For the first few weeks after that night at the club, my whole body would tense up every time I got a text or a call, anticipating that it would be Lachlan and I’d have no idea what to say. That faded, as all things do, and I can check my phone with equanimity these days, knowing it won’t be him. Whatever he needed tosay to me he said on the dance floor, and no text on a random Saturday night is going to reopen that book. So when my phone rings as I’m towel-drying my hair, there’s no part of my mind that expects it to be Lachlan calling.
And I’m right, it’s not Lachlan; it’s worse. There, buzzing away on my dresser, is an incoming FaceTime from ULTIMATE SHITWAD—DO NOT CALL.
Huh.
Steven. His name comes to me like some old forgotten memory, like a medieval battle between the French and English I learned about in history class and then immediately forgot. It’s odd, given the outsized role he played in my life. If this were last summer and he was calling, I’d be bombing into a tailspin; just seeing his name on my screen would have triggered an embarrassing display of histrionics. But now? Just…huh.
Before I can think about it too much, I pick up. His face blinks into view and he smiles, but it’s not genuine. The one thing I learned from watching him cheat on me for years was to recognize when he was lying to me. “Hey, Abby. Happy birthday.”
“Hey.”
He fidgets, squares his shoulders. “It’s good to see you. You look great.”
I want to correct him. I want to deflect the compliment and say no, I don’t look great, I just got out of the bath and my hair’s a mess and also I’m dead inside. But I’m trying not to do that anymore, so I just say thanks.
A silence for the ages fills the digital space between us, but I’m not going to be the one to break it. Instead, I try to process what I’m feeling. It’s curious, really. I always thought that if I ever saw Steven again, there would be some residual anger, some flare-upof emotion that I’d buried deep down in my soul. But I’ve got nothing. This is a man I was in love with for six years, a man I was prepared to pledge my whole life to, a man who repeatedly betrayed me and broke my heart, but looking at him now, it’s like he’s nothing more than a long-forgotten summer camp friend, or a coworker from three jobs ago. I can’t muster anything other than a tepid, polite curiosity about what’s going on in his life.
It’s humbling, in a way. Humbling to know that at the peak of Steven and Abby, I thought what we had was a great love. I thought,This is it, I’ve found him, I’m so lucky. And after it ended, I carried around that niggling doubt that maybe hewasit, maybe he was the greatest love I’d ever get. But I know that’s not true now, for so many reasons. Great love doesn’t end like this, with milquetoast video chats. Great love doesn’t end with a whimper. The hollowness in my heart is not because of Steven. The light in my eyes was not extinguished by him. And this realization washes over me like a balm. Nothing Steven can say right now will hurt me, because I don’t care enough about him to let it. I’ve been hurt for real now. I know what it’s like. And Steven can’t even come close.
Huh.
“So, how are you?” he asks. “How’s London?”
“Liverpool, actually. And it’s good. The job is really good.”
“Bet the weather is pretty bad though, right?”
“Mmm.” I will not give him the courtesy of small talk. In fact, I’m going to ramp it up. “How are you? Still with Jessica?” Her name slips from my lips like nothing. I held on to it for so long, never saying it out loud, like she was Beetlejuice or the bogeyman or something to be summoned from the depths of hell. But now? She’s nothing to me.
But it catches Steven off guard, because he stammers a bitbefore settling on an answer. “Yeah, we’re still together. In fact, um…in fact we’re expecting a baby.”
“Ah, congratulations,” I say, not meaning it. Not maliciously, just…with total noninterest. It’s like hearing that the local TV weatherman is expecting a child. Who gives a shit? It’s odd, since I guess that was supposed to be my baby. But I find I’m so relieved it’s not.
“Anyway,” Steven says when he realizes I’m not going to ask any follow-up questions. “What’s new with you? Josh told me you were dating one of the soccer players you work for?”
I register the first stab of something like emotion, a brief tremor of anxiety that trills outward from my chest. “You talk to Josh?”
“No, but I ran into him in Porter Square a few weeks ago and we chatted for a bit. So is it true?”
I’m touched that Josh would lie for me—especially when Lachlan was such a bone of contention between us—because what better way to get revenge on your ex-fiancé than by dating a world-class athlete? But I’m sure Josh told that little fib never expecting Steven to ring me up and ask about it head-on. I’m sure Josh never intended to cause the roiling mess of emotions that jockey for position in my sad, broken brain. What I should say is something like: No, I’m not dating a player, that would be ridiculous. I didn’t meet the man of my actual dreams and fall deeply in love with him, only to have it be ripped away by our shared cowardice. I didn’t dive straight from the heartbreak of a broken engagement into an even deeper, soul-destroying emotional affair with my married best friend, that would be so foolish. No, the rumors are untrue.
What I do say is “Yeah, I am. He’s great.” I swallow against the lie and double down. “He’s actually here now, though, so I’ve got to run. But thanks for calling. All best with Jessica and the baby.”
I end the call before Steven can say goodbye, because my pathetic little lie is catching up with me and soon I’ll be crying—and I don’t want Steven to think it’s because of him. I crawl into bed and pull the duvet over my head, my tears soaking the pillowcase. What a fantastic way to end this decade of my life.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
I wake up on mysecond day as a thirty-one-year-old and decide that the call with Steven was an appropriate bookend to the last few months. It was the final loop-de-loop on my emotional roller coaster, and I made it through without yarfing all over the seat. No more “one step forward, two steps back,” no more stress-eating through emotional turmoil, no more wallowing. It’s strange to realize, given it’s been the bulk of my activity since January, but I actually hate wallowing. It’s nice for the first little while, self-indulgent in a way that feels good and righteous. But then you notice the shoulders of your friends creep steadily upward, see their jaws set as they steel themselves against another day of dealing with you, and that sucks. Yes, when you’re being dragged deeper and deeper down by the slings and arrows of who- or whatever has wronged you, it is so much easier to let it happen. But at some point, you’ve got to pull yourself out of it, and that’s what I’m doing. They say it takes half the length of the relationship to get over it once it’s ended; I handily beat that metric with Steven. Assuming the rule applies to unrequited love too, I’m approaching the limit for Lachlan. So, okay, yeah. I had my three months of wallowing, but I’m over it now. Really, I am.
I hold on to this idea like a talisman, this notion that I’m finenow, really (no, really). Abby 2.0 reinvention complete, misery solidly enough in the rearview mirror that I don’t have to worry about it rear-ending me when my mind wanders. On Monday, I carry this thought with me on the bus ride out to the training center. I hold it close to my chest as I walk past the fifteen-foot-tall banner of Lachlan in the lobby, I nurture it as I push open my office door and hang up my coat and think about my first meeting of the day.
And then I see my desk, and what’s on it: an envelope bearing my name, a plate of cookies, and a Tupperware of what looks suspiciously like lobster risotto.
My breath hitches in my throat and I look around, like Lachlan might be hiding behind the coat rack, but I’m alone. I sink into my chair and open the envelope with trembling hands, already feeling more in these ten seconds than in the entirety of my call with Steven. Before the end of the first line, I’m crying.
Abby—
There’s no universe where you owe me a second of your time, so I understand if you crumple this up before even finishing this sentence. I would deserve that. But I have so many things that I need to say to you—things I’ve needed to say for months, but never found the courage to. I know I might be shouting into the wind, but I hope you read this.
