That night, I’d grown impatient and fed up with waiting for Miles to reach out to me, so I took the train to the Upper West Side and walked down the street to his apartment. But before I even made it to his building, I saw him coming out of the Italian restaurant he’d actually taken me to not even two weeks ago. And he was with another woman.
A beautifully dressed woman who was all over him.
I didn’t want to overreact. That’s not in my nature.
But something split open inside me, a chasm of frustration and disgrace, knowing that I’d been waiting by the proverbial phone to hear from him, all while he was apparently going out with other women.
God, I felt so broken and angry. I was inconsolable for days, while Christiana was at my side helping me pack and listening to me cry hot, embarrassing tears over a man I fell in love with.
And the part that hurts the worst?
I’ve received only two texts from him and one phone call, which I ignored.
Granted, the first one he did leave the ball in my court when he wrote:Sutton, please let me explain.Call me. We need to talk.
The second one read:It’s not what it looks like.
Christiana scoffed when she read them as I cried my eyes out with my head in her lap, sniffling like a baby who’d just lost her binkie. She commiserated with me, suggesting that I should let him hang because a “let me explain” approach was just a player’s way of scheming their way out of being caught. It was a fabricated lie meant to gaslight the one who was cheated on.
So, I did what she said and let him stew in silence. The unfortunate problem for me, however, is that the plan backfired. I’m the one now sitting in silence, waiting to hear from him again. Waiting and hoping he’ll have a logical explanation for what I ran into that night.
But now it’s been over two weeks, and I’ve heard nothing more from Miles.
Nothing.
As if he’s dropped off the face of the planet or has forgotten me as easily as he did in the past when I was just the invisible girl to him. So insignificant that he didn’t even remember who I was when we ran into each other again less than two months ago.
At least during my broken-hearted grief, Lucy has kept me busy at the shop while she remains at home helping Antonio recover from his surgery. And my fall semester classes have started, leaving me trying to balance everything and keep my head above water.
It’s overwhelming, but I have to keep busy. By keeping my mind off Miles, I avoid wallowing in my despair. Most of the time, anyway.
My phone pings with a message. I reach for where it’s sitting on my coffee table. Picking it up and flipping it over, I notice it’s a message from Ben.
Ben: Want to go to lunch today? My treat.
Me: Who put you up to this?
Ben: What? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Just get your ass ready and meet me in an hour.
I scowl at the phone when he tells me where to meet him, knowing exactly who put the bug in Ben’s ear. It was Christiana.
While Ben doesn’t know anything about Miles and me, he is keenly aware that I’m down in the dumps, as evidenced by my sour mood when he helped me move. I’m pretty sure he was exchanging looks with the girls over my unusually quiet and sullen demeanor last weekend.
I shove the blanket from my legs and look down at my appearance. A brief sniff under my arms suggests I should definitely shower and don some new clothes before heading out. It takes all my energy to roll off the couch and push myself to get ready, but after I do, I feel some semblance of normalcy once again. I just wish the shower and change of clothes could as easily wipe away the pain still radiating like an open wound in my heart as it did the grime from my body.
Soon I’m heading out the door and making my way to the subway station. I’m meeting Ben at the greasy spoon he suggested for breakfast this morning. In most parts of the country, this time of day would be considered lunch, but on a Sunday, we New Yorkers tastefully call it brunch.
I see Ben from a distance, typing on his phone, his uncombed hair, wrinkled tie-dye shirt and army-beige shorts and sandals make him appear to look more like a fraternity boy after a late-night rather than a head marketing honcho for a Wall Street company.
“Hey, Sut,” he says, pulling me in for a hug, his arms folding tightly around me and comforting me without realizing it. “Thanks for meeting me. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Of course. About what?”
He looks away sheepishly as he hooks a thumb in the direction of the restaurant.
It’s a glorious September day, the sun sprinkling its rays through the foliage of the park, the smell of street vendor food wafting around us, and just the barest hint of a cold breeze ushering through the late summer humidity.
We put our name on the wait list and stand outside where a small brunch crowd congregates, each waiting to hear their name called by the hostess.
