Page 61 of Unloved

This is the first actual conversation we’ve had about it, but sure.

“Tyler—”

“Stop punishing me, Ro. I said I was fucking sorry.”

Less than twenty-four hours of space, and I’m punishing him.

“I need my stuff, Tyler.”

“Meet me for coffee and I’ll give it to you,” he quickly responds.

“Leave it in my office and I won’t report you.”

I can feel more than hear the fury rise in him. I wish I could be happy we are doing this over the phone, away from each other, but Tyler’s best weapon has always been his words.

“Stop. You’re acting like a fucking bitch, Ro.”

“Don’t call me that.” I’m proud of the way my voice doesn’t shake.

“I didn’t,” he sighs, like I’m some petulant child. “I said you were acting like one.”

“That’s the same thing. You’re insulting me over and over—sometimes I’m a bitch, the next moment I’m acting like a child. Pick a different tactic; these insults are making you sound dumber than you are.”

Maybe I shouldn’t goad him, but for some reason I’m walking a little taller after my word vomit, feeling good. Confident.

“Don’t put fucking words in my mouth. You were the one who wanted to get back together. You practicallybeggedme the other night.”

I stop walking, my stomach swooping as I’m struck by that same sick feeling. Like I’m looking in a mirror for the first time in two years and Ihatewhat I see.

“Stop calling me, Tyler. I’m done.”

There’s a disbelieving laugh that grates my ears. I kick the brick of the building I’m standing in front of, because I want to scream and cry and maybe test how far I can run before I pass out from exhaustion to get it all out.

“You’re acting like a kid, Ro.”

Laughing a bit too loud as he doesexactly what I said he would, I nearly swallow my tongue, but manage to calmly reply, “I’m not. I’m serious. We’re breaking up, Tyler.”

“We aren’t. Stop being dramatic.”

“By your standards, we weren’t even dating. We were ‘casual.’ I’m being nice by even saying this to you—I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to be done.”

“Sure,” he grumbles. “We’ll talk later. When you’re not as emotional.”

He hangs up. And I think about trying the classic malepunch my fist through a wallcoping technique.

By the time my session with Freddy comes around on Monday morning, I’ve got a stack of thirty-plus missed-call notifications on my phone and a seemingly endless thread of texts.

Tyler Donaldson is cool, calm, and collected in person—but through a phone call or text, he’s brutal.

Still, I’ve somehow managed to avoid him for two days. My tutoring sessions take place in new locations, all my students willing tomeet me wherever I ask. I even take my office hours at other school offices or in private library rooms.

But today is our overlap as GTAs in Tinsley’s class, which is unavoidable. I am a live wire of tension.

The sound of the door makes me jump, and one look at Freddy tells me my reaction did not go unnoticed. His brow furrows, the smile previously on his face melting to apprehension.

“Did I… do something wrong?”

The question is so opposite of everything currently blasting across my phone screen I almost laugh.

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