If hosting these mixers didn’t work, my parents and their menagerie of animals would have to move in with me into my tiny, two-bedroom flat in the middle of London. Not an option.
Clicking into my banking app, I transferred the cash into Tim’s account, watching my paycheck drain and knowing I’d have to dip into my savings again.
A text pinged on my phone. Perry. Apologizing, maybe? Not that I’d ever accept his apology. We were totally over in my eyes.
Perry
Your belongings are outside front door of my building. Appreciate prompt collection. Pls send mine by post soonest. Namaste.
A wave of rage racked my body. That appalling mix of businesslike dismissiveness and fake peace-out. Another ping. A photo flashed at me of a big black rubbish bag dumped on his front step, presumably containing the sad scraps of our relationship.
Me
You sent this text after four years together? As though I’m disposable? Perry, you are a liar, a cheat, and a pompous knobhead.
Perry
Steady on. Not our fault, just an inevitable part of the normal exigencies of one’s yoga practice.
Me
What absolute bloody bullshit!
Perry
I’m sorry if you choose to remain uptight, conservative, and status-conscious. I’ve moved on. I wish you well.
A prayer hands emoji emphasized his point.
How could I have wasted four years on that delusional idiot?Our.They were an “our” already. Tears pushed at the backs of my eyes, and a fresh blast of fury fired me out the kitchen door with a bang.
Instinctively, I scrambled around the house to my sanctuary, the pond. Taking deep breaths, I leaned against the dusty stone arch, the air fragrant with honeysuckle. But even the ducks floating contentedly on the reedy pond and, beyond, meadows of bluebells and a tangled forest, couldn’t erase the graphic images from this morning that tortured my brain.
I’d been suspicious for months as Perry kept canceling on me and spending all his time at yoga retreats. A red flag, as Perry was a bit of a stuffy snob and not the usual yogic type. I knew his faults, but I always thought he was, at heart, a safe, dependable, decent guy. Clearly, my mistake.
I forced myself to focus on the pond, which always brought back memories of when everything was fun and light and easy. From age five to thirteen, until I was sent away to Swiss boarding school, Tim and I spent what seemed every second together. But in our twenties, things got messy.
Had we been only eight years old when we’d roped and nailed together a seafaring craft of inner tubes and old wood barrels, with a raggedy sheet for a sail?
God, what a day. We’d packed sandwiches, apples, and water for an adventure on the water, pushed off, and jumped on. It was slow going, and our makeshift oars seemed to be missing some important ergonomic properties, because it took a while to move. Ten minutes later, we’d hit the deepest and weediest part of the pond, and in slow motion, the craft had started sinking, taking us with it. We barely knew how to swim to shore, but somehow made it, clutching at sticks and reeds and helping each other.
After we emerged, shaken, we rolled on the ground, gasping. Mum and Dad, as usual, were oblivious to any danger we’d gotten into, and eventually, we laughed at our undramatic sinking. “It was just glug, glug, glug,” Tim said, and we cracked up until we almost peed our pants.
“Glug, glug, glug,” we’d say, cracking each other up for years after.
Somehow that didn’t stop us from riding my two gassy, old-lady ponies down to the water hole to swim regularly. I taught Tim to ride; he taught me to skip stones and whistle through a blade of grass. We ran through each other’s houses, played pranks on neighbors and friends, and built houses in the meadows from boulders and fallen trees.
But what happened that summer when we were twenty-five ruined all those memories.
“Glug, glug, glug,” a deep, amused voice said.
Tingles raced up my spine, as though his rough, callused fingers chased the sensation, raising the hair on the back of my neck.
Shit. Tim.
I turned to see him strutting toward me, his bulky work boots eating up the distance, his muscular body unpleasantly emphasized in his gray T-shirt and tan cargo pants, a tool belt slung around his hips. Tension electrified the air between us.
He faced me, an arm’s length away, but way too close.
