Never Vacation with Your Ex(6)
Author: Emily Wibberley

 

But it’s not the only thing I see when I’m with him. I’ve lived my entire life intertwined with Dean’s, thanks to our families. He’s inscribed with memories, context I share with no one else. Our every conversation, every passing glance, reminds me of our years of friendship. It’s a melody of endless reprises, of new variations on the wonderfully familiar. It’s like nothing else.

 

Until I ruined it, of course.

 

He’s standing now where he used to wait for me in the mornings, then walk with me to my locker. Pre-dating, we didn’t hang out much at school—I stuck with the jocks, Dean with the other art kids. But for the months of our relationship, this was where we brought our worlds together.

 

People wave to me in front of the locker hall, where the welcome morning sun reflects harshly off our campus’s concrete geometry. Others call my name. I return quick smiles, hoping I don’t look distracted, not wanting to be unfriendly.

 

As I approach Dean, I slow my steps. Surely he’s not waiting for me. He hasn’t so much as looked my way in the past few weeks.

 

Everything in his relaxed posture, his unreadable expression, says he’s perfectly at ease. He’s leaning against the stucco wall, studying his shoes. No, I decide. He’s not here for me. He’s just here.

 

When I reach him, though, he pushes himself off the wall. He lifts his gaze from his suede chukka boots, which I only know the word for because of him. For the first time, his eyes lock on mine.

 

I wish I didn’t feel the relief rushing through me. It is definitely not the way the Kaylee who’s over this breakup would respond. The truth is, though, I’ve missed Dean more than I should.

 

Or maybe not more than I should. Maybe it makes perfect sense. I didn’t just lose my boyfriend—I lost my best friend, too.

 

“Can we talk?” he asks.

 

Just hearing his voice, spoken to me, momentarily catches me up short. I falter, waiting for my capacity for speech to return. “Of course,” I finally say.

 

He leads me past the planters outside the school’s front entrance, where there’s more privacy. The memory of how we used to use this privacy sits awkwardly in our silence. My heart is pounding like it does when I walk onto the court for every game. Dean, for his part, is expressionless, offering me no hint of what’s coming. Maybe, I wonder with wild hope, this is where we’ll begin to put our ill-advised romance behind us.

 

He doesn’t leave me in suspense for long. “So, what?” he snaps. “You have a new boyfriend already?”

 

I blink, stunned by the heat of his anger. I knew word would reach him eventually—I’d counted on it, even. I just didn’t figure it would happen this quickly. “I’m not sure he’s my boyfriend yet,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “But yeah, we’re something.”

 

Dean frowns. I have to ignore the wave of memories the expression summons. The Dean I know, the guy I’m hoping doesn’t become the Dean I knew, grimaced just like this when we’d get out of movies he didn’t like, or when social media platforms changed their interfaces or default fonts.

 

“I’m sorry if it hurts you,” I say sincerely. “But I hope we both can start to move on.” I search his expression, looking for signs he understands me. Understands I’m not moving on because I didn’t care about what we had—but because I did, in ways I’m trying not to let destroy our friendship.

 

He refuses to meet my eyes now. It’s not encouraging.

 

Nevertheless, I go on. “There are plenty of people who would love to call you their boyfriend.”

 

Dean is bi, which didn’t at all factor into our breakup. He came out to his family last year, and when he had his first kiss with a boy, I was the first person he told.

 

Back when we were best friends.

 

His expression changes, his resentment fading. “I have moved on,” he replies. Reading my raised eyebrows, he goes on. “Don’t look so skeptical. I’ve totally . . . moved on. I’m—moved.”

 

I study him, the slant of his posture, the indecipherable quirk of his mouth. Despite the loud patterns he embraces on his short-sleeve button-downs, Dean is quiet, even shy, and doesn’t open up to people easily. When he does, however, he’s . . . every wonderful thing I’ve watched him become over almost seventeen years. He’s funny, smart, and completely charming.

 

He is not, however, careless, insensitive, easygoing, or jaded, like he’s pretending to be now. I let the expanding silence say I don’t quite buy this bravado.

 

“Okay.” He eventually sighs in defeat. “So I’m not over you yet. I’m working on it, though.”

 

I have to smile. His confessional honesty is—well, it’s Dean.

 

“Don’t smile at me. It doesn’t help. I’m trying to be mad at you. Mad at you is an essential step in falling out of love with you.” He says the last sentence like he’s reading from the official medical journal of heartbreak.

 

It’s a kick in the stomach. I don’t know what hurts worse—the fact he’s still in love with me, or how hard he’s trying not to be. “So me hanging out with a new guy is helping, then?” I ask.

 

“It’s definitely not making me less mad,” he says, eyes flashing. “I think I just need closure.”

 

I sigh. “We’ve gone over this. I don’t know what more to say, Dean. I’m sorry.”

 

He goes on like I didn’t say anything. “You told me you loved me, then twelve hours later you dumped me, and now three weeks later you have a new boyfriend—”

 

“Technically not my boyfriend yet—”

 

“Not the point.” He scowls.

 

I stare up into the cloudless sky, wishing we weren’t dissecting the end of our relationship for the hundredth time. It’s not like I don’t want to explain everything to Dean in clear, painless terms. “I don’t have an explanation that will make it okay for you,” I say in exasperation. “I just didn’t want to date you anymore.”

 

Dean’s reply is immediate. It’s the one I knew was coming. “You don’t just fall out of love with someone. Not that fast.”

 

“Well, I guess I’m different.” I’m going for matter-of-fact. Instead, my words lose their footing. They land sadly on resignation.

 

Dean looks at me, his eyes searing with hope for something I just can’t give him.

 

There’s no graceful transition, but I decide to lead the conversation where I need to. “So about California . . .” I begin.