The Ex Talk

I might be halfway there already.

“Come over after dinner?” he says. His voice is honey sweet, tinged with a roughness that leaves no doubt as to what he’s imagining us doing after dinner.

“I’m not sure if I can.” I try to ignore the bitter sting of regret. “I have some plans with my mom early tomorrow. Wedding stuff.” It’s not a lie, at least.

His face falls, and the hand that stroked my face so tenderly drops to his lap. “Sure. That’s fine.”

It’s for the best, I try to convince myself. Space. That’s what we need.

* * *

—

Except . . . I don’t get much space during dinner. Not when Dominic’s foot nudges mine beneath the table, not when his mother admits, “I know you’re not in a relationship, but you really do look cute together,” and not when his parents ask for details about the “dates” we went on back in the fall, eager to know more about this part of their son’s life he kept from them. It’s a perfectly pleasant dinner, but if they knew the truth, I wouldn’t be welcome here. I’m sure of it.

The low-key panic I’ve been nursing all evening turns into a full-fledged anxiety spiral, and by the time Dominic and I wave goodbye and head to his car, I’m stumbling over nonexistent cracks in the driveway.

“Thank you for tonight,” I say. “Your parents are great. Your dad cracks me up.”

“He’s a character.” Dominic swings his keys around his index finger. “You’re sure you can’t come over?” he asks, and there’s so much control in his words that I’m convinced he’s trying not to sound like he’s begging. It kills me. “Just for a little?”

“I said I can’t.” The edge in my voice is too hard.

He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

I need some space away from him to sort out my feelings. My work life and personal life are already muddied, now that I’m texting him about my problems and meeting his parents, and I can’t have him in both. Casual has to end now if we have any hope of long-term success for the show.

When he drops me off after a silent drive, I don’t lean over and kiss him. I don’t look him in the eye. I’m not sure what’s going to come out of my mouth when I open it, only that I’m probably going to regret it, but—

“I’m not sure if I can do casual anymore.”

He pulls the parking brake. “What?”

God, don’t make me repeat it. But I do, and when I feel his hand on my shoulder, I shrink against the seat. I hate how right it feels.

And that’s the reason I have to end it, prevent something seemingly casual from warping my sense of reality when I fear it already has.

“Because . . . of my parents?” The confusion in his tone is evident.

“No. Not that. Well, kind of, but . . . no.”

I like you too much to keep pretending I don’t. I like you too much not to get attached because I’m already far more attached than I ever thought I’d be, and anything else is going to kill me.

“That makes a lot of sense.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I—I want to be able to explain it, but I’m not sure I can. With the show, it’s just . . . too complicated.” There. That can be my excuse.

He looks like I’ve just told him I’m breaking up with him—which, in a way, I am. His face is a mix of confusion and hurt, his brows knit together, his eyes wide. If I look at him a moment longer, I might try to take it all back.

&nb

sp; “Shay,” he says, “let’s talk about this. Please.”

I shake my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I just—can’t.” And before he can say anything, I swing open the car door and head for my house.

I have to force myself not to look back.

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