“You deserve the world,” I told her.
Becka nodded. “I know. I know now that I tried for too long to change the fact that we weren’t right for each other. Maybe we never were, and never would have been. He isn’t a bad guy.” She shrugged, looking down at the hot drink cupped in her palms. “I believe he tried. You can’t make yourself feel something you don’t. He wasn’t my perfect guy, but maybe he’s perfect for someone else.”
I thought that viewpoint was far too magnanimous, personally, but I admired her rise above approach.
After a few moments, and a couple of discreet swipes with a tissue, I thought we were done. My hand was just inching towards the TV remote, when–
“Your turn,” Becka declared.
I blinked at her. “Beg pardon?”
“Your. Turn.” Becka swivelled to face me, and I had to resist the urge to shrink back from the intensity in her eyes. “It’s been two years since you broke up.”
My hand twitched to rub my chest.
“It’s been three years since we’ve been together on this couch–”
“-we’ve never been together on this sofa before.”
“Don’t interrupt. We’ve never talked about it. You’re emotionally constipated–”
“–I am not!”
“Don’t interrupt. You need to talk about it.”
I exhaled heavily.
“Don’t pull that face at me,” she said, “this was the deal. Me first, then you.”
I spluttered in protest.
“I made no such deal!”
“Yes, you did,” she said matter-of-factly.
“When?!”
Becka waved her hands. “In perpetuity when we became friends. Don’t ask me for the details, it is what it is. I pull my guts out, now you pull yours out.”
I screwed up my face. “Did you have to be so graphic?”
Because that’s what this would be – an emotional evisceration.
“Yes,” she said boldly. “Start at the last conversation you had. You’ve never actually told me what he said.”
I sighed, knowing she was right. I’d given her the gist, but not the words, and bless her, she’d never pried. Until right now, of course.
“Do I have to?” I meant it as a joke, but it came out too soft, and I had to clear my throat.
“It’ll be good for you, babes.”
I sighed.
So, I told her. I recited the facts like bullet points, not lingering too long on any one point, not allowing myself to live in any one moment for longer than necessary.
I repeated as much of the conversation as I’d allowed myself to remember, short as it had been. I told her about the voicemail on Christmas, I even mentioned the social media posts of theEnglish version of his singleHold Me, and the photos he’d recently posted from our Halloween night three years ago.
Strictly speaking, those last points weren’t pertinent to our actual breakup, but for some reason, I found myself getting carried away with adding context.
