cyn
[eleven-ishmonths later]
Cyn, call me when you get this.
That’sthe text I get from Brixton out of the blue while I’m at work, minding my business like I always do, and staying out of his way, everybody else’s way, but waaay out of his way. Beneath these bright, fluorescent lights, I’m tucked away in my own little world – a cubicle with gray walls and hardly any privacy. I stare at my computer screen all day, figuring out numbers. Equations. Balancing spreadsheets. Preparing quotes. This type of work takes extreme focus. I cannot concentrate knowing there’s a lingering text from my ex – well,husbandbecause we’re not quite inexterritory just yet.
But we may as well be.
It’s been roughly eleven months since we shared a roof, a hug, a kiss, or anything of the sort. And why is he texting me?
I grit my teeth.
Should I text back or ignore him? Decisions, decisions…
If I ignore the text, I’ll sit here and wonder what he wants. If I text back, whatever he wants is probably going to give me an everlasting, potent migraine. Either way, I’m screwed.
“I’ma ignore it,” I tell myself, “Like he ignored my phone calls that night of the surprise anniversary party I was trying to throw for him. Mmm, hmm. This is payback.”
I shake my head. With narrowed eyes and arms crossed as I lean back in my chair, I realize how vindictive I sound and quickly check myself. This is so not like me. I sit back up and try to get into work mode again, but while I stare at my computer, figuring out these Excel equations, something gnaws at me to message Brix back, and I’m even considering it, but why?
For one, this is completely out of character for Dr. Brixton LaSalle to need anything from anyone, especially me. Two, I have a gut feeling he needs something major. He’s not messaging me just to chit-chat – to see how my day is going. We haven’t spoken since New Year’s Day – the same day I moved out and decided to live my life the way I wanted to live it. I no longer wanted to be smothered under the umbrella of Brixton and his super-busy life. Hisimportantjob. His laser-focused attention to galas and fundraisers – to everything else besides me.
Nope. I’ll pass.
Once happily in love, we dwindled down like snowflakes on a warm ground – dissolving to absolutely nothing. Well,nothingmight be a bit of a stretch. At the very least, we were glorified roommates. He worked ridiculous shifts while I worked normal hours. I ate dinner alone. Went to bed alone. Got up alone. Got ready for work alone. Spent weekends alone when my friends weren’t available. I frequently hiked alone at Monticello Park while thinking about these things – how I wish I had someone to share my life with. Those should not be the thoughts of a married woman.
Now, it’s November, and he wants me to call him.
After driving myself insane with going back and forth about what to do, I decide to text back only so I can return to my job and concentrate.In peace.
I’m at work. Brix. Can’t talk. What do you want? Just text me.
I would prefer not to text.
Well, bye. You contacted me, not the other way around.
Dang, Cyn…thought you’d be happy to hear from me.
Happy to hear from him? He must be out of his mind! He’s the man who made his job a priority while making me an option, and he thought I’d be happy to hear from him? In what universe?
I respond:
You thought wrong. What do you want?
I need to ask you a favor.
I sneer as my displeasure mounts. I don’t even know what this favor is, and the answer is no.
I type back:
Of course you do. I don’t hear from you in eleven months, and you text me out of the blue for a favor. I see nothing’s changed.
Did we not speak to each other back in March?
Only because we ran into each other at Martin’s Grocery.
The messaging stops. Now, he’s calling me like I didn’t just tell him I was working. But when something’s important to Brixton, screw what’s important to you. He’s the priority. Always. But this time, I take precedence. That’s why I don’t answer.
