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obvious that I miss you, that I’ve missed you since I left Michigan. I missed you before and after you visited me in Washington. I would say that me moving across the country to be with you shows that I missed you.”
She seems to think on my words for a beat. She looks at me for a second and then stares past me. The clock on the wall is ticking, humming in the silence.
Finally, she opens her mouth to speak. “But did you miss me? Or was it just the idea of me, the familiarity of me? Because there were times when I literally felt like I couldn’t do anything without you, and I hated it. I wanted to prove to myself that I could take care of myself. After Carter died, I clung to you, and so when you left me, I had nothing. You were my safe place, and when you moved away, you took that safety with you. But then, when you said you would move to New York with me, I felt like I was going to be stuck in that safe place with you. That I would be a child forever. There would be no chance for adventure, nothing unexpected could possibly happen with you around to save me.”
Her words burn as I digest them. They pull at the most insecure part of me, the little voice in my head that’s worried about what people think of me. I don’t want to be the nice guy. I’ve been the nice guy for twenty years now, even when it’s extremely difficult, and I still can’t grasp why women want drama over normalcy.
Just because a man doesn’t bash the face in of someone for hitting on his girlfriend doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about her. Just because he doesn’t guard her jealously or wince every time she talks to another male of the species doesn’t mean he’s uninterested or weak. It only means that he has his temper under control, that he’s respectful and mature enough to be a functioning member of society. That he understands that everyone needs their own space and every woman needs a chance to develop her own independence.
I will never understand why the nice guys have it so damn bad.
However, if you think about it, the nice guys usually end up being the husbands. The women go through a period of trial and error with the hot bad boys, but eventually most of them want to trade in the motorcycle for a Prius.
That’s me.
The human version of a Prius.
Dakota would be a Range Rover, sturdy and luxurious, yet still beautiful.
Nora would be a Tesla, sleek and new and fast. Her curves are smooth and assured . . .
“Until I broke up with you . . . then there was adventure. I was alone to navigate this big city and all the trouble that comes along with it,” Dakota continues.
And what the hell is wrong with me?
I’m here, inches away from Dakota, her hands in mine. Nora shouldn’t be on my mind. This is the worst possible time to think about Nora and the way her eyes are impossible not to get lost in, the way her bottom lip pouts out farther than the top.
And then I realize it: thinking about Nora is much less complicated than trying to understand the logic of Dakota’s emotions. I don’t have a clue what to say to my ex right now. She’s telling me that I did too much for her, that in some way I prevented her from doing things for herself, and I’m too afraid of pissing her off to come up with anything decent to say in response. I certainly can’t point out that I didn’t put her in a box. That I was a safe space, but never a jail. That I never curbed her freedom on purpose. That all I ever wanted was to help her in any way possible . . . her and her brother, Carter.
Dakota shifts on the couch and tucks her feet under her, still holding my hands, waiting for my response.
All I can do is speak the truth, with as little anger as possible. “You can’t expect me to apologize for being good to you.”
Her hands are still in mine. She pulls one away and again tucks her hair behind her ear before she looks at me.
“I don’t expect that.” She sighs and licks her lips, wetting them. “I’m just saying, at the time I needed a break from you, from us.” She moves our joined hands back and forth between us.
At the time?She’s speaking in the past tense, like our breakup is something that we are . . . moving past? Forgetting about?
I look up to catch her eyes. “What are you trying to say? That you don’t need a break anymore?”
She pushes her upper teeth over her lower lip as she takes my question in.
The weirdest part of this is that I don’t know how I feel. One week ago, if this conversation played out the exact same way as it’s playing out now, I would’ve felt differently. I wouldn’t feel
