Page 18 of Never Enough
Funny. When I was twelve, I think I would have grasped at any opportunity that involved friends and love. Pre-Daphne Alex would have come at the idea of just having a wife. I suppose that means I’m getting better. Mentally, that is.
Celeste’s pain claws at me, wanting me to relent.
“I gave you the best years of my life!” Her wails fill the room, each plea a dagger in my already bleeding conscience.
Oh God, I hope that when she said “best years of my life”, she didn’t mean we’ve reached our peak. I dream that the best is yet to come. So I remind her, “You’ll have more good years, and we’ll still be friends.”
You would think I said ”it’s not you; it’s me” because her stance changes to annoyed. With mascara running down her cheeks, she straightens her back. “Oh, look at you, nerdy dweeb Alex over there, afraid if we’re not friends, he’ll be alone again.”
She doesn’t mean it. She’s just mad and trying everything she can to keep me. Years ago, the word “dweeb” was a trigger for me. It still is, but I’m able to push past it enough to continue our breakup.
I stand up, leaving her diminutive form curled on the couch. It’s best I leave before we say something we regret. Before I walk to the door, I cast one last glance at Celeste, hoping to find some acceptance in herface.
Big mistake.
“Baby, please,” she rasps, voice cracked from crying. Her hand reaches out, trembling as it grasps mine. She looks exposed. Real. Vulnerable. “Homecoming is in two weeks. Can’t we just pretend until then? I don’t want to explain to the entire campus that you broke up with me after we’ve spent the last eight years together. You can’t just expect me to get over you in the matter of seconds. How can I heal while continuously having to describe how you broke up with me? Dumped me.”
I hate that word. Dumped.
I never wanted to be the villain in her story. Her blue eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, seek an answer I’m afraid to give.
“Everyone’s expecting us to go together,” she whispers, and I feel the weight of those expectations like chains around my ankles.
“Celly.” The nickname slips out. I want to pull my hand away, reclaim the part of me that agrees to this charade. But I’m frozen, caught between kindness and the truth.
“Please,” she continues, her grip tightening. “Just through homecoming. Then, I swear I’ll tell everyone. I just don’t want to face it all right now. I’d rather get over you in peace, without having to explain how you left me after eight years. Let me heal, go to homecoming, and then I’ll tell them.”
She makes a good point. Just a few days ago, she was talking about marriage. I’m giving her whiplash. The least I can do is give her a few weeks to adjust to us broken up.
So I’m clear, I ask, “We won’t really be dating, but you want to pretend?”
“Yes, just until after homecoming. Ease me into it.”
I see her there, not as the cheerleader adored by the masses or the girl who craves the spotlight, but as someone who fears the solitude of walking into a room alone. It mirrors the void I so often feel.
Plus, itis short notice to search for a new homecoming date. Not that she couldn’t get any man she wanted just by batting her eyelashes.
“Two weeks,” I find myself saying. “And then you tell them.”
“Thank you, thank you!” She launches forward, pressing her lips against mine in a kiss that tastes like coffee. It’s a peck, with no tongue, so I allow her to get away with it. As she said, ease into the breakup.
I can almost hear the whispers at homecoming, can feel the stares that will follow our every move. And after, when the truth comes out, what then? Will it make her fall harder, or will it be a relief, a bandage ripped off to let the wound finally breathe?
“You won’t regret this,” Celeste breathes against my neck, her tears now replaced with a predatory smile.
Remorse is already a stone in my stomach. As she clings to me, I wonder if the lies we tell ourselves are kinder than the truths we hide from. If, for Celeste, the pretense of love is better than none at all.
As her arms wrap around me, I close my eyes. In my mind, I retreat to a kitchen filled with the aroma of spices and the heat of the oven, a place where things are simpler, where my heart doesn’t weigh me down.
“Only until homecoming,” I remind her and pray that the promise of an ending is enough to get us both through the performance ahead.
Chapter eight
Daphne
Iwatch the crystal droplets cling to the side of my glass. The amber liquid swirls with every tilt. Am I drinking champagne at a college frat party? Yes. Sue me.
Eden is beside me, her laughter a warm hum against the buzz of the party. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and spilled beer, mingling with the faint fragrance of Eden’s perfume.