PROLOGUE
BEVAN
A Year and a Half Ago
The house is silent save for the footsteps clomping up the staircase.
I’d know the gait anywhere, since I’ve heard it on repeat for so many years of my life. The way Callum walks could be a song on the soundtrack of us, the one I’ve played in my head since freshman year of high school.
I’m hunched over the second-hand desk in my room, trying to focus all of my energy on a textbook detailing torts, when I feel his presence behind me. That’s another sixth sense I’ve developed over the almost seven years we’ve been together.
I wonder, idly, how he got the off-campus college house we share so empty in the middle of the day. Did he tell our other four roommates that he was coming up here to have a talk with me? Because I’m not dumb, I know what’s coming. My two best girlfriends, Amelie and Taya, must have been instructed not to come home until we’re either back together and humping the day away, or I’m crying into my plain gray comforter I got for a steal from Marshall’s. As for Austin, Taya’s boyfriend, he’s probably already packed and ready for graduation, a day the rest of us won’t see for two more years. Then there is Scott, our lone wolf party boy, who probably didn’t need to be told to do anything and is still in the bed of the girl he met last night.
We used to be a tight-knit crew; the roommates of Six Prospect Street. And then Callum and I started slowly breaking everyone down with our fighting. We chiseled away the fun atmosphere, both in our enormous repurposed Victorian and in our relationship. Now we’re here in the silence, and I know my reckoning has come calling.
Swiveling in my chair, I turn to face the boy who has every single one of my firsts.
His big body takes up most of the room in the doorframe, and he anchors himself with one arm grasping the wood next to him. Raven black hair falls in choppy locks onto his forehead, while the tic of his jaw, that usually sends me spiraling into lust, brings about nothing but anxious tension. I know that underneath that gray T-shirt are the abs my hands have traced hundreds of times, and under the black gym shorts is an ass so tight and perfect, there should be statues erected to duplicate it.
It’s hard to meet his eyes, because of the shame radiating through me, but I do it. I’m no coward. If anything, I’m the viper in this situation, bold enough to bite anyone’s head off. Deep, dark brown, the color of rich coffee grounds, assess me. In those almost-black pits I see sadness, resentment, and a resignation that is more chilling than anything.
No one could claim my first love isn’t the most devastatingly gorgeous man they’ve ever set eyes on. I can’t even pretend it isn’t true, and I half-hate him in this moment.
“We can’t continue to do this.”
Normally, his voice is all fire and passion. Even when Callum is discussing pizza toppings, he throws his entire soul into it. It’s one of the things I love most about him, that ability to make even the simplest things in life seem fun and exciting.
But now, that deep vibrato has lost all of its spark. We’ve sucked it out of him, the two of us. Isn’t that what they say? Couples who don’t even want to fight anymore are the ones who are doomed? I think, with panic lighting up my chest, that might be us right now.
“You’re the one constantly fighting with me.” I cross my arms over my chest, knowing that’s a complete lie.
We’re both equally at fault for the state of our relationship. But I’m the one at the core of the issue, the party here who has needled doubt and injected trust issues.
Callum sighs, like he’s done fighting the fight we’ve fought a billion times. Push, pull, excuse, screaming, apologizing, making up … the cycle is endless and we’re constantly repeating it.
“I love you. I am so in love with you still, after all of this time. And because of that blinding love, I’ve let this go too far. When I’m with you, I can’t see straight. It makes me forget, even if just for a moment, how damaged we are.”
“So you’re going to give up? You know, I knew it. I knew you’d abandon me, exactly like I always said,” I toss back, my venom lashing in his direction.
Deflection. I know the term well. It’s been spit at me in so many fights with Callum, noted by shrinks, and tossed around in Internet articles I’ve deep dived into. It’s my best weapon, my defensive go-to.
And though I see Callum cringe when I label him as abandoning me, I see the resolve set heavy in his broad shoulders.
“If you really think that’s what is going on here, you’re better at lying to yourself than even I thought.” He looks down at his bare feet, the arms roped with muscle, and those sexy tricep veins shrugging in defeat.
My mouth drops open. We’ve said some fucked-up shit to each other over the years, but I’ve never heard him so solemnly drop a barb.
“The only person lying to themselves is you. You’re breaking up with me because you can’t take how hard life gets. You can’t face that not everything is easy, that some of us are used to challenges and fighting for what we want.”
Callum is notorious in our circle of friends for being the one without direction. Content to float in his general studies major, he lets life happen to him and doesn’t bat an eye. My boyfriend, though it seems like that title is about to vanish, is happy settling for the bare minimum and just drifting if it means he can be unbothered and unchallenged. I used to find it endearing, dreaming of a future where I’d be the hardworking bread winner and he could be the backup partner who just supported all of my goals.
Over time, though, I’ve become incensed with him because of it. What kind of person just doesn’t have drive?
He pinches the bridge of his perfect Roman nose, the midnight hair I’ve had my hands in countless times rustling as he shakes his head.
“Think that, Bevan.” It stings that he uses my full name and not the usual baby endearment he’s called me since we started dating. “Either way, we have to stop. It’s over. Our relationship is beyond repair, and I can’t continue to hurt myself or you like this. We’re done.”
Each syllable hits like a bullet. Callum didn’t use the words maybe we should, I think, or time apart. No, this is a clear declaration of the end. He’s cutting us off, no if, ands, or buts. There isn’t an out or a clause that maybe we can come back together after a period of time. This is it.
We are breaking up.
The thought sends me into a tailspin, and my hands start to sweat as my mouth goes dry.
“You do this all the time. We’ll be fine next week.” In my brain, I pose it as a question, but my voice doesn’t speak it that way.
Callum takes a step into the room, like he might come over to wrap his arms around me. But then he stops himself. Inside, I’m crumbling, falling apart brick by brick like he took a sledgehammer to every part of me. This is the boy who knows me the best out of anyone in this world, even if I haven’t shown him every part. He’s the one who has held my hand through life, and I thought we’d grow up and get married. We’ve had our children’s names picked since we were juniors in high school. Callum and I daydreamed about our first apartment after college, about where we’d vacation and about the dog we’d one day rescue from a shelter.