The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

She studies a small wound on her thumb, likely a prick from a rose thorn. “All those years of smoking. I begged him to quit. You’d think he would, after watching your grandfather wither away from damn cigarettes.” Mom shakes her head, her brow—smoother than it should be at her age, thanks to rounds of laser skin care and ­fillers—furrowing ever so slightly.

“Maybe he did quit, and it was too late. But if he hasn’t, I’m sure the doctor will make him quit now.” I haul a suitcase to its wheels, dusting my hands for impact. “One down.”

Mom’s hazel-green gaze rolls over me. “Your highlights look nice.”

“Thanks. I had to grovel to get Fausto to squeeze me in last night.” I glance in a nearby mirror as I brush a strand of blonde hair off my face. “He went lighter than I wanted, but I don’t have time to fix it before I go.” I can’t help but notice the dark circles lingering under my eyes, which even a thick smear of concealer can’t hide. The last two days have been a whirlwind—of shopping, primping, packing, and planning.

Breaking up with my boyfriend.

“So, you and Corey are officially over?” Mom asks, as if she can read my mind.

“I cut the shiny red ribbon and everything.”

“Are you okay?”

I sigh. “I don’t know what I am. It feels like my life has been turned upside down. I’m still waiting for the dust to settle.” After I left the club on Thursday, Diana made a point of bumping into Corey “accidentally”—because she would have exploded from indignation otherwise—to let him know that he’d just missed his girlfriend. I’d bet money that she delivered her perfect poison-laced smile as she walked away, satisfied to make Corey squirm.

I woke up the next morning to a voice message from him. His tone was lighthearted as he gave some lame-ass excuse about how he ended up at the club. He didn’t say a word about Stephanie Dupont, or why he was practically draped over her at the bar.

I didn’t respond right away, giving him a dose of the medicine he’s been dishing out recently.

Childish?

Maybe.

But I needed more time to sort out my thoughts and feelings, something I still wasn’t entirely clear on after spending the night staring at the slanted ceiling above my bed as the hours reached for dawn.

I needed more time to face the truth.

Corey did love me at one time. Or at least, he thought he did. And I was so sure I loved him, too, back at the height of our relationship, after the newness wore off but before the comfort began to fray at the seams. We had a good thing going on. We never argued; we were never jealous or rude to each other. If I had to choose one word to describe our relationship, it’d be “smooth.” As in, our relationship has operated without a hitch

.

There is no reason for us not to work.

We are textbook perfect together.

And we have grown bored.

Whatever magic there was in the beginning has been fizzling away, like a slow leak in a tire after it has taken a nail. You could go on for months without knowing something’s wrong, until one day you end up stranded on the side of the road with a flat.

At least, that’s what I’ve heard about slow leaks in tires. I’ve never actually experienced one. I don’t even have my license. But I do have to face facts—the enamored “Calla and Corey” who posed for the camera on that pile of rocks last year took a long, sharp nail somewhere along the way, likely before Stephanie Dupont ever came into the picture.

It’s the only reason I can come up with for why seeing Corey flirting with another girl didn’t gut me, and why I wasn’t more than mildly irritated that he couldn’t make time for me after the day I’d had. And why I didn’t bother trying to phone him after learning of my father’s illness, in the small hope that he might answer and give me comfort in the sound of his voice.

I think, buried deep down somewhere, I already sensed that our relationship was evaporating. I just hadn’t admitted it to myself yet. Maybe because I was hoping it wasn’t true. Or, more likely, because once I did acknowledge reality, I’d feel like I would have to do something about it. And what if Corey didn’t feel the same way I felt? What if he thought everything was perfect between us, and begged me not to end things?

What if I hurt him?

All unconscious worries simmering beneath the surface. All reasons to avoid confronting him. At least, reasons for me, a girl who is acutely allergic to confrontation. It’s my one defining “Wren quality,” my mom has said. My dad is ninja-level at avoiding conflict and, well . . . apple and tree, apparently, even if I landed fifty-five hundred kilometers away.

Sure, I can throw a verbal jab like the best of them when you push me far enough, but when it comes to truly facing someone or something that pains me, I run from my own shadow. But I’d run out of places to hide, the truth now glaringly obvious. I couldn’t imagine flying off to Alaska to meet my dad with this on my mind. So I sent a text to Corey on Friday night, mentioning the trip and how I thought maybe it would be better for us if we took a break, with all he had going on at work “and stuff.”

His response? Yeah, I was thinking the same. Take care of yourself. Safe flight. It’s like he was waiting for an out. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. He dances around sticky situations with the best of them. The best being me.

And thus, the official end to my fourteen-month relationship.

Via text, minimal confrontation achieved.