“You made up a story about me?” Rory asks, as the music carries on in the background and the willow trees continue to sway, insensitively jubilant to the change in our own tune.
“I had a crush on you, that’s all,” I say, forcing my voice to stay light and airy, so things won’t plummet to the ground. “That’s why I got on the bus, to introduce myself that day.”
Rory doesn’t say anything. I’m terrified by the idea that he might not understand. That he might jump to the wrong conclusion.
“What did you think I was going to be like?” he asks. “What did you think this Alexander was going to be like? A rich English royal, like Jules said?”
“Sort of,” I admit. “It was silly, I got carried away by the rom-coms and everything. I was stuck thinking that was what love was. Now Iknowwhat it is, and I’ve never been happier.” I reach to hold his hand, but he pulls away.
“So you were disappointed when you found out who I really was?” Rory says, and I can feel his thoughts racing as he tries to tie things together. “When you found out I was just some poor schoolteacher from America?”
“Not disappointed,” I insist. “It was just different from what I expected. Took me some time to realize you were actually my prince after all.” I smile at him but get nothing back, just a stoic face stripped of all softness.
“I’m not a prince,” Rory says, his voice coated with coldness too. “And I don’t want to be. I’m just me. Rory from Kalamazoo.”
“I know that,” I tell him, trying to keep from sounding impatient. “Believe me, I know that. And that’s what I need. That’s what Iwant.”
Behind us, the DJ spins one sugar bop into the next. It’s too happy a backdrop for a fight. In the movies, this is where promises and proposals happen.
My breath rises and falls, unable to find a steady rhythm.
One of Rory’s legs is bouncing with anxiety, rattling the whole bench. I want to put a hand on his knee to soothe him, but I’m scared he’ll push me away again.
“How do I know you’re not just trying to force this story to fit a love-at-first-sight movie plot?” Rory asks. “I’m not a character in a rom-com or some reality TV show.”
“Of course you’re not,” I say. “I had to unlock myself from the fictional story I’d created. That’s the whole point. You’re not understanding.” It comes out almost accusatory because I’m so desperate for him to see my side so everything can be alright again.
“What am I not understanding?” Rory asks with an edge. “That before you even met me, you invented some story that I was English royalty? And that when I didn’t turn out to be that, you’ve still forced yourself to like me so you could have your fairy tale?”
I can’t keep my composure any longer. “No!” I blurt out angrily as the insensitively loud music keeps playing, and the insensitively happy people at the wedding keep dancing. “I love you for you. I wouldn’t want you to be Alexander.”
Rory looks at me, just for a moment, then shifts his gaze back down at his bouncing knees. “I don’t know if I believe that.” He says it softly, but it cuts through like a knife.
“You don’t believe me?”
“I’m not sure.”
I can’t keep from spiraling, not when he’s questioning the entire basis of our relationship. “So you don’t trust me?” I push.
There’s a pause, which says it all. Then the words follow as confirmation. “I don’t know.”
I wrap my arms around myself, trying and failing to stay warm. “Relationships don’t work without trust,” I say.
“I know that.” His voice and posture are robotic, and though I’m sitting right next to him, he feels so far away.
Everything is unraveling, and rather than trying to stop it, I’m compelled to speed it up and get it over with. If this isn’t going to work, I’d rather know now than postpone the pain to some point in the future, when I’m even more invested, when I’ve altered career decisions and uprooted my life to be with this man, only to find out that he actually doesn’t believe I love him at all.
“So are we breaking up?” I ask. My own voice is equally detached now. Like I’m talking about a work initiative that’s on the chopping block.
“I need some space to think,” he says. The delivery leaves me feeling like a stranger.
I sit there and nod because there’s nothing else to do except fling myself in his arms and beg him to stay, and I have too much pride, or maybe fear, for that.
He tells me he’s going to get his stuff from the hotel and head back to London tonight. That he’ll leave the room key with the bartender. I just nod along, unable to say anything. We’ve gone from peace to pieces in a matter of minutes. This was the kind of volatility I didn’t think I’d have with Rory. With him, I thought I was protected from the plummets of emotion.
It’s the sort of drama I always used to crave. And now I’m cursing it, missing the calm.
“I’ll call you when I’m ready,” Rory says, standing up from the bench.
