tyler seguin | i still see your face (nsfw)
summary: you and tyler break up. it’s harder than you thought it would be.
a/n: highly recommend listening to driver’s licence by olivia rodrigo to get the whole vibe. my spotify must think i have a problem by the constant repeat.
It’s not like you haven’t had a break up before. It’s just that this one feels different. Raw. A ragged edge that’s been torn. You drink too much beer and sleep too little. Your friends rally around you, of course they do, drag you to clubs with too many teenagers, tell you they never liked Tyler anyway. But the lie is thin, and in the dim bathroom of the bar one says, but why did you guys break up? What happened? You blink at her, mouth tasting of tequila. I don’t know.
Of course you know. You’re an adult. You made this decision together, sat on his couch. One of his throw pillows hugged to your chest so he couldn’t see the way your hands were shaking.
“If this is really what you want,” Tyler had said, and you could hear the scratch in his throat, the way his eyes shone too bright. Unshed tears.
You hadn’t been able to speak, tongue too thick, hot tears on your cheeks, fresh ones ready to replace as they dried sticky on your chin.
He was away from home too much. Your lives were going in different directions. You had opportunities to travel with work, and it’s not like he could come with you. It was best to do it now, a clean break, rather than struggle on, slowly tearing.
You’d cried all the way home from his house, struggling to keep the wheel straight. Your mother would have been horrified by the reckless driving. When you’d finally dared to look at your phone, that first night alone, Tyler’s text made you sob all over again. I love you. Always.
You talk to him, sometimes. You can’t help yourself. It’s like an itch that becomes unbearable. You have to scratch. Meaningless text message chains. How are you? Fine, you? I’m okay. I miss you. I miss you too. You know it’s not helpful, not the path towards healing that your married friends preach. But it makes it easier to sleep. Knowing he’s still out there. It’s a blissful kind of agony when he texts you unprompted, in the middle of the night, sometimes the middle of the afternoon. I think of you all the time or I dreamt about you or I thought I saw you at the game. Your own misery overwhelms. Winter sets in. You struggle through grey days, take the long way home to drive past his street. Pray you don’t see another car next to his.
You cry on the phone to your mother, great big sobs like a child does when they’ve lost their favourite toy. She tells you she’ll fly out.
“No, it’s okay. I’m a big girl. I can do this.”
“You can,” she assures, but the surety seeps away as soon as you hang up. A bottle of wine in front of the television. Take out. You’re either starving or not hungry at all now. You only watch ten minutes of an episode before you’re switching to the NHL channel. It’s too hard to forget the schedule. It’s like a reminder in your brain when you wake up in the morning, he’s playing today. You used to nap together, in the afternoons before games. The weak sunlight, the dancing dust mites. A Friend’s episode turned low. Tyler would reach for you in his sleep, nuzzle into your neck. Like he could never get close enough. Like he knew you would leave one day.
A mutual friends birthday. You’d tried to make excuses, but even you didn’t believe them.
“It’s worse to avoid him,” your friend says, “It will only make it harder later.”
So in an effort to do the Right Thing, to be a Big Girl, and Move On, you find yourself drinking too strong punch, pieces of apple and orange floating in a plastic cup, leaning into a guy you just met and laughing too loud.
And it is fun. For awhile. A mix of old friends and new. Loud music. And for most of the night, he’s not there. He’s so late you think he’s not coming. And you pretend you’re crying because you’re relieved and not because you’re disappointed. You’ve been smart enough to take yourself to the bathroom for the small meltdown, bent over the counter and taking deep breaths. You’re too old to be getting this smashed at a house party. It’s hard to focus on yourself in the mirror, bending light. It’s a good thing he’s not coming, you tell yourself, and wish you could believe it.
You’re headed to the kitchen, the sink full of ice and hiding your drinks. Tyler is there. Tyler is there, standing in the hallway, talking to the host. His big hand makes the beer he’s holding look like a kid’s toy. He’s laughing, crinkly eyes, the sound reaching you. Slapping the guy on the shoulder, enjoying the joke. He’s so happy. How can he be so happy?
Dark eyes meet yours, the fall of his mouth from the grin. He goes to say something, call out maybe, but you’re turning away already, pushing back into the lounge room, the backdoor. Fresh air. Cold crisp of a Texan winter. The weather reporters are saying it might snow this year. He finds you. Of course he does. In the back-garden, looking up at the moon, counting stars. Your name in a familiar voice. The way he says it makes your heart hurt. You can barely look at him, the grass moving under your feet as you turn to face him. Curls peeking out from under a beanie. Black hoodie, dark jeans. You recognise the hoodie. You used to wear it to bed sometimes.
“Hi,” you say, trying to be causal, wanting desperately to be, but at the same time you’re reaching out, clinging onto his arm. Don’t ever let go again.
Tyler smiles, sad and small, “It’s nice to see you.”
“Yeah,” you breathe, head back, gazing up at him. The moon has nothing on Tyler. Come back to me, you want to say, but this is your fault. You did this. You made this happen.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says, and you think yes, yes, just ask me, I’ll come back I promise, “I think it’s better if we don’t talk anymore. It’s too hard.”
“Oh,” you say. It suddenly seems so much colder out here. “Okay.”
You watch him walk away, back into the house, the light of the party. And if you cry in the Uber on the way home, no one else has to know.
The first time you sleep together, afterwards, you could almost convince yourself it’s an accident. Not talking hadn’t lasted long. A loss, a commiserating text, a wish to just go back to the way things were. We can, you’d said, just for one night.
It’s almost awkward, the way he’s a stranger around you again. He looks tired, sore, sweatpants and a hoodie. Pink cheeks from the cold outside. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling around his ears. You want to stay here, like this, forever, letting him sit you down in the bed, holding your face in his big hands to kiss you from where he stands between your knees. The way Tyler says your name, wanting, needy. The press of his body on yours. You missed this. You missed this so much. It would never be the same with anyone else. The way he touches you, so carefully, so purposefully. He knows just how you like it, just how you work together.
It’s a habit, for you to be on top after a game, not worth making him expend any more energy. But he fights you for it, doesn’t let you settle, rolls you over onto your back again. You protest, mildly.
“It’ll make you sore,” you say, can’t stop touching him, his hair, his face, his back, his chest. His skin is warm from the hoodie.
“Don’t care,” Tyler says, a crooked smile, nudging his nose against yours, “I want it like this, want to see you properly.”
Your heart is broken and remade simultaneously. It’s all you can do not to pull the doona over both of you and hide forever, keep him here like a prisoner. Cherish him for an age. His mother would never forgive you.
Your body aches for him, as he nudges open your legs, kisses your mouth, your neck, your breasts. You should take your time, enjoy it, the last time, but you can’t help but surge towards the end.
“Want you inside me,” you whisper, fingers on his hips, angling him.
“Yeah,” Tyler rasps, aligning himself, “Fuck. Yeah, please.”
The relief of him sinking home, the opening of your body to him. It’s too easy, almost, the rhythm he settles into. Your legs tight around his waist, groaning when he pulls one up over his shoulder, finds a new angle. A big hand palming at your breast, the way he says your name, thick and low. You come a few moments before him, get off on the way he watches you, holds you, fingers caressing just above where he slides in and out of you. It takes everything not to cry, the final release, the drop of endorphins.
Tyler shakes when he comes, a whole body shudder as he holds himself deep, panting against your ear. You stare at the ceiling and blink away tears. How could you ever have walked away from this? Nothing feels right unless he’s here.
Later, he gets up to leave, but you reach out before he can get out of bed.
“Please stay,” you whisper, pathetic. Tyler’s a shadow in the dark, but he’s warm when he slides back under the covers, gathers you up against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat as you fall asleep.
It takes you another week to swallow your pride. You call your mother, again, cry on the phone, again.
“I think I was wrong, I think I made a huge mistake.”
“If he is who you say he is,” she counsels, “He’ll forgive you.”
You’re convinced that someone will be in your parking spot the whole drive to his house. A new car. A girl’s car. You can’t breathe along his whole tree lined street, until you see the empty spot. Like it’s waiting for you. Like it has been this whole time.
You almost slump into him when he opens the door, the relief, the grief. He’s surprised to see you. Sleepy. Got in late last night from a Roadie. The dogs are everywhere at once, bumping you into each other as they try to get a cuddle. Tyler stumbles into you, forced by Marshall’s heavy tail. Your hand on his ribcage, steadying. Are you really going to do this? On his front step? Behind him, you can see your red coat on the coat hook. So that’s where it was. You’ve been looking for it in the cold. And he’s kept it, this whole time. Waiting for you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, “I’m so, so sorry.”
Tyler shakes his head, confused, furrowed brow, “What’s going on?”
“I made a mistake. I made a stupid mistake. I got scared, and I panicked. The truth is. I love you. And I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. And it’s scary. I’m so scared. But I shouldn’t have taken it on you like this. It was wrong. And if you can’t. If you can’t forgive me I understand. But. I really, really want you, too.”
He says your name, quietly, prayer like. Your hand is still on his chest.
“Are you sure?” He asks, and the dogs are still all around you, the front door is wide open. Tyler’s socked feet on the porch.
And he’s laughing. He’s laughing. And he’s kissing you. Warm and fresh and familiar. And then you’re laughing and then you’re crying and Tyler is just holding, holding, holding you.
And along the street, a warm breeze blows through the trees. The promise of summer.
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