian’s motto.
Lincoln held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything about therapy. Maybe you don’t need it, although I kind of think everyone could benefit from having someone to talk to. And look, I don’t know what’s going on with you. Why you are the way you are. Whether it’s your family, or whatever. But Lana and I have discussed it—”
“Oh,” Sebastian interrupted. “Oh, great. I’m glad I’m giving you two something to talk about.”
“—because we’re worried about you,” Lincoln concluded. His voice was quiet, firm, and steady as he held Sebastian’s gaze with his own. “We want you to be happy.”
And Sebastian found he had nothing to say about that.
Abby
Philadelphia
On Sunday morning, Abby slept in.
It had been a long three weeks since the trip had ended and she’d gone scurrying back home. But she’d gotten through those awful first hours and days after a breakup, and had come home resolving to do better, to make a start toward turning her house into a home and building a life that she wanted.
She got out of bed and opened the blinds. Sunlight striped the hardwood floor and the bright pink-and-gold-patterned carpet that had come from Etsy the day before. The bookshelf that she’d finally assembled was full of her books, arranged by color. She’d gotten three posters framed, and had hung them, along with a giant antique mirror she and Lizzie had found at a vintage store on South Street （they’d needed to hire a U-Haul to get it home, and to recruit four members of the bicycle club to wrestle it up the stairs）。 There was an actual table in the kitchen, and a dedicated work-from-home space with a desk by the window. A row of potted plants stood on the windowsill, and the bags of clothes had finally made it to the donation bin. It didn’t look like Lizzie’s place, with its layers of belongings, collected over a lifetime of adventures. But it no longer looked like a dorm room, or a featureless, anonymous place to sleep.