Fitz Wilding is an idiot and a love addict, and I enable both.
Get out of the car? Or stay in the car?
The familiar uptick in my heart rate is the first sign that something is wrong.
No, that’s not true. The letter in my back pocket, and the fact that I felt compelled to write it, is the first sign. The racing heart is an inevitable side effect of seeing Fitz. And of making a hard decision.
The driving rain has slowed to a misting, and I flip off the windshield wipers. Twinkle lights from the neighboring restaurants cast a hazy yellow glow across the slick pavement. My headlights have been off since I pulled into the parking lot three and a half songs ago, because I didn’t want him to see me. I don’t want him to see me. Not until I’ve decided what I’m going to do with the letter.
Get out of the car?
Stay in the car?
My palms break out in a cold sweat as my phone buzzes with a text from Fitz. Quit stalling, Collins. It’s not that cold.
Followed quickly with: I’m dying.
I’ve been caught. A smile tugs at my lips as I tap out a quick response. You’re not.
Poor Fitz. Always so dramatic.
I take the keys from the ignition and open the door to the chilly December air. It’s tempting to be disappointed in myself, especially when I spent the evening sitting in my room penning the world’s most unnecessary breakup letter, but the reality is this: It wasn’t ever a choice. He asked me to come, so of course I was going to come. That’s what best friends do.
I pull the sleeves of my sweater over my palms and walk slowly through the festive stretch of downtown Gilbert. Christmas lights are strung in shop windows and the old-fashioned streetlamps proudly display a dozen matching wreaths. Joy and cheer ooze from every brick and windowpane, a stark contrast to the sludgy sick feeling pooling in my stomach.
Despite my slow tread, I reach the water tower in no time at all. Certainly not enough time for me to have made a decision. I stop short in front of the ladder that ascends five stories into the air.
Climb or don’t climb?
Another decision to make. I run an inventory of my physical symptoms. Increased heart rate? Check. Sweaty hands? Check. Numb lips? Not yet.
I might avoid a panic attack, after all.
“Paige!” I hear the smile in Fitz’s voice. In the dark, I can just make out the brim of his baseball hat sticking over the platform as he looks down at me. “Be careful. The ladder is slick.”
“If I die because of you—” I mutter as I put my foot on the bottom rung and begin to climb.
“I’ll serve gummy worms at your funeral.” He flashes a dazzling smile, and my annoyance begins to slip. At the top, he holds an umbrella over my head with one hand, using the other to help me step from the wet ladder to the platform.
“Hang on,” he says before I sit. He shrugs out of his jacket and dries a place for me on the narrow aluminum ledge. When that’s done, we sit side by side, our legs dangling in the night, our backs leaning against the cold silo.
“Based on the fact that I’m here right now, I’m assuming tonight didn’t go well,” I say.
“It did not,” he agrees, grim faced and sullen again.
“And what was the plan?” A gust of wind blows, whistling through nearby trees. Without his sodden jacket, goose bumps erupt over his forearms. I pretend not to notice.
“It was supposed to be romantic,” he moans, rubbing his hands over his face.
“Rain is a romance staple,” I say indulgently. “What happened?”
“I blindfolded her, told her I had a surprise. I set up this whole picnic.” He motions to the damp basket next to him, filled with soggy sandwiches and limp chips. “As it turns out, she’s deathly afraid of heights.”
I can’t help but laugh. Fitz is always creating elaborate romantic scenarios, but they go up in flames at least as often as they’re successful; .500 is a great batting average but less impressive in the grand gesture department.
“You didn’t know that?” I ask. A touch of pink blooms on his cheeks. “No wonder she dumped you.” He and Molly have been dating for seven months and ten days, and that’s plenty of time to discover his girlfriend’s deepest fears. I don’t say that part out loud, though. Don’t want him to know I’m counting.
“Is there something wrong with me? Why does this keep happening?” His tone is self-deprecating, but the current of truth running under his words makes my chest swell.
My instinct is to take him by the shoulders and say: No. You’re perfect. It’s the girls who are wrong. Instead, I keep my hands to myself and say: “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
He scoffs. “What does that even mean? Trying too hard? How can you try too hard for something or someone you really want?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t try for anything I want.” It’s meant to be a joke, but it’s too true to be funny.
Maybe coming here tonight was a bad decision, after all.
The average person makes thirty-five thousand decisions every single day. I read that somewhere and it stuck in my brain, because that number? It’s big. Overwhelming. Paralyzing. Enough to make me stay in bed all day and pull the covers over my head. I also read that super successful people like Barack Obama and Mark Zuckerberg wear the same clothes every day to avoid decision fatigue.
Decision fatigue is something I understand. I feel it in my soul. Take school, for example. I couldn’t decide which elective to take this year. Drama? Clay? American Sign Language? What if I’m destined to be a famous sculptor, but I waste my talent reciting poorly memorized Shakespeare instead? Or what if taking clay, which is only available fourth hour, means that I get put in the opposite lunch period as all my friends, and I spend the entire year eating alone in the bathroom? Or what if there’s a carbon monoxide leak in the languages corridor and all the ASL kids drop over dead in first period? Grim. But possible.
“I thought she was the one,” Fitz says quietly as he lets his head fall to my shoulder.
My heart collapses. Not because he’s talking about another girl. I’m used to that by now. But because he can lean his head against my shoulder without combusting. Being this close to him makes my hands shaky and my heart wild. In contrast, his touch is casual and thoughtless; when he observes the metadata on his activity tracker tonight, skimming it for peaks in his heart rate, this physical contact won’t even register.
“The one who what?” I snap. The amount of energy I expend to not look jealous or insecure when he talks about other girls could power an entire city, but tonight, with the letter in my pocket, my mask is slipping. “Did you think you were going to get married and have tiny, gorgeous babies?”
Fitz’s role models are two disgustingly in love parents and three sisters in their twenties and thirties, all of whom raised him on a steady diet of nineties rom-coms. No wonder he’s constantly stumbling into love, trying to one-up himself with the grandest of all the grand gestures. For any guy not blessed with Fitz’s effortless good looks and impressive batting average, his romance obsession could be fodder for locker room teasing. As it is, almost everyone I know (guys included) has been in love with Fitz at some point.
Molly is not the first girl who he’s called “the one,” and she won’t be the last either. I’m horribly jealous. Practically dripping with poison-green envy. Not only because of those other girls (although that’s part of it) but also because he has a fearless heart. It’s the thing I love most about him.