Page 89 of Drowning Erin

He returns to Amsterdam for a week, but the flowers keep coming.

“My house looks like a florist’s shop,” says Harper. “And believe me, I’m not complaining. But how long are you going to let this go on?”

“I already told him to stop.”

“I don’t mean the flowers. I mean you. You’ve been the most miserable human alive now for going on two weeks. Something’s got to change. If Brendan is out of the picture, why aren’t you going out with Rob?”

“Because I slept with his best friend, for starters.”

“So what?” she asks. “Rob told you he didn’t care, and you know he slept with Christina. Sure, he’d be pissed off and hurt if he knew about Brendan, and he’d probably never talk to him again, but it wouldn’t change how he feels about you. He’s obviously in it for the long haul. Either way, it’s time to move on.”

Moving on. I want that too.

I remember when I first met Rob—at Will and Olivia’s engagement party—how it felt like a relief. I was tired of wanting Brendan, tired of fighting it. I wanted it to end. I want it to end now. It has to, because while all of those high points with Brendan were amazing, I can no longer live with the lows.

62

Brendan

Three Years Earlier

Somehow I get Gabi outside of the bar. She’s crying, but it’s the sheer devastation on her face that kills me. She expected better of me, and I allowed her to expect better of me when I should have told her the truth up front, which is that I am exactly the guy I knew I was: incapable of commitment, careless with others. And I’ve been more careless with her than I’ve ever been before because I allowed her to think we meant something.

She goes boneless when we get outside, sliding down the bar’s exterior wall into a heap on the sidewalk. “I thought you loved me,” she weeps. “You said you loved me.”

We’ve only got two days left, and I know I should say something to smooth things over, but I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired, and I’ve put up with more tears and drama in two months than most people do in their lives. I’m done.

“Gabi, you’re leaving. I just think it’s run its course.”

“I’m not leaving,” she says. “I deferred for a year. For you.”

My entire being cringes. How long ago did she do it? Was it weeks ago, when I was busy counting the days until her departure? She will now start medical school a year late, entirely because I allowed her to believe things that weren’t true.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“I thought you’d be happy,” she cries, burying her face in her hands.

People walking by stare at us, then glare at me. They don’t even know us, don’t even speak our language, yet they know I’m the one who fucked up. And they’re right.

I crouch next to her. “Come on, honey,” I beg. “Let’s just go back to the apartment, okay?”

“Are you breaking up with me?” she demands.

“Gabi, you need to go to medical school. I don’t want to be the reason you’re staying.”

“You’re worth it to me. I don’t even care. I’ll skip it entirely, and we’ll just stay in Italy if that’s what you want.”

I am tempted to lie. I am tempted to say whatever I have to in order to get us back to the apartment, where it won’t be so fucking awkward to sort things out. But I can’t lie anymore. If only I hadn’t lied in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry. But this isn’t what I want.”

63

Erin

Present

The horrible branding campaign—full of trite phrases and insincere accolades—is finally complete. All the copy has been signed off on. The photo shoots are over. I’m relieved it’s behind me.