Before hanging up, she told him, “I’ll be there soon.”
Then she gave me a cold look and walked toward the door.
I called her name, but she didn’t even turn around.
All she said was, “Break up? Sure. Fine. Let’s break up. Whoever takes it back is an asshole.”
She then slammed the door so hard the walls shook. The whole apartment echoed with the smell of the dinner I’d cooked for her—mocking me, reminding me how pathetic my wishful thinking was.
That night, I sat at the table staring at all of her favorite dishes. Then I watched Gideon’s updates on social media, one after another: videos of him and Dahlia shoulder to shoulder, singing duet love songs; drinking from linked glasses; and laughing as their friends cheered and pushed them into a hug.
He posted as if he was streaming just for me, or as if he was flaunting something in my face, saying, “Spencer, what can you possibly compete with?”
I forced myself to eat the food that tasted like cardboard, stuffing myself until my stomach felt like it would burst. Then I ran to the bathroom and threw up until the room spun.
After crying myself hoarse, I ended up in the ER with gastritis and was put on IV fluids for three days.