All things considered, mine and Preston's new arrangement is working well. We've switched from speaking every day to speaking a handful of times a week, and we're seeing each other less–once, maybe twice a week, always in a group context. His second meeting with Rhys was the only exception, and even then, we were only alone together for the journey to Richmond and back. By most people's standards, that's still a significant amount of time to spend in someone's company. For us, it's kind of weird, sure, but that's the point. Our new normal needs to match everyone else's regular normal.
It's been working as hoped too. I've been seeing Nick more often, and I assume the same goes for him and Dana. Our romantic relationships have sort of become an implicit no-go topic when we do catch up. So yeah. The space Preston and I have carved between us is working as we'd hoped.
And it's made me realise I need to break up with Nick. For good, this time.
Without Preston as a distraction, I've realised he was never the problem, not really. Nick's lovely; an absolute sweetheart who I couldn't fault if I tried, and any girl would be beyond blessed to have him. Just not me. There's nothing to really pinpoint, and it's nothing he's done. I'm just... not that into him. I feel like such a shitty person for fucking him about after everything that went down over Christmas, but the cruelest thing for me to do would be to keep pretending.
I need to be the bad guy, one last time.
'Are you sure this is okay?' I ask into my long mirror, locking my eyes with Margot's as she sits cross-legged in front of it. 'I'm worried it's too lazy looking, like I'm giving a message of I'm ending things and I literally couldn't care less.'
'You know,' Margot replies, then pauses as she runs a straightener through her hair. 'I don't think I've ever known someone to get so stressed over what to wear to dump someone.'
'Ugh, I know. I never cared this much about what I wore to our dates, for Christ's sake.'
Margot flashes me a sympathetic look, then shrugs. 'Probably a sign you're doing the right thing.'
True.
'Okay, I'm–Fuck it, I'm going,' I declare as I reach down to grab my pink shoulder bag from my bed. 'In theory, I shouldn't be long, so I'll be back in, like, an hour?'
As I'm moving towards my bedroom door, Margot says, 'keep me updated, and if you need a fake family emergency phone call, I'm your gal.'
'This is why I love you!' I shout back to her, then leave my room with a deep breath.
I meet Nick at Dolly's cafe, which I only realise is our first date location as I'm stepping through its doors. It's somewhere we frequent pretty regularly, so its significance never occurred to me, and now I feel like an even bigger asshole than before. So that's great.
Nick's already sitting at a table when I arrive, so with the bravest face I can muster, I approach the window seat he's left free for me.
'Hi!' I say, probably a little too enthusiastically.
'Hey, Mia,' he says in a notably more normal tone.
He's dressed as cleanly as ever without a hair our of place as he stands to give me a hug, and I can't untangle whether there's an awkwardness between us, or if I'm imagining one as a result of what I know is coming. Nick's already bought our drinks, so I thank him, then wrap my hands around my mug of hot chocolate.
God, this is going to be horrible. I hate this. I'm going to really bloody hate–
'I bumped into Dana on campus the other day,' Nick pipes up, seemingly out of nowhere.
He–What? I stammer. Where can this possibly be going?
My instinct is to freeze, but I fight it and ask in a causal tone, 'oh, really?
'Yeah.'
'Talk about anything interesting?' I pry because I'm desperate to get this exchange over with.
He releases a short laugh as he glances down at his coffee mug, and I'm staring at his perfectly neat, dark hair, confused. He's tracing his thumb up and down his mug's red handle, and I'm mesmerised by the action as he finally answers my question.
'You lied to me about you and Preston.'
My stomach drops. No. Fuck. Of course that's what they talked about. Of course it is. I'm shaking my head so quickly that it's making me dizzy, and I resist a stutter.
'Dana assumed I knew, I think,' Nick continues. 'So it was a bit fucking awkward when she mentioned it, to be honest.'
I'm still shaking my head as I say, 'it's–I didn't lie. You never asked.'
The words sound even more flimsy aloud than they did in my head.
'I did. On our double date, I asked if you and him had always just been friends.'
He finally looks up to meet my gaze, but I wish he hadn't because his deep, brown eyes are filled with strain, as if he can't decide whether he wants to yell or cry. I squirm. God, I'm literally squirming like some cartoon villain.
'And that's one-hundred percent the truth. We've always just been friends, I swear. It wasn't–It was one time.'
Nick starts tracing his mug's handle again, his lips pursed in what I assume is contemplation until he sighs, then shrugs.
'I'm not sure that's really the point,' he argues. 'I figured it might've occurred to you to mention that you'd fucked him.'
The bluntness of his words sting, and if my drink was deep enough, I'd not give drowning myself in it a second thought. I apologise, but Nick's shaking his head and muttering something under his breath. I try apologising again, and again, but he still says nothing to me.
Then, without warning, he snaps his head back up to meet my eyes and say, 'I think we should end things.'
I almost laugh. Despite knowing it would be the worst possible idea, I want to tell him that's the whole point of us meeting. That's why I turned up today–to break things off. Instead of trying to one-up him, I just nod, then apologise again. Only, I'm not sure that's the right response either because he's laughing again, this time with a sharp edge to his voice.
'See,' he says like it's obvious. 'You're not even trying to fight our case.'
He's right. I know he's right, and he knows he's right, and everything is such a mess. With a long sigh, he lifts his drink to his mouth, finishing it off with one final gulp.
'Look, it's–' He stands, then sighs again. 'There are no hard feelings, honestly. I've obviously just walked into something bigger than me, and it–Just yeah, I'm sorry to end things, I really am, but it's for the best.'
He shrugs his long, camel jacket on, hesitates, then says, 'at least you and Preston don't have any obstacles now, right?'
Again, I deem it best not to overstep the mark and point out that Dana's technically still an obstacle.
I somehow feel even more terrible over messing Nick around by the time I arrive home. Margot still has no idea about Preston and me, so I claim some general he didn't think it was working excuse when she asks how he ended up being the one who did the dumping, a lie that makes me feel even more awful.
For reasons I'm too chronically tired to untangle, the end of whatever Nick and I had drives me further from Preston. Maybe it's the guilt over the Nick situation, or maybe it's my way of avoiding slipping back into old habits and consequently fucking things up for Preston and Dana, but I start only ever really seeing him during Typewriter meetings. I still check up on him over text, but I don't let our conversations run too long.
It's the end of March, deadlines are finally out of the way, and our second semester at uni is drawing to a close. As there was no Typewirter meeting this week and I was too hungover after an impromptu night out to attend the last one, I've not seen Preston for over two weeks. It's nothing. In the grand scheme of things, two weeks is nothing, especially when I consider I didn't see him for an entire year, but it feels like a lifetime.
That's why when I knock on his and Margot's front door wearing a little red dress after she essentially blackmailed me into joining what she's claiming to be my celebratory birthday night out, my reaction to Preston appearing is a blank, silent stare. The only saving grace is that he does exactly the same thing.
'Oh, hey,' I say through a stutter as I take in his semi-formal overshirt. 'I thought you said you were going to pass on tonight.'
Margot's head suddenly appears from around him. 'He's actually incredibly easy to blackmail. Told him it was your birthday thing, and that was it.'
'It's not my birthday thing!' I shout, but she's already skipping back into the house while cackling.
'Seriously,' I say, turning back to Preston. 'It's not. You don't have to come.'
He's smiling, and it's nice. God, I love seeing him smile.
'I was admittedly a bit offended you didn't invite me to your birthday celebrations,' he replies, 'so it's reassuring to know that Margot was bullshitting.'
I smile back at him, and we fall into silence as he gestures me inside. I have so many things I want to say to him, to ask him, but I don't know where to begin and I've suddenly forgotten how to even talk to him as we walk through the downstairs hallway.
'Is Nick meeting us at the–'
'Mia!' a deep voice interrupts Preston, and I turn from him to see Joe barrelling towards us with open arms. 'Happy birthday!'
I groan as Preston steps aside for Joe to embrace me, practically squeezing the life from me.
'My birthday's tomorrow,' I reply once my lung capacity returns.
'Is it?' he questions, visibly confused as we wander into the living area.
'I'm literally going to kill your girlfriend,' I grumble, which makes both guys laugh at my expense.
When Margot and I combine our blackmailing abilities, we can perform outright miracles because we somehow convince Preston to drink more than two beers. Despite claiming otherwise at the beginning of the night, I'm now fully rolling with the whole birthday celebrations thing, and so use that as my main ammunition to convince him to let loose more than usual.
While walking to our first Clapham bar of the night, I quietly assured him that he doesn't actually have to drink, but he shrugged it off.
'Once a year won't kill me,' he said with a wink that made me feel freshly resurrected.
Joe orders everyone a round of shots at the first place, which can't be easy on his wallet because there are nine of us. However, I quickly conclude he must really fucking hate me because they're tequila, my arch nemesis (excluding myself). It's at this venue that Preston miraculously returns from ordering our second round with a giant birthday badge.
'Please don't tell me you found this in a pile of sick outside or something!' I call to him over our table while waving the badge in the air.
He shakes his head. 'While I wish I'd thought of that, alas not. I asked the barman if they had any, which led to my discovery that they had multiple. Lost and found, I presume.'
'Ah,' Margot chimes in from my right. 'So for all we know, could've originated in a pile of sick.'
I contemplate Margot's point for half a second, shrug, then pin the badge onto my tight dress, somehow without stabbing myself in the boob.
'I'm sure they cleaned it,' I conclude, snapping my head back up.
My comment–at least I hope it's my comment, not my boob stabbing–earns me a laugh from the table. There are some Typewriter Magazine members in attendance, alongside a few of Preston's housemates, and I'm praying Dana's omission doesn't boil down to me.
The night's final destination is a sticky-floored club in the middle of Clapham, and as Preston and I are the only ones without any jackets to check-in, we find ourselves alone for the first time since he answered the door to me earlier. The first time in about a month, excluding then.
We're waiting in the windowless red lobby, the soundproofing flimsy at best because the stairs leading down to the club can't be more than ten feet away. I'm looking anywhere that isn't in Preston's general direction while silently cursing myself for not getting more drunk. I'm heavily tipsy at most.
I can hardly bear it, and the pulsing club music is too weak of a distraction, so I give in and swivel around to face him. He's already looking at me–I don't think he ever wasn't.
'You should've invited Dana,' I offer because I hate myself, apparently.
His eyebrows briefly knit together as he shifts his attention towards the staircase opposite us, then shrugs.
'I ended things with her, so I imagine that might've been rather awkward.'
I blink. No, he can't have; I would've noticed. At a Typewriter meeting, or–Well, I guess I missed the last two, and come to think of it, Dana and Preston didn't interact much at the other two meetings post-Brighton. I put that down to a privacy thing, though. I mean, Preston's hardly renowned for his PDA.
I don't know what to think, let alone say, so as always, I decide to make an ass of myself.
'Oh, that's–Wow, sorry. That's such a shame. What happened? How long–When did you end things?'
He scratches the back of his head, tugging at a few light strands on his neck, but keeps his eyes forward.
'When we got back from Brighton.'
What? Wait, what? Brighton was nearly a month ago. I stare at him, mouth open and eyes wide.
'You didn't... Why didn't you say anything?'
'You were so enthusiastic about us,' he murmurs, granting me a brief glance and a shrug before turning back to the stairway. 'I didn't want to disappoint you or distract you from Nick when you and he are doing so well.'
Suddenly, I'm laughing. Hysterically. Frankly, anyone walking past us to hit the dancefloor downstairs must think I'm either in the middle of a breakdown, or am ten times drunker than I actually am. When I finally gather myself, Preston's watching me with raised eyebrows and crossed arms, and above all else, I'm thrilled in the knowledge that I've rendered him utterly and painfully confused.
'Nick and I have broken up,' I explain, meeting his eyes.
Preston's response is unreadable. Not just typical Preston unreadable, but the-meaning-of-life-and-the-universe unreadable. It throws me. The smile that remained from my laughter wavers, and I'm lost in the green of his eyes as heavy dubstep music drowns anything resembling my ability to think straight. Naturally, I resist the feeling with more bullshit.
'Which is actually a depressingly funny story because I met up with him intending to end things, but he beat me to it, so that's karma, I guess.' I comedically roll my eyes as if I'm auditioning for some daytime sitcom. 'But it's–Yeah, no, my point is ditto. We broke up. Not seeing him anymore, or anyone generally, but it–Yeah.' I cough. 'I'll stop talking now, sorry.'
A beat passes.
'Right,' he says, his eyes moving across my face as if analysing every last detail.
'Yep,' I concur.
Another beat passes.
'Cool.'