“So when you did… y’know, break up,” Becka said the words like she was picking up broken bits of ceramic, trying to avoid the sharp edges, “it wasn’t surprising. It felt like this whole, huge thing – your relationship – but it hadn’t been that long, right? Barely six months. I was always worried about that.” She looked away again, biting the inside of her cheek.
“When you left, I was worried because you’d only just gotten comfortable with your relationship dynamic, and suddenly you were following him to Korea. I was worried you’d lose yourself in his world.”
I nodded. I’d had time to consider that, aswell.
“I don’t think I lost myself,” I said slowly, choosing my words, “but I do think I didn’t allow myself the grace to be anything else. I think I kept trying to be the same because it was comfortable. But I want to be very clear.” I narrowed my eyes at Becka. “That wasn’t his fault. He would have helped me be anything, do anything. Yes, there was a time where he put me up there, in a castle in the clouds,” I allowed myself a wry grin at saying the description I’d only ever used in my mind. “but when Iwas serious about making my own way, he listened to me. He believed me, and he supported me. He would have followed me down any path I had tried to make for myself, but I didn’t try. That’s on me. I’m a big girl, and it’s on me for boxing myself in, not him.”
Becka raised her hands in surrender.
“Message received; but you do realise you’ve just reinforced my point, right?”
I frowned. “What point?”
“That it makes no fucking sense that he’d break up with you over a little distance. I was wrong – it happens from time to time. I’m with Taeyang on this. Something else happened.”
I leaned back against the cushions.
After a moment, I said, “I don’t–I don’t think I can consider that. I don’t think I can put that out there, because if I do, then all this…” I waved around, indicating everything and nothing all at once. I paused, throat tightening.
“No,” I said thickly, “I’m not falling down that rabbit hole. I can’t put thoughts in his head that I can’t confirm.”
Because if I let myself consider the alternative, I think I’d break. Even after all this time. Maybe especially after all this time.
Becka watched in that way she did when she was thinking hard. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, she said, “Babes, I don’t think I ever noticed, but just now I realised something. Have you… have you even said his name?”
My head swung to hers, and it felt like my whole face scrunched in confusion.
“What?”
“I’m serious. I don’t think I’ve heard you say his name. Not this week, not any time we’ve ever spoken about him – not that wereally have in the past two years, admittedly. Have you even said Jihoon’s name since you broke up?”
The thought hit me like a punch to the gut, because now that I was presented with the question, I had to think about it.
And no… I couldn’t be sure that I had.
I knew I’d avoided it in the beginning, it had been self preservation, like when you had an ulcer in your mouth so you only chewed on one side. A kind of avoidance to promote healing. But since then?
“I-I don’t know,” I stammered.
“Oh, babes.” Becka leaned forward and drew me into her arms, pulling me against her so tightly I could feel her heartbeat against mine.
“Tell me about Patrick,” Becka said, holding her hand out for the small pack of spices I’d just pulled out of the meal kit. We were making dinner. Hours had passed since we’d gotten weepy on the sofa, and we’d since realised the only food we had in the apartment were snacks, cakes, a wilted head of lettuce, endless bottles of condiments, and ice cream. Since I refused to spike my blood sugar that high, or disrespect my taste buds with artificialsauce, I’d forced Becka to walk with me down the road to the 7-Eleven. It wouldn’t be gourmet, but it would contain some form of nutrition.
“What do you want to know?” I asked, passing her the little packet.
Becka shrugged.
“Anything would be an improvement on the big, ole’ pile of nothing you’ve told me.”
“So dramatic,” I sighed. “Well, his name is Patrick-”
“-Got that, thanks.”
“-He’s a freelance photographer. We’ve never worked together, but he sometimes comes into theFrequencyoffices. He’s really talented, he won this award last year for photographing a protest-”
“I asked about him,” Becka interrupted, “not his credentials.”
“I was getting there,” I said, crossly. “Anyway. He’s really nice. Tall, gorgeous smile. Really clever. He’s really close with his family. Raised by a bunch of women, so you know he’s quality material.”
