I send that because it’s easier than listing everything that’s been going on for the past year or so. She’s well aware of my sex life anyway, or lack thereof. Because she knows me better than anyone else, she replies with just what I want to hear.
Hananana
Red or white?
Me
Both.
Hananana
I’m coming to you as soon as I’m done pumping. Hang in there.
While I wait for my best friend to arrive, I assess what my life has suddenly become. My social circle got a lot smaller, because our mutual friends will pick a side and stick with it. And if I’m being honest, they were Eddie’s friends first—meaning, I already know who’ll get to keep them. At least we never got that dog I wanted, so we don’t have to fight about who keeps it.
My biggest concern is our colleagues. While Eddie and I don’t work in the same department, we work for the same company, and the ten floors that separate us might not be enough to prevent the spread of nasty gossip and rumors.
I still haven’t fully come to terms with everything by the time Hana arrives. She enfolds me in her arms as soon as I open the door, and the relief is instantaneous. Maybe it’s because she’s a mom now, but there’s something motherly in the hug she gives me, possibly the comforting plumpness of her figure.
Maternity really suits her, and the ease with which she’s going through it almost makes me regret never giving it a try. But between Eddie’s schedule and mine, there’s no way we could have made it work.
The mere thought of the future that was pulled out from under my feet makes me hold her tighter.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you, honey,” she says in my hair.
“You always hated him.”
“No, I always thought you deserved better, which isn’t the same.”
Less than five minutes after we let go, we’re sprawled on the couch with some random Girl Power playlist in the background and wine in our crystal glasses. She can sympathize with me because we’ve gone through the same strict upbringing, with too many expectations for what we’re meant to become. Growing up in a Korean household, she was left with very little room for failure—which was how she got a full-ride scholarship to Harvard. Now, however, she managed to fight her way out of her strict parents’ grip and lives her life without worrying about meeting their impossible standards.
It takes over an hour to recount everything that happened with Eddie, and we go through both bottles as well as a pizza we had delivered. I don’t cry, so I have the answer to his question: no, despite five years together and the life I could see myself spending with him, I won’t cry over him.
“You know what annoys me the most?” I ask Hana as I crack open the pricey vodka I found in a cupboard. The words drag on my tongue, which means we probably drank too much already. It doesn’t matter though, so I pour some of the vodka into our empty wine glasses.
“That you don’t have ginger beer for Moscow Mules?” she replies.
“No. That Eddie told me I was bad in bed. It’s beenfiveyears! And he waited until he was breaking up with me to let me know? Who does that?!”
“A liar. I’m sure you’re great in bed. You do everything with panache.”
“Heck yeah, I do. I’m probably amazing. He was just making up excuses.”
“Totally.” There’s a moment where I can see her intently thinking while I ruminate on Eddie’s hurtful words. She picks up her phone from the low table before us and types something on it.
“If Tyrone tries to leave me, I might murder his ass.”
I chortle at the mere notion. Tyrone, her fiancé, is too enamored to do anything like that. Their relationship is as flawless as it gets, their bond getting stronger with every day that passes. The baby they welcomed into their lives seven months ago, Lucas, brought them even closer.
And here I am, barely affected by my boyfriend of five years dumping me.
“Maybe I’m broken,” I mumble.
“Nah, fuck that. You just slowly fell out of love with him.”
“I walled up again, you know?”
She looks away from her phone to offer me a small, understanding smile, knowing all too well about my dissociative response to trauma. It’s a fun, self-preserving method my brain developed over time—the unavoidable outcome of my parents’ strict education.
