A good way to get over a breakup with your neighbor is to sleep with your window open, so you can actually hear your ex get home at midnight from the party you weren’t invited to. This method is very effective, because it allows ample time to consider the fact that you are polar opposites who had nothing in common to begin with and are probably both better off with other people.
I’m not a stalker or anything. It’s just unseasonably hot out and we don’t have air-conditioning.
To distract myself from the fact Webster and I have become totally awkward around each other again, I channel my frustration into writing a letter to the administration in reference to the sexist and outdated dress code. Then I clean my room, which leads to purging my closet of clothes I won’t want to bring to college. Once I drop those off for donation, I decide I might as well continue preparing for college, and I submit my roommate application, look through the course book, and write up my dream schedule filled with all the courses that look most interesting.
And then, suddenly, it’s the last week of school for seniors. Which is good, because I’ve finally become susceptible to senioritis. In Anatomy, I kept forgetting the names of all the arm bones. I thought Veronica was going to murder me when I filled out our final lab report incorrectly. And then I actually forgot about a homework assignment in AP History last week. I just didn’t do it. Had nothing to turn in. Fortunately my grade is high enough that missing one assignment shouldn’t really affect anything. But still. It was unsettling, to say the least.
Meanwhile Webster doesn’t even show up to Life Skills anymore. Which means I don’t talk to him for the entire last week of school, until that Friday, when I walk to the end of my driveway to get the mail just as Webster is taking his trash can to the curb.
We both pause and look at each other for a long moment, before I lift my hand in a wave and Webster makes his way over.
“So...” He sucks in a deep breath, then kind of shakes his head like he opened his mouth before he was actually sure what he wanted to say. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah. You sort of disappeared.”
Webster winces. “It seemed like you wanted space. I figured you’d reach out if you wanted to talk.” His voice takes on a note of desperation when he adds, “But if you do want to talk, maybe we could catch up this weekend?”
We said we’d be friends. And no matter how many times I told myself I was over him the past couple weeks...no matter how busy I’ve kept myself since that morning in Webster’s car, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About him.
“Yeah. I’d like that. I mean, I’m sure I’ll see you at prom tomorrow. But maybe Sunday we could do Susie’s?”
His mouth hangs open. He seems not to have heard that last part. “Wait, you’re going to prom?”
His voice comes out strange, strangled. Surprise and hurt mixed with something else—something like bitterness.
I nod and his expression turns sour. He’s pissed I’m going without him, which is absurd, considering he’s the one who got a new date about five seconds after our fight. Tension tightens like a fist around the base of my skull. My own voice takes on a mean edge as I ask, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He stares down at the crumbling asphalt at the end of my driveway and licks his lips. “I just thought...”
“You thought you’d be able to avoid me there, too?” I cross my arms, hugging our mail to my chest. “Well, don’t worry, I won’t interfere with your date.”
“Oh, now you’re mad because I’m going with Anna?” Webster’s mouth presses into a flat line. “You were the one who pushed this, you told Anna you were totally fine with her asking me—”
“Yeah, asking you,” I snap. Heat flushes my cheeks again and I lift my chin, stare over his shoulder. “And you said yes, so...clearly this is what you wanted.”
Webster’s exhale is heavy, like he has been kicked in the chest. “So, what, that was a test?”
I purse my lips and shake my head. “No. Just a choice.”
My mom’s car comes down the street and slows to a stop in front of us. Webster and I shuffle out of the way while my mom rolls down her window and says hello to Webster, who offers a stiff smile in return. Then, once she pulls up the driveway and into the garage, I take a step away from him. “I should really get inside and help with dinner. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah. See you.” Both hands are jammed in his pockets as he trudges back across the street.
I meet my mom in the garage and help her carry groceries into the house. Mom’s been trying out new recipes lately (with marginal success), so there are more bags than usual despite fewer people living in this house. While I unload them into the refrigerator, my mom arranges a bouquet of tulips in a vase.
Mom hasn’t had fresh flowers in the house since my dad brought them home on their last anniversary. Almost a year ago now. And Holland was the last person to give me any—my corsage from the Snow Ball. This bouquet reminds me of a sunset, deep coral fading to bright yellow at the tips of the petals.
The vase is between us on the kitchen table when we sit down for dinner, and I keep catching Mom smiling at them. She’s been doing better lately, the crying has cut way down the past couple weeks, but it’s still nice to see her actively happy about something for a change.
And all because she got herself something she wanted, instead of waiting for someone else to give it to her.
She rakes spaghetti around her plate for a moment, then sets down her fork and asks, “How’s Webster?”
I glance at the flowers once more and sigh. “I wouldn’t really know.”
Mom makes a sympathetic face. “When I saw you two talking, I thought maybe you had worked things out.”
I shake my head and stab a meatball with my fork.
“I know I’m probably the last person you want to be taking relationship advice from right now,” my mom says.
“Actually, yes.”
She stares at me for a beat. “But,” she goes on, unfazed, “there is such a thing as a self-fulfilling prophecy.” I open my mouth to protest and Mom holds her hand up. “I’m not saying it’s your fault Webster lied to you. That’s on him. But it seems to me you’re so afraid of this relationship ending in a way that will hurt you, that you’re hurting yourself by ending it before you’ve given it a real chance.”
Huh. That doesn’t seem completely off the mark. Still, I don’t know how to change what’s already done. Webster has hurt me.
“I just don’t want to end up...” Like you and Dad, was the unspoken end of that sentence. And Mom seems to know what I meant without me having to say it. She nods and waits for me to go on. “I’ve been trying so hard to figure out what goes into a successful relationship, and what kinds of compromises you’re supposed to make, and what kinds of things you’re supposed to forgive.”
“But relationships shouldn’t be about what you’re supposed to do. They’re about what you feel comfortable giving another person, and what they offer you in return.”
And really, that right there is why things didn’t work out with Holland. Because he was never the one I wanted to share with. He wasn’t the person I immediately wanted to call when something amazing happened, or the first person I’d turn to when I needed comfort.
But ever since a boy who started out as a stranger moved in across the street, I’ve known exactly who I wanted that person to be. Webster.