The Two Week Stand by Samantha Towle

thirty

Dillon

I’m curled up on the sofa, just finishing my second cup of coffee, when I hear the bedroom door click open.

Shit. That was fast. I quickly glance at the clock. It’s not even been an hour yet. Forty minutes at the most.

Oh God, he hates it, doesn’t he? I mean, it’s not been long, so he couldn’t have read that much—unless he’s a speed-reader. Even then, there’s no way he could have finished a seventy-thousand-word book in that time. But then he doesn’t have to read the whole book to hate it. Just the first part. Or maybe he’s just taking a break, and I need to stop freaking out.

I sit up straight, put my coffee cup down, and smile at him. “Hey. All okay?”

He stays near the doorway, and I notice that he’s wearing a shirt now.

Oh, maybe he has to go out somewhere, and that’s why he stopped reading. Okay, I can relax now.

“You going out somewhere?” I ask him.

“No.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I read the ending, Dillon.”

“Oh, um, okay.” I laugh, but it sounds awkward to my own ears because I now have this off feeling in the pit of my stomach.

His voice sounded as stale as yesterday’s bread, and the only time he calls me Dillon is when he’s inside of me or annoyed with me. And he’s definitely not inside me at the moment.

“So … did you hate it? Because it’s fine if you did. I’m not sensitive. At all.” I’m totally sensitive when it comes to my work, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Is that how you see this going?” He points at me and then himself. “Me declaring my undying love for you and proposing? Us getting married and having some fucking happily ever after?”

“What?” That off feeling in my stomach turns into worry. I push up from the sofa, getting to my feet. “No, of course not.”

“You sure about that?” His expression is closed off. His jaw tight. He looks … resigned.

And that tightens the strings of worry inside me.

“Of course I’m sure. Just because I wrote the ending of the story that way doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a story.”

“About us.”

“Loosely based on us.”

“I read the beginning before I skipped to the ending. Everything about it—how we met, et cetera—is exactly as it was.”

“You knew I was going to do that! But I can’t finish the story with a sad ending. People won’t want to read that. But writing it isn’t a reflection of what I’m hoping for.” But it is. If I’m really honest, it’s all I want.

“You’re telling me, that ending is purely fiction?”

“It is fiction when it hasn’t happened.”

He exhales a sigh, and the empty, desolate sound sets off an ache deep inside of me. Like I can hear all of his thoughts in that one breath, and none of them are good.

“What I read in there, that wasn’t an ending. It was the start of something, and we will have an ending, Dillon.” He pauses. “And I think that ending should be now.”

Even when you know something is coming, it doesn’t make the impact of it hurt any less. It’s like a physical blow to the body. And the hurt from his words is cutting through my skin and climbing into my blood and bones.

I stare at him, feeling lost, my heart racing with panic. There’s no air in my lungs. Like someone is standing on my chest, crushing the life out of me.

He doesn’t want this anymore.

Doesn’t want me.

Isn’t that the story of my life?

The unwanted child.

The unwanted fiancée.

Now, the unwanted fling.

Pain runs through my veins like poison.

I could argue with him. But what would be the point? I do want him. I want to be with him. And it would only delay the inevitable. Just because my heart was hoping for different … well, that’s on me, not him. The only person I have to blame is myself. Yes, at times, this felt like we were in a relationship. And there were signs that maybe he wanted more. Moments when I thought he might feel the same as I do.

But he doesn’t. I’m not what he wants.

“Okay.” My bottom lip trembles. I press my lips together and swallow past the burning ache that’s climbing its way up my throat. My insides are crumbling under the earthquake of devastation that I’m feeling. “I’ll … do I have time to look for a flight back home, or do you want me to leave right now?”

“Jesus, Dillon.” He shakes his head. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not fucking heartless.”

It’s right there on the tip of my tongue—to ask if he’s sure about that. But that’d be a shitty thing to say. West never promised me anything. He was clear from the start. It’s not his fault that I fell in love with him. That’s on me.

“I didn’t say … I just …” I wrap my arms over my stomach, needing to hold on to something and all I have is myself. “I’ll look for a flight now.” I pick my phone up from where I left it on the sofa. But I’m not sure where to go. I don’t want to stand here and look for a flight while the reason my heart is breaking is standing right there in front of me. “I’ll pack my things while I look.” I walk past him and to the bedroom, and it’s a stupid move on my part because his scent hits me straight in the solar plexus.

Closing the door, I sit down on the edge of the bed and pull up Google. I start searching for a flight back home. Preferably the cheapest possible.

My hands are shaking. My legs too.

It’s okay, Dillon. It’s gonna be okay.

I find a flight that leaves early tomorrow morning with two changes in Vienna and Frankfurt, but they’ll get me to Manchester, and it’s cheap. It’s not like I’m in any rush to get back to England. I have nothing to go home to.

Tears well in my eyes.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes to stop them from falling.

I’m okay. I’ve gotten through worse.

Sucking in a breath, I go to West’s closet. I ignore all of his clothes hanging there, and I pull my two cases out from where they were stored. I open them both up, laying them on the floor. I pull my clothes from the hangers and drop them into the largest case. I get my underwear from the drawer he gave me to use. Then, I go to the bathroom, get my things from there, and drop them in the smaller case.

I close my cases up, and I sit back on my heels. A tear hits my leg.

Stop. No crying. Not here.

I wipe my face dry with my hands and then order an Uber from my phone.

Standing, I shove my phone in my back pocket and pull my cases upright. I get my bag from beside the bed. Remembering my phone charger, I unplug it and shove it in my bag, and then I hang it off my shoulder.

I glance around West’s room, making sure I’ve not forgotten anything else. But all I see are the times when I lay in his bed with him, his arms wrapped tight around me.

God, this hurts.

So much.

I stand there, breathing in and out, fighting down the hurt and pain and panic that all want to be free to wreck me.

I’ve got this. I just need to get out of here.

Grabbing hold of my cases, I drag them out of his bedroom.

West is standing by the window, staring out. He turns when he hears me. His eyes go down to my cases and then up to me. There’s no emotion there. Not even a flicker.

“I got a flight,” I say, hating how raw and croaky my voice sounds.

“For tonight?”

I hate even more how normal his voice sounds. This isn’t affecting him at all.

“Early tomorrow morning, but I’ll just get a room at the airport hotel.” I don’t actually know if there is one, but if not, I’ll just hang out around the airport. I don’t see myself getting much sleep tonight anyway.

“No, just stay here tonight, and I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning.”

“It’s fine, honestly.”

There’s no way I can stay here tonight. Knowing that he no longer wants me. I don’t think I could bear to be under the same roof as him and not be with him.

“It’s best if I go.”

“Can I drive you to the airport?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got an Uber coming.”

“Can I at least help you with your bags?”

“No. I got them.” My words are short because I need this over with. I need to get out of here.

“Okay.” He rakes a hand through his hair, and I feel a pang of pain in my chest, knowing that I’ll never get to touch him that way again.

My throat is burning, and tears are threatening my eyes again. I need to leave.

Dragging my cases to the front door, I leave them there. I go to the small closet where my shoes and jacket are and put them on.

I turn back to West. He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing in the same spot. And my heart aches so fucking much.

“So … I guess this is good-bye.”

He says nothing, and I fidget on the spot, wanting more than anything to stay but knowing that I have to leave.

I open the door and drag my cases out into the hall. West still hasn’t moved, hasn’t said anything.

I take a step back into the apartment. “I just wanted …” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat. “I wanted to say thank you.”

His brow furrows. It’s the first real sign of emotion I’ve seen in him since he walked out of his bedroom and ended us. “You’re thanking me?”

“For inviting me to stay here with you. It’s been”—everything—“nice.”

“Nice,” he echoes.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I get it out and look at the screen. “So, um … my Uber is here.” It’s time to go. My insides start to rattle as the reality of the situation takes hold.

This is the last time I’ll ever see him. Ever speak to him.

I stare at him, desperately trying to soak up the last remnants of him that I’ll ever have, imprinting him into my memory. Wanting him to come over to me. Say something, anything. Even if it’s good-bye. But even more, I wish that he’d tell me he made a mistake. That he doesn’t want me to go.

He does nothing.

I take a step back as disappointment cuts through me, and I reach for the door handle to close it.

“Dillon.”

My heart pauses at the sound of my name. I look over at him. “Yes?”

He stares at me for what feels like an eternity. Then, he looks away. “Have a safe flight.”

“Have a safe flight.”Those four words crush the small fragments that remain of my heart to dust and make my eyes sting with tears that I can’t stop.

Turning from him, I shut the door. The thunk of it closing is so final.

The end.