1
They invite you to a place that has special meaning to the two of you.
—Lana Parker, “Ten Signs Your Partner Might Be About to Propose”
I’m having an Elle Woods moment.
And not a “wearing a pink power suit, getting into Harvard Law, smashing the patriarchy” Elle Woods moment.
More like a “hysterically crying in a public place because instead of being proposed to I’m getting dumped” Elle Woods moment.
The good news is I haven’t actually started to cry yet. Which is a relief because my mouth is hanging open in complete and utter shock, and adding heaving sobs to the mix would make for a huge, snotty mess. A literal one, not just the figurative one my life has become.
“I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?”
“I said, I think we should break up.”
I stare at the stupid, stupid man sitting across from me. I don’t want to see Evan’s stupid, stupid face for even one second longer, but I can’t seem to look away, my face frozen in a mixture of horror and WTF-ery. I force my eyes shut, hoping against hope that when I reopen them, all of this will have been some kind of sick joke.
But it’s not.
When I open my eyes—eyes Evan once told me weren’t just brown butbrown with flecks of gold—he’s still there. Still watching me with a gaze full of pity.
I wish I could channel a Real Housewife and throw my dirty martini in his face, but that would require a level of motor function I don’t seem to have. Also, something tells me I’m going to need the liquid courage to survive the rest of this night.
Finally, after several minutes of painful silence, Evan reaches over and pats my hand. Like I’m some grandma he helped across the street and not the woman he’s been dating the last four years.
“I know this isn’t what you were expecting, Lana Banana.” His stupid, stupid mouth curls up in a condescending hint of a smile.
I always hated that nickname.Lanadoesn’t even rhyme withbanana.
Stupid. Stupid.
I’m so fucking stupid.
I yank my hand out from under his, the mere touch of his skin on mine enough to give me the icks. “I thoughtyou brought me here to propose.” I mean for it to come out accusatory, but instead my voice hitches with a tinge of whine.
A proposal is a reasonable assumption when the man you’ve been in a committed relationship with for four years plans dinner at the restaurant where you had your first date. Assuming the man isn’t a stupid, stupid asshole.
Evan’s face scrunches up like the very thought of marrying me is painful. “Oh.” He nods slowly, in a way he probably thinks is wise and sage and Gandalf-esque. “I can see now how you might’ve misinterpreted this.”
“HowImight have misinterpreted this?” My voice screeches and several patrons at surrounding tables subtly—and not so subtly—turn our way. I reach for my martini and for a second really consider how good it would feel to watch the olive-green-tinted liquid drip down his self-tanned face.
But then I wouldn’t get to drink it. I chug the remainder of the cocktail before holding my empty glass in the air.
A server rushes over and removes the glass from my hand, as if he’s been waiting for me to chuck it at someone.
“Hi, yes, more of these please.” When the server gives me a wary look, I point across the table. “This motherfucker thought it was appropriate to bring me—his girlfriend of four years—to our first-date spot to break up with me.”
He winces sympathetically. “I’ll just keep them coming then?”
I salute him with my invisible glass. “Good man.”
The keeper of the martinis, a.k.a. my new best friend, scampers off.
Leaving us with a silence that now doesn’t feel painful as much as it does heavy. The longer we sit and stare at each other, the more my ire flattens into defeat.
“Can I ask why?” I try to remove any anger from the question so he knows that I mean it, that I really want to know. Even though I’m not totally sure myself.
