“Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you
in fifteen.”
I hang up and start putting away
my sandwich wrapper and the oatmeal cookie I was saving for dessert. “Cover for
me first?” I ask Irene.
She nods. “Good luck.”
There is a certain
amount of preparation that should go into meeting up with an ex, and it occurs
to me that I should be pissed that I do not have the privilege of time right
now. If I had known this was going to happen, I would have gotten a haircut, or
worn a nicer shirt, or at least shaved. I would have been confident, I would
have walked in with a swagger, I would have felt so good about myself that it didn’t
matter how I felt about you.
You are waiting for me by the
door, a huge smile on your face. You throw your arms around me, and one whiff
of your hair and the feel of your cheek pressed against mine bring everything
back: that bottle of beer you shoved into my hands, the sound of your voice
when it’s two AM and you’ve had too much to drink, the warmth of your fingers intertwined with
mine, that first and only kiss. You pull away and lead me to a table for two by
the window. As you sit down, I think, Y ou are always finding ways to get my hopes up.
I say, “It’s been a while.”
“I’ve been busy,” you explain. I
hate how you think this was your decision, how you don’t even consider the fact
that maybe I’ve been busy, too.
“How are you?” you ask. You look
great, like you’re happy and satisfied and excited about something, and I want
to give you a rundown of how things have more or less worked out okay for
me—how I am doing well at my job, taking my Masters, thinking of putting
up a food business, trying to go running at least twice a month, spending time
with my family on weekends, and catching up with old friends one at a time when
we do clear up our schedules. How I am, despite your absence, not entirely
miserable. But I don’t want you to think that I am just doing this to prove a
point, so I reply with the standard, “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”
“I’m great,” you tell me. “Except
for one thing, which I finally have the courage to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
You tuck your hair behind one ear
nervously, take a deep breath, and say, “I made a mistake. With an ex. I took
him for granted, and I let something very special go. I want him back. I need
him back.” Your eyes plead with me, and your voice is laced with something that
sounds like regret.
I can’t believe I’m hearing this
from you. I waited for you for months, and now that you are here, pouring your
heart out to me, I don’t know what to tell you. There could be too much damage
between us, and it could be too late. And this is what I want to know: I was
there for you, always, for every single minute of every single day of those
four months. And at the end of it all, the only thing you could tell me was,
“I’m sorry it meant something to you.” Why couldn’t you have wanted and needed
me then? Why couldn’t you have wanted and needed me, period, instead of wanting
and needing me back now, when I am already more than willing to move on?
Still, that doesn’t mean I won’t
even consider this. I ask you, “So, this guy, this ex-boyfriend of yours. How
does he feel about you?”
“I think he really cares about
me.”
“And how do you feel about him?”
You pause, but only for the
briefest of seconds. “I’m still in love with him.”
“Then why did you leave in the
first place?”
“I had to. But he hated me for it.
Why couldn’t he have just understood I wasn’t ready?”
“Maybe he could respect that. But
that didn’t change the fact that he loved you. Very much. That didn’t change
the fact that you chose to walk away.”
“I was scared.”
“Everyone’s scared, Bettina.” I
look her straight in the eye, daring her to blink or avoid my gaze. “But not
everyone leaves.”
You shake your head at me sadly,
and I immediately feel guilty—after
in fifteen.”
I hang up and start putting away
my sandwich wrapper and the oatmeal cookie I was saving for dessert. “Cover for
me first?” I ask Irene.
She nods. “Good luck.”
There is a certain
amount of preparation that should go into meeting up with an ex, and it occurs
to me that I should be pissed that I do not have the privilege of time right
now. If I had known this was going to happen, I would have gotten a haircut, or
worn a nicer shirt, or at least shaved. I would have been confident, I would
have walked in with a swagger, I would have felt so good about myself that it didn’t
matter how I felt about you.
You are waiting for me by the
door, a huge smile on your face. You throw your arms around me, and one whiff
of your hair and the feel of your cheek pressed against mine bring everything
back: that bottle of beer you shoved into my hands, the sound of your voice
when it’s two AM and you’ve had too much to drink, the warmth of your fingers intertwined with
mine, that first and only kiss. You pull away and lead me to a table for two by
the window. As you sit down, I think, Y ou are always finding ways to get my hopes up.
I say, “It’s been a while.”
“I’ve been busy,” you explain. I
hate how you think this was your decision, how you don’t even consider the fact
that maybe I’ve been busy, too.
“How are you?” you ask. You look
great, like you’re happy and satisfied and excited about something, and I want
to give you a rundown of how things have more or less worked out okay for
me—how I am doing well at my job, taking my Masters, thinking of putting
up a food business, trying to go running at least twice a month, spending time
with my family on weekends, and catching up with old friends one at a time when
we do clear up our schedules. How I am, despite your absence, not entirely
miserable. But I don’t want you to think that I am just doing this to prove a
point, so I reply with the standard, “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”
“I’m great,” you tell me. “Except
for one thing, which I finally have the courage to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
You tuck your hair behind one ear
nervously, take a deep breath, and say, “I made a mistake. With an ex. I took
him for granted, and I let something very special go. I want him back. I need
him back.” Your eyes plead with me, and your voice is laced with something that
sounds like regret.
I can’t believe I’m hearing this
from you. I waited for you for months, and now that you are here, pouring your
heart out to me, I don’t know what to tell you. There could be too much damage
between us, and it could be too late. And this is what I want to know: I was
there for you, always, for every single minute of every single day of those
four months. And at the end of it all, the only thing you could tell me was,
“I’m sorry it meant something to you.” Why couldn’t you have wanted and needed
me then? Why couldn’t you have wanted and needed me, period, instead of wanting
and needing me back now, when I am already more than willing to move on?
Still, that doesn’t mean I won’t
even consider this. I ask you, “So, this guy, this ex-boyfriend of yours. How
does he feel about you?”
“I think he really cares about
me.”
“And how do you feel about him?”
You pause, but only for the
briefest of seconds. “I’m still in love with him.”
“Then why did you leave in the
first place?”
“I had to. But he hated me for it.
Why couldn’t he have just understood I wasn’t ready?”
“Maybe he could respect that. But
that didn’t change the fact that he loved you. Very much. That didn’t change
the fact that you chose to walk away.”
“I was scared.”
“Everyone’s scared, Bettina.” I
look her straight in the eye, daring her to blink or avoid my gaze. “But not
everyone leaves.”
You shake your head at me sadly,
and I immediately feel guilty—after
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