Chapter one
Amalphia
“Ihave to tell you something.”
Reginald is twenty-two years old, and it’s these moments that often remind me why women don’t usually end up dating men younger than them. We were never supposed to be anything more than a one-night stand. It was my fault for wanting more. The moral of this story?
It’s not that you shouldn’t have emotions. Emotions are great. I believe in healthy, reciprocal relationships. My parents have one, and their love is lovely. I’m not one of those women who doesn’t believe that it’s possible.
The lesson here is that one should never confuse good sex with emotions.
That night with Reg was the first time in my life that bedroom play had ever been above the subpar line. I got addicted to the unpredictable, fun side of him.
Lesson number two? Wait.
I thought four months was long enough after breaking up with my ex. To him, the world and everything in it was sad and bad. He was constantly a downer, and what did I think? Classic mistake. I thought I could fix him or at least help him to see that life could be beautiful and fun and happy, but you know how it goes. You don’t pull the other person up. You end up on the bottom, dragged down.
When I met Reginald at a book club one of my friends dragged me to in order to help me “reconnect with the finer sides of life,” I was immediately struck by how fun he was. He seemed like a miracle in comparison. The way he saw the world was so refreshing.
Six months later, I realized fun-loving meant never being able to take anything seriously. His immaturity had already started to show, but by then, he’d already insisted that we move in together.
That good sex I was so addicted to?
I guess there’s this curve of newness, and then everything else is straight downhill after.
“Amalphia. I. Have. To. Tell. You. Something.”
“You’re in trouble.” I know because he’s got that look. The sad, scolded, kicked puppy expression that says nothing in the world is ever his fault.
He’s also doing this thing with his hands, raising them up all funny. They’re shaking like he’s doing some parody of an even stranger dance. His left ear also wiggles when he’s gotextremelybad news.
I might sigh in order to feign calmness so I don’t cause extra hysterics, but on the inside, I’m starting to sweat. If internal sweat is even possible, it sucks. It’s a lot like what I imagine having to wear a full-body suit made of that pink, itchy insulation would feel like.
“Okay. Just tell me. All of it. All at once.”
“I can’t. It will break you. You’ll get mad.”
I close my eyes and do my meditative breathing. The one bonus of this relationship? I’ve learned how to approach a fight without things devolving into Reg running scared. Playing the blame game doesn’t work with him. He’s a master at turning things around and making everything my fault.
I can tell from his face that this is bad, and you know what? I’m sickeningly relieved.For months,I’ve been trying to find the right words for a breakup without sending him into a horrible spiral. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin someone else’s life. The monster heartbreaker. I was waiting for him to discover for himself all the ways this wasn’t working out. I thought I might be waiting forever.
“I…I cheated on you.”
“Excuse me?” I physically reel back. Two steps.
I wasn’t expecting it, but I’m shocked at how dead I feel on the inside. Deader than a damn doornail, whatever that actually means. I think it might have to do with medieval carpentry.
The cheating thing is about as relevant to me as that doornail is to today’s world. I keep expecting it to sink in and hurt, but the only thing I feel is a rush of paranoia about having to get tested.
“When?” I choke.
“Uh, when what?”
“When did you cheat?”
“Last night.”
“On your work trip? No, wait. Let me guess. There was no work trip.”
