Chapter Thirty-One
Lyla
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or ashamed of us,” I said to Whitney as I scraped together a bite of double-nut fudge ice cream from the container. Einstein stuck his head between us, trying to steal a taste, so I put him on the other side of me on the couch.
Whitney dragged her spoon across the remains, and then we’d officially polished off the entire carton. “I think it’s impressive. We didn’t even get brain freeze.”
“But we’ve become a cliché,” I said with a sigh. After Beck and I had our big blowup, I’d called Whitney in tears, no idea what else to do. She’d told me to hang tight and she’d come get me. Tessa dropped me off at a Starbucks—and she was at least nice enough to ask if I was absolutely sure I’d be okay there—and within a few hours, my roommate showed up to take me back to Boston.
On the way home she listened to me cry, rant, and lament the fact that I’d let my grades slip to spend time with a guy who didn’t even want me. I’d wrapped my entire world up in a guy, like one of those girls I swore I’d never be, and in return he’d broken my heart into tiny, sharp pieces that jabbed me every time I tried to breathe.
Then she’d told me she and Matt were over, too. He’d finally responded to one of her many texts to say he had a girlfriend now, so he couldn’t see her anymore, and to please stop calling and texting. Over the past few weeks, we’d perfected wallowing in pity and cursing the male species.
I rubbed my tummy. “And now I’m going to feel self-conscious when I have to slide down my skirt for the tattoo.”
“Who cares? We gave up guys, remember?”
I tossed my spoon on the coffee table, satisfied with the loud clank. “Right.”
Whitney paused, scrunching up her face the way she did when she couldn’t recall something. “Or were we just going to go for nerdy guys? I forget what we decided last night. All those margaritas…”
“Now that you mention it, I think it was nerds.”
Whitney licked off the back of her spoon. “Sexual chemistry is totally overrated. The hotter the guy is, and the hotter the sex is, the more likely they are to mesmerize you with their penis and then crush your heart.”
I laughed, even though I sorta wanted to cry at the same time. “If you want, I know a guy who’s super awful at kissing—the chin licker, remember? There’s probably no sexual chemistry there. I bet it’d be horrible.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Whitney nudged me with her elbow. “Give me his number.”
We both erupted in laughter. But then it faded and it got quiet, and I knew she was thinking about Matt, and I was thinking of Beck, despite the fact that somewhere around margarita six or seven last night, we’d decided this was the week we were getting our shit together and forgetting about our “almost lovers.” Obviously they were our lovers from a purely sexual standpoint, but we meant it on the deeper, apparently unrealistic level.
I glanced at the time. “You ready to hold my hand?”
“I’m there for you, babe,” Whitney said without missing a beat.
I slung my arm over her shoulder in a side hug. We were sad saps, but we’d grown a lot closer through our mutual heartbreaks, and we’d already agreed to room together again next fall. And when I’d decided I still wanted to complete my bucket list and get my tattoo, she promised to hold my hand and distract me through the pain.
After all, the list was about me, not Beck, even if I’d thought he’d be with me to see it through to the end.
Despite a few missteps, the list had taught me a lot about myself. I liked my body better than I ever had, although I didn’t like when that was the only part of me guys paid attention to. It didn’t mean I couldn’t show off my figure, or that I had to hide under bulky clothes. I liked color, loved my flowing skirts with their bright patterns, and my scarves made excellent headbands. It was okay to be different, and it was okay if not everyone got me. I could step out of my comfort zone and be bold. And I sure as hell wasn’t boring.
The tiny flower I was getting inked on my hip would serve as a reminder of everything I’d learned my first year at college. So even though there were moments I wondered how I was going to survive the day when my heart ached so badly—and regardless of the hours I’d spent wondering if Beck and I would still be friends if we hadn’t thrown sex into the mix—I didn’t regret it.
I’d tried. I’d loved. I’d survived.
I was strong.
I was me.