“I wish you’d told me,” J says.
“I couldn’t tell you because I didn’t know.” She can’t help it; she reaches out and touches his arm, just for a moment. “Sad but true.”
J knows this is not about him. She is making it clear it’s not about him. But he wants it to be at least a little bit about him.
“I wish I’d asked you to try long distance,” he tells her now. “Really try. Not what we ended up doing.”
“It wouldn’t have worked,” V says, in a way that signals to him that she’s given this some thought. “That was never what we did. Do you know what I think you want?”
He is almost grateful to her for saying this, because now he actually feels a flash of anger, a coming to life of another different set of emotions. She is cutting him loose; why should he care what she thinks he wants? How is that even part of the equation anymore? Still, he’s curious what she’ll say, so he says, “What do you think I want?”
He’s put needles in his question, and he can tell she’s felt them. Still, she answers, “You want someone to come home to. Someoneokay with you traveling, but always there when you get back. And the funny part is that I’ve discovered I might want that, too. Once I get myself steady, I might want someone else steady, who also lets me roam. But here, J. Not there. And you want to be there.”
“It’s my home,” J says.
“I know. Believe me, I know. But the truth is...even if we were both in the same place, I’m not sure I want to be the girl that someone else comes home to. I want to do the coming home.”
There is still a part of her that thinks she is making a big mistake, that is telling her it’s not too late to repair the damage she is doing. Who is she to turn away J’s tenderness? Why can’t she at least consider giving long distance a try? How will she feel, when he’s singing songs that she had no part in—or, even worse, songs that come from the cracks she is leaving in his heart?
But then she thinks about going back and knows she can’t.
She convinces herself for the thousandth time to keep going.
The two of them run out of words. What needed to be said has been said, and there were no other words behind it. It used to be that love could carry them through their tightrope silences; it was the safety net beneath them, assuring them that they did not need constant conversation, constant reassurance, to keep steady and true.
Now they’re just two people on a rope, walking in different directions.
It hurts every time, J thinks. The end of each relationship is a wound that becomes a scar...but they never appear in the same place. There is always room for more wounds, more scars, more hurt.
They walk in the park, and it’s nearly unbearable. To fill the void, J starts to tell her about yesterday’s weddings (leaving out Thor andMeta’s, of course). He makes her laugh, telling the story of Eddie and the forgotten ring. They walk and talk about other people’s weddings for about ten minutes more—the path has taken them on a loop, and they return back to their starting point.
Their tone has shifted into something deceptively pleasant. They don’t make a big deal about their goodbye—V wishes him a safe flight, and J wishes her good luck with Secret Project. She doesn’t tell him to let her go, not in the way she did in her voicemail. He doesn’t point out that it’s strange not to know when he’ll see her again.
“Okay then,” he says at last. They hover for a moment, feel foolish, and both open their arms for a hug. It doesn’t last long, but it’s also a real embrace, not a politeness.
“Have a safe trip,” she says again. Then she turns and leaves. As he watches her go, J can feel his thoughts shift.
She now lives in his life in the past tense.
There is no other place for her.
Don’t turn around,V tells herself as she walks away, blinking back tears.
Once he returns to the Brooklyn apartment, J calls Julia and tells her that he and V are over. If it’s long past time for him to lie to himself, it’s also time for him to stop lying to other people. He knows Julia will not tell him that he’s wasted the past two years, nor will she tell him that the past two years have been worth it. She will absolutely not tell him he will get some good songs out of it. Instead, she listens and tells him she is sorry for his heart and what it must be going through. She tells him he can stay as long as he needs to, but he tells her he’s ready to leave New York City.
On the flight home, there is terrible turbulence, roller-coaster dips. J knows he is in a bad place because as other passengers screamand hold their neighbors’ hands and pray, he secretly delights in how awful V will feel if he dies in a fiery wreck, how it will haunt her for the rest of her life.
He makes it back to his apartment, and as he stands there, just inside the door, he feels a new quality to its emptiness, as if it is waiting for its true owner to come home.
The next day he has lunch with Tom. At first, it’s easy enough to avoid the topic, as Tom tells him about his mom and George, and how their fourth marriage seems to be the one that’s working the best. George’s treatments are going well, and Tom’s mom has not left his side. They still bicker, but all the blows are softer, almost comfortable. J is happy to hear this.
Then Tom asks, “And how is V? Did you see her in New York?”
And J finds himself saying, once again, “It’s over.”
So stark. So definitive. So true.
It’s over.
