I waited for understanding to hit, for his set jaw to go slack. Seeing the shock in his expression cooled my ire somewhat. After all, Ezra wouldn’t do that to me. Wouldn’t knowingly cozy up to the woman who had made my life hell, even if it had been over fifteen years ago. We’d spent too many cool nights under starry skies, unraveling our traumas like threads off tapestries, for him to hurt me by cavorting with one of the prominent actors in mine.
“Shit,” he said. “Ohshit. Are you sure it’s her?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I said. What I’d said in response to her outstretched hand and peppy “Hi! I’m Ashley! You must be Jo!” was “You know me. You used to make my life miserable.” Factual. Direct. Not particularly mean. I could have smiled more, sure,maybe shaken her hand instead of leaving it hanging limply in front of me, but I also could’ve upended my glass of champagne over her head. I’d been gracious, all things considered.
I told Ezra as much.
“I didn’t know,” he said numbly.
“Well, you not knowing didn’t stop you from instantly jumping to her defense.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Ezra said. “You of all people know how overwhelming Mom’s parties can be, and this is Ashley’s first one. And Jo, you know I would never have asked her out if I knew about your history. But it’s been a long time, and I promise she’s a good person now. If you got to know her, you’d probably really like her too—”
I tuned him out.I don’t care if she’s Mother fucking Teresa now, I wanted to shout. If I was honest with myself, I didn’t much care that the woman Ezra was dating was a potentially much-improved Ashley Biernacki. Just that I was in this room getting admonished, while she was free to dab away her tears and garner sympathy in the atrium. Just that even now it didn’t occur to Ezra that maybe he should have been defendingme.
All of these years, I’d been silently hoping that Ezra would someday see me. That the flippant, habituallove yous that addended his goodbyes would gain definition, that one day it would click in his head that maybe the intimate, buried-in-each-other’s-skin love he was searching for in women like Ashley was right in front of him all along. And, because I hated to think of myself as pathetic, I’d convinced myself that I wasn’t hung up on him at all. That I hadn’t looked elsewhere because I wasbusy. That I was currently a twenty-nine-year-old virgin who had gone on a grand total of three dates in my life because I had to focus on medicalschool, then because there was no time for romance in residency, and not because I was keeping myself available just in case the boy I’d been in love with for most of my adult life would wake up one morning and decide topick me choose me love me.
A hand on my chin guided my face forward.
“Talk to me, Jo,” Ezra said gently. “What is this really about?”
With Ezra’s new frame had come new strength, a consequence of years spent crafting a TV-ready body with the assistance of personal trainers, nutritionists, and chefs. When his hands slid to my shoulders, I knew escaping his grasp would take effort. It was aggravating, being in love with someone who could see all of your secrets in your face except for the ones that mattered the most.
I closed my eyes, facing the darkness of my eyelids.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
Ezra’s voice was soft, raspy, a fingernail scratching along wool.
“What do you mean by that?” he said. “What do you mean bythis?”
I gestured between us, to the too-close space, the desperation that hung thick in the air, tension that had no business existing, considering I was the only one who could feel it.
“This,” I said. “Whatever this is. Whateverweare.”
Ezra’s hold slackened just enough that I could have slid out of it if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t. Instead I watched the revelation settle over his face—first, through his rapidly blinking eyes, then the stuttering inhale followed by an exaggerated swallow, finally, the click and shift of his jaw, his telltale sign of discomfort that none of his acting coaches had succeeded in training out of him. I realized, suddenly, that this was it. That he knew. That I wanted him to know.
“Jo,” he said quietly. “Do you... ?” He opened his mouth to continue, then clamped it shut, and I leaned into him, closing the distance that he’d already all but eradicated.
“Do I what?” I whispered. I realized, right then, that if Ezra finished his question, I would tell him the truth. That the fear that had held me back all these years (fear that he wouldn’t feel the same; that we would have a few weeks of awkwardness in which he would pretend that I’d said nothing at all; that there would be a new, palpable distance between us, a millisecond’s hesitation before he pulled me into hugs that were no longer crushing; that I would lose him slowly, and in the process lose Renata, and wake up in a world in which I could call neither of them mine) now paled in comparison to a future in which I stayed stagnant by his side and he continued to chooseAshleysover me.
Ezra stared down at me, shocked into stone. I watched his gaze slip down to my lips, then back up to my eyes, like he was seeing me anew, and a hope I’d once stomped out reignited in my chest.
“I...” he started.
Behind us, the door flew open.
“You two are always squirrelled away somewhere!” a voice said, Renata’s. “Ezra, that girl you brought is weeping all over the atrium. Why don’t you be a gentleman and...” A pause. “Oh. Am I interrupting something?”
I watched Ezra’s eyes tick over my shoulder to meet his mother’s, but I didn’t turn around to acknowledge her, just chased down his gaze. I could sense him pulling away, leaning ever so slightly toward the door, and I felt every inch like a scab pulled early.
Ezra cleared his throat. “I have to go,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” I said. “You’re choosing to.”
He rolled his bottom lip into his mouth, a confirmation, and my heart sank.
When Ezra stepped around me, around the desk, and bolted for the exit, I didn’t watch him leave.Is this the hurt I’ve been avoiding all these years?I thought, as the door clicked shut. I’d expected devastation. I’d expected to feel like I was tearing apart at the seams, like I would fall to my feet and never stand up again. I’d expected the sort of heartbreak that inspired breakup anthems, screenplays, sonnets.
