I was flying back to London the next day, and by the time midday rolled around, I really felt the clock start to tick.
I didn’t want to leave. Being here with Becka felt more like home than anything in a long time. Life had taken us in such different directions. More than I ever could have imagined.
I hadn’t told her about my drunken thoughts about moving back to LA, because I didn’t want to put the plan out into the universe in case it never came to pass. I was committed to London for at least another twelve months, and a lot could happen in that time.
To say nothing of the fact that emigrating to the US was not as easy as simply hopping onto a plane and deciding to live the ‘American dream.’
I stood at the counter, thinking things through as the coffee brewed, filling the small kitchen with the smell of cinnamon infused coffee. When it was ready, I poured us both a cup, adding milk to chase away the bitterness, and just a dash of sugar-free gingerbread syrup. I rounded the kitchen island to hand Becka her mug before sitting back down on the sofa. She spread the blanket over our legs, and we settled in together.
“You’re a much nicer roommate than Ben ever was,” she mused.
“He never made you coffee?” I asked lightly, more focused on not spilling my coffee as I tucked a cushion over my lap.
“He burned it,” she said darkly.
“Good thing you binned him off then.” I nodded approvingly, expecting her to agree, but when she didn’t, I looked over at her.
She looked contemplative.
“Becka?”
“Hmm?”
Her brow was furrowed slightly, mouth pursed.
“What’s that face?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“Oh, chill out,” she scoffed, flicking a hand at me. “I was just thinking about how much time I wasted on that whole…” She sighed. “All of that.”
Becka didn’t talk about Ben. She did not talk about their relationship – either iteration.
“It’s the New Year talking,” I said sagely, “makes us think about what came before.”
She was silent for a moment.
Then- “do you think they think about us?”
She’d said it quietly, though whether it was because she was afraid of the words, or afraid of what they meant, I couldn’t be sure. I took a deep breath, feeling the twinge that was more the memory of pain than actual pain.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly, because she didn’t need to clarify who she meant.
“I don’t know if I’d want that,” I went on. “It feels like we all deserve to move on.”
Becka was silent. I kept waiting for her to speak, but as I watched, I felt like I could see her burying further into her thoughts.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I prompted, gently nudging her with my elbow.
She hadn’t talked about it, not really, and now that I thought about it, she also hadn’t really dated since the break up. Although if we were honest, she’d put herself out there more than I had. She had dating profiles. I’d ignored everyone. Until Patrick.
Becka squeezed her eyes shut, and I reached out to grasp her knee.
“Not really,” she said eventually. “It’s just this time of year. We’re all told to look forward to what comes next, the past is the past, all that bullshit. Like, we’re somehow supposed to chalk it up to some romantic misadventure. I just – urgh!” She threw her head back against the cushions.
“I wish I could put it down to experience, but I’m still so pissed at myself. I’m angry I gave him a second chance, even knowing what he did with the first one. I’m angry he made a fool of me – yes, he did, don’t try and say he didn’t. I’m angry… I’m angry that I’m not angry at him.”
She bit her lip, staring down into her coffee mug like it might contain the answers she wanted to hear.
“I deserved more.” Her voice wavered, but her words were firm.
