More than two years later, the pain of losing Keats hasn’t dampened. It’s only morphed into something else—loneliness, discontentment . . . I don’t even know. I still struggle to find oneword that encapsulates the emotion of having the universe open its arms, only to have a door slammed in your face the next day. The high of the hope and the low of the loss.
“Sorry I’m late.” I drop my leather messenger bag onto the wooden bench and slide into the booth across from my friend.
“It’s okay,” Marcy says, looping her fingers around the stem of her martini glass. “Hope you don’t mind. I already ordered a cosmo.”
I smile as my friend, who’s become a bigger part of my life over the past year, sips the pink drink. We hit it off in our Classical English Literature 3 class last spring and now have a standing date every Wednesday at a different restaurant. She’s been the addition to my life that I needed. She’s not in my family’s social circle or looking for a bad boy, which used to be my tendency to spite my parents. She’s started making me see people in a new way, steering my views away from the extremes. It’s not one or the other anymore. It just is. I’ve found comfort lolling through the middle of the two. Maybe I’m a little numb as well, but that beats the heartbreak I barely survived two years prior.
“How verySex and the Cityof you.” My phone buzzes, and I reach down to see who’s texting. “Gregory.” I don’t mean to say it with such disdain, but he’s just always around—my house with his parents, at large dinners out, even the events we attend. It’s annoying, though he’s not. He’s sweet. I wish I could summon an attraction to him, but it’s just not meant to be. I read the text without swiping on it:
My parents are hosting a party in the Hamptons next weekend for my birthday. I’m hoping I’ll see you there. What do you say?
What I’d like to say is “I have no choice,” but since I can’t, I reply:
I’ll be there.
“I don’t know how you resist that man,” she says. Again. This happens anytime he’s mentioned. “He’s tall, gorgeous . . .” I drop the phone back into my bag, hoping to get away from life for a little bit. “Okay. Okay. I won’t go on. Though if you don’t want him, you could at least introduce me.” She laughs, but I don’t, as it finally dawns on me.
“That’s actually a great idea. What are you doing next weekend?”
She smirks. “Whatever it is, I’m in.”
“I’ll send you the details when I have them.” Taking a deep breath, I do something I never do. Gossip about my dating life since we’re circling the topic. I whisper, “You won’t believe what just happened.”
I’m not one to open up about certain things—Keats being someone off-limits to even mention although I still keep him burrowed deep in my heart. Am I protecting something so precious that speaking of it will make me realize we were only an illusion? Holding back hasn’t helped me recover. Maybe talking about it will.
Her dark brown hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, her eyes looking wider than usual and full of mischief. “What is it? Tell me.” She grins like I’m about to hand her the secret code to a happy marriage. I swear she’s on the hunt for a man and wouldmajor in getting her MRS if she could. She’s the perfect audience for this story.
“I saw a guy I . . .” Iwhat? Used to like? Hooked up with once? Fell in love with over the course of twelve hours? My brain can’t seem to wrap around what Keatswasorwhat heisto me. What were we together?
“You saw a guy?” She looks around, taking another sip of her cocktail, and then says, “We’re in a room full of them. I see lots of guys. Did you notice the cute one in the beige three-quarter zip spinning at the counter stool?”
There’s so much wrong with that sentence, from beige to spinning at the counter stool, that I don’t even know where to begin. I shake my head. “No, I didn’t notice him.” I don’t bother to look now because I don’t want to sidetrack this conversation. I need to get this off my chest so I can start healing from a one-night stand that I can’t seem to forget. “I saw a guy on the train that I once dated.” I unwrap my silverware and slide the napkin to my lap, keeping my gaze on my fidgeting hands. The admission feels so heavy on my chest that I wonder if I should take a walk outside for fresh air.
I finally look up. Sympathy has dragged the corners of her eyes down along with her mouth. “Did you talk to him?”
“No. I wasn’t on the train. The doors closed.” I can still feel the pressure of my palms slamming against the glass, the exasperation of being one second too late that washed through me, and then a soothing balm just from being in his vicinity. “He didn’t see me. He was reading?—”
“He was reading? A book?” I nod, finding it odd that’s the only part that stands out to her. “God, that’s sexy.” Her shoulders fall as she exhales loudly in a swoony sigh. “Sounds like the perfect guy for you, Sos.” She smiles without commiseration but with genuine curiosity. “So what happened?”
“The train left the station.” I laugh to myself, finally able to breathe as if the confession was keeping me from doing so all along. I also catch the irony in the phrase and laugh again. Resting my elbow on the table, I drop my chin on my fist, finally finding humor in this heartbreak. “That is so fitting for what became of us.”
“Going in two different directions?”
“Yeah.” I rest back, smiling for some odd reason. “I suppose we were.”
The server taps his fingers on the table’s edge, and asks, “What can I get you to drink?”
Feeling out of sorts in this new realization, yet comforted by seeing Keats again, I reply, “I’ll have what she’s having.” Glancing at the menu before he rushes away, which is what he seems to be on the verge of doing by how antsy he looks, I add, “And the burrata to start, please.”
“Gotcha.” He dashes off as I knew he would.
“And another for me,” Marcy calls behind him.
He waves like he’s got it under control.
Marcy leans back with a gleam in her eyes. Crossing her arms over her chest, she says, “You never order cosmos. What gives?”
I lean back too, mimicking her. “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s time to move on and try new things.” I hate to admit that it might include letting my Poet go. He didn’t look miserable. He looked good, like life is treating him well. I hope it is. He deserves it.
