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You were supposed to come here with Lyla. You were supposed to be showing off the engagement band sparkling on her finger, not feeling the weight of it in your pocket.
You’re not engaged anymore.
You have always been good at shutting down parts of your mind that you didn’t need operate to prioritize the full power of the parts that did. Here’s what that looks like now: you are sitting at the freaking Panther Roast, three tables away from her, and you are not feeling much of anything, except annoyance at the poor range of Buddy Garrity’s humor.
The shutting-down thing made sense when you were QB1, machine more than man, hero more than highschooler. You are surprised, or at least you should be, to find that it works just as well when you don’t particularly want to think about the rest of your life blowing up in your face.
Maybe you’re not surprised because it’s not the rest of your life.
Maybe what you thought should be shame, but actually felt like anger, is turning into something like relief.
But you love her, don’t you? More than anything. Enough to wreck your best friendship—well, let her wreck it for you. Enough to keep trying even after everything, including your goddamn spine, was broken.
You let the question drift far enough away from you, through the crowd and the ironic blur of boredom, excitement, awkwardness, and yes, even joy, that permeates events like this.
Once, it all belonged to you.
You don’t think you miss it as much as you just want something new.
When the hubbub has died down and everybody’s just hanging out, eating and drinking and shooting the same shit they always do at these things, Tim finds you. Slouches over, with his half-shy, half-smirking grin.
“Streeter.”
“Hey, Timmy.” He came here with Tyra. You noticed; everybody who cares about that kind of thing probably noticed, though the two of them didn’t seem to see anybody else.
“You riding solo?” he asks now, and it really is a testament to Tim’s singular brand of sincerity that an inquiry about where Lyla is doesn’t come off as threatening.
“Yeah,” you say. Then, because Tim is clearly waiting to be asked, “Sit down. It’s a long story.”
Tim’s a good listener. Always has been. And he’s not one to judge, which, yeah, he shouldn’t be, considering that he went and messed around with Lyla behind your back when you were still in a neck brace.
“So you’re done?” he asks, when you’re finally finished.
“Guess so. She sure seemed done with me.” A play for his sympathy, and it works: you can see how his eyes widen, how he takes in what he must imagine is the hurt of it. The loss.
You smile, a little sharp.
“She’s all yours, man.”
He shakes his head, still not blinking. “She doesn’t want me.”
“Yeah?” You reach out, punch him lightly on the arm. “Guess we’re on our own.”