Page 22 of It Couldn't Be You
To answer the phone.
To say it aloud to him.
To seal my fate.
To put the nail in the coffin of “us.”
I couldn’t do it anymore. I was done hiding away at my parents house.
The day was fading into late afternoon. My dad had fallen asleep in his armchair with a book on his chest, and my mom was on the phone to her sister, probably discussing my almost engagement. I slipped out the door quietly. I was still in my sparkly dress, just now, with my dad’s sweatshirt over it. My hair was a messy knot on top of my head.
I drove to Jordan’s apartment. I walked shakily up the stairwell to his third-floor apartment, careful with the rain turning to ice beneath my feet. I knocked on his door, but there was no response. I pulled out my phone and, taking in a deep breath, dialed his number. No answer. I sat down on the top of the staircase, waiting for him to arrive. The air stung against my raw, puffy eyes.
I remembered the dozens of nights he and I sat on this very step right outside his apartment door, stars overhead. My head would rest on his shoulder. He’d tell me some story about his job or his sisters, and I’d listen to him, finding a calm just being close to him. And now I was going to forfeit the calm that had been all mine for two years. I choked back another sob.
I saw his car pull into the parking lot beside mine. He cut the engine, and I saw him warily look over at my own car. He glanced up, his eyes finding me sitting on our step. He didn’t move. I wasn’t sure if I should sit and wait for him to come to me or if, after everything, it was my turn to make the move and go to him.
He just stared at his steering wheel. I knew he didn’t owe me his time or attention after what I had done, but I also knew I owed him an explanation if he wanted one.
With that in mind, I walked down the staircase to meet him where he was at. I was standing by his car door when he glanced up at me and let out an angry, disgruntled sigh. The kind of sigh he released after his team had a big loss. I could hear it through the car windows.
He opened the door, so I stepped out of his way. He climbed out, slamming the door shut. Leaning against his car, he rubbed his hands aggravatedly over his forehead. It was silent and tense for a while. Water slowly coming to a boil.
“You just left,” he said. “You justleft.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
“You just freaking left.” He was all disbelief and hurt.
“I know.”
“Why?” His hazel eyes cut into mine.
“I felt like there was no good option—either I lie and tell you what everyone wants to hear and then hurt you later, or I make this awful scene and have this awful conversation at your uncle’s big, cheerful Christmas party...or I just—”
“Run away?” He spit out.
“Yeah, run away. Run away like a scared little girl. And I just…I chose that option.”
“I freaking got down on one knee for you. And you couldn’t just pull me aside and let me down easy.”
“There would be nothingeasyabout letting you down, Jordan. There was a whole party watching us—a party of your family members. None of my family, not even a friend. Just people rooting for whatever you wanted. I-I freaked out—” I brushed a loose piece of hair behind my ear.
“I get that there was pressure. But you couldn’t even tap my shoulder and take me outside and tell me no, or tell me maybe, or whatever it was you want to say?”
“I know. I chose what was easiest for me. I am so sorry for being so selfish.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I am sorry. I amsosorry. I was wrong to run away. I was wrong to leave you there at that party with a ring and no answers. I’m mad at myself.” I started to choke up. I could only imagine how long he waited for me to return from the bathroom. “I just didn’t know what to say. I still…”
He reached his hands out, grabbed my sleeves, and then yanked me close to him. His waist against my waist. “Well,” he said gruffly. “What would you say if we had a do-over? Just you and me.”
I took in a jagged breath. “Jordan,” I said. “The setting doesn’t change the question. It doesn’t change the answer.”
“Come on,” he said a little sad, a little desperate. “You still haven’t really given me an answer. It makes me think you’re not really sure.”
“Do you still even want to ask me after what I did?” I whispered.
