The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Fifty-Three

ONCE YOU FINISH THIS STORY GO READ MORE ABOUT LIZ AND DYLAN IN MY NEW STORY "THE CLUB"

Chapter Fifty-Three

      "So, we're in agreement?"

      "Yeah."

      "You're not going to go nuts and slash my mom's tires or start stalking me, are you?"

      "No, Liz."

      "Okay."

      "It's because of Collins, isn't it?"

      "A little, I guess."

      "You love him?" he asked, but it wasn't so much of a question as more of an assertion that, yes, I loved him. I stared at the gorgeous boy before me, wondering how to answer. It would be like putting salt on a wound—or however the fuck that saying went, and it just didn't seem like the appropriate thing. Also, I wasn't entirely sure that the claim was completely true. Love wasn't something I had a tendency to ponder. He took my silence as affirmation, though it wasn't fully, and continued to speak. "You do. Well, Liz, it was an honor to be your first real boyfriend, despite the fact that the relationship was partially built on lies."

      "And it was a pleasure to be your second real girlfriend," I returned.

      "I'm going to try to quit the, uh, pot, you know," he told me, his emerald eyes tearing into mine. Though a label no longer officially connected us, I still found his eyes utterly enchanting to look into. They were so beautiful.

      "You're going to make a girl very happy one day, Eric," I said, scanning his tanned face for what felt like the last time, though I knew that it wasn't. I would still be going to school with him and seeing him in classes, so it wasn't actually our final encounter, yet it was, in a way. It was like he was done with his sojourn in my life, and was now leaving—which he was. I wasn't happy about it, but I wasn't sad, for that matter, either. The feelings I felt towards the "breakup" were relatively apathetic ones.

      Even though it was generally associated with a negative time full of heartbreak and sorrow, I liked the word "breakup." It was fitting. It wasn't a synonym for spiraling into a deep depression full of miserable times related to emotions where one wrote or listened to sappy music of despair, but merely just a suiting word. The term itself was a compound one, and in the literal meaning was to simply separate. That was exactly what we were doing—separating.

      Eric wasn't becoming a psycho-killer and I wasn't going to become the next Emily Dickinson or have a Brittney meltdown. All we were doing was disaffiliating from our correlation. It was a hell of a lot more peaceful and effective than the failed succession that led to the American Civil War, too, which was always a plus. It wasn't like all the breakups I had seen on TV or in movies—it was better. I mean, it wasn't a good thing, but it didn't result in anything bad. Like Switzerland, it was just neutral.

      "And you're going to make Collins happy," he stated. "He loves you." Again, there wasn't an inquisitive tint to his tone, but more a sense of omniscient knowledge of which I hadn't previously been aware.

      "Why do you say that? What need is there to bring the 'L-Word' into everything?" I laughed, trying to turn the situation light. I didn't like dealing with overall sentiments, and I never had.

      "Liz," he began, "Dylan was my best friend. Sure, he had crushes on girls over the years, but it was nothing like this. Do you think that he's the type of guy that would punch somebody for just anyone?" I shook my head. "Liz, he loves you."