“What’s going on? Is Iris OK?” I ask, having only ever seen this look of concern once before, at Matilda’s Bar.
“Yeah, she’s fine.” He shakes his head, looking confused, and lets out a curt breath, lips relaxing into something resembling relief. He steps closer to face me as his hand subtly rests on my waist, a magnet finding its opposite.
With a jolt, I realize I’ve seen this look of concern more than once before. Once when Iris was slumped across the table, and once when I lay on the ground beside the hiking trail. I place a reassuring hand over his.
He clears his throat. “I had to tell you before they do. I know I—”
“Grace!” A booming voice cuts across the marble expanse, traveling along the stone veins and slicing into me. Eric’s hand tenses, matching my body. My face feels as if it’s trying to escape straight off my skull as I watch his soft lines go rigid with understanding.
I spin to face William, my hand slipping from Eric’s.For a moment I just stare at the former man of my dreams; there is a sheepish smile on his face, partially hidden by a massive bouquet of flowers held over one arm, and a small velvet box in his other hand. My mind returns to the room, and I cautiously walk over to him. The warmth of Eric’s hand melts from my side but I feel his presence remaining close behind me as I approach William.
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out more feebly than I had anticipated.
“You weren’t replying to any of my texts or calls and I was so worried about you, Gracie. I needed to make sure you were OK.” He almost looks confused, as if he expects me to have dropped everything to call him back. “I called you—I needed to see you,” he repeats.
“I told you I’ve been too busy—that I was up for a promotion.” I narrow my eyes, shooting the same confused look right back.
“Oh,” he says, looking hurt.
I wait for a question; some interest in how it went, how I feel, if I got the job, but instead he awkwardly scans the linear patterns on the wall.
I look at the flowers and sigh at his dull brown eyes. “Why are you here?”
William clears his throat and looks up, wide-eyed, like a terrible actor waiting for his big monologue moment.
He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been looking at your social media. Seeing you thriving and looking amazing proved something to me: I can’t and don’t want to live without you. We belong together.”
A few “awwww”s spring forth from the growing crowd. My mind slips to their perspective: a man has come to win a woman’s heart with a dramatic, romantic confession. Not long ago I would have gobbled up this scene too. This is the thing love stories are made of. Instead, I cringe as what he’s doing fully dawns on me.
I know this is nothing but a play: deliver public displays of affection, adoration and loyalty; perform said display in front of people whose opinions I value, making me feel obliged or too embarrassed to protest; then act the exact opposite in private. He’s not even offering a rebuttal of his ultimatum. Maybe he thinks time apart from him was “punishment” for not giving him what he wants. For not giving up my entire life to him in exchange for his performative love.
My body trembles with frustration, confusion and exhaustion as I ask a little louder than necessary: “And what about all the women you were messaging while we were together? Can you live without them?”
I used to think people knowing what happened would make me look stupid and weak—as if it wasmychoices that ledhimto make those decisions. The last few weeks have shown me you can’t control how people perceive you; the only important thing is how you perceive yourself.
“What?” His face reddens with either embarrassment or anger as he splutters, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His brow knits, eyes flicking between me and the crowd as though he’s watching the Wimbledonfinal. He grabs my hand. “Gracie, come on. If it means that much to you, you can keep your little job.”
“Don’t call me that.” I make an attempt to yank my arm free, but his grip remains tight as he ignores me.
“Was it him, Gracie?” His lips twist into disgust. “Didhetell you these lies?”
He gestures at Eric, who is moving toward us, jaw clenched like a panther ready to finally take its kill. The crowd must read the tension on his face as they quickly begin to act preoccupied as if they weren’t just gawping at us.
“What the fuck have you said to her?” William leans around me to shout at Eric, his words bouncing off the marble and turning more heads toward us.
“I didn’t have to say anything. You managed to fuck it up all on your own.” Eric’s voice is smooth and sly compared to William’s flustered tone, I’ve never seen his face look this deadly.
To stop this from escalating into a full-blown Bridget Jones–style fight, I interrupt the fast-growing tension, turning first to William. “This has nothing to do with him.” Then I place my hand on Eric’s toned chest, the cotton brushing my clammy palm. “Eric, just give us a minute.”
Reluctantly, Eric takes a few steps back. Giving me space to take the reins on the conversation but staying near to support me if I need. Guilt twangs in my chest; even after I couldn’t promise him a future, his instinct is still to protect me.
I turn back to William, still standing in the middle of the lobby, the center of attention. My guilt subsides as I look at his pathetic face. “I know the truth so there’s no point in lying. I’ve seen the messages and the pictures. You’re just embarrassing yourself.”
William lowers the bouquet to his side, petals dropping out as the flowers hang upside down. The look of desperation, shame and annoyance on his face just makes me hate him even more. He lets out a nervous laugh and scratches the back of his neck.
“It’s not like we were engaged or anything. I would have stopped once we were married,” he pleads, as though this would be a sacrifice he would make in exchange for mine. My face creases as bile creeps up my throat. Sensing my outrage, he gently takes my hand for emphasis and tilts his head. “I will stop, I promise.”
I suck in my cheeks, looking at the floor and pleading with my eyes to stop burning.
