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“I … did. And I still … think the world of you, Cassie. I do.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers before continuing.
“I still feel … very deeply for you, Cassie. But I can’t be in love with you. I won’t be. I won’t let myself. Because I want—no, I need, I seriously need my life to be more uncomplicated from now on. I’ve got Claire to look after now, and she’s going through some shit at school, and I’ve got a new business to run. Tracina and the baby are behind me now. And I just have to focus on having a quieter, simpler life. I need that. For my sanity.”
The silence that foll
owed said everything.
It was over between us. Completely.
“I see.”
“But we can work together, Cassie. We’re not children. And good jobs aren’t easy to come by. Don’t punish yourself out of pride. Stay. I need you.”
What do you say to that? What do you do? Do you beat on the person’s chest, demanding that the heart let you in because the heart knows better than the brain? Or do you just nod and say, Okay. Fine. I will stay. For now.
That’s what I said, while a rivulet of liquid mercury entered my veins, solidifying and steeling me against any further rejection, or from ever opening my heart again. It happened so automatically it would have been almost awe-inspiring if it didn’t signal doom. This man had doomed me for love. I had shown him some of my true self, the parts I felt safe showing. But when my deeper secrets were revealed, he rejected me. And it wasn’t just rejection, it was denial, of everything I was and of everything I had been through.
“So that’s it then?” I asked.
“I think so,” he said. “We were friends for a long time. I hope we can be friends again. I can be yours, I think, with time.”
He held out his hand. He wanted me to shake his hand? I looked at it like it was on fire. Don’t cry right now. Cry later.
And that’s what I did. I worked like a dog for the rest of my shift, training both Claire and our new hire, Maureen, a bartender we stole from the Spotted Cat across the street and who’d eventually replace me downstairs. I hoped, despite their style clash (Claire was a hippie, Maureen a punk) and slight age difference (Claire was almost eighteen, Maureen, twenty-three) that they’d eventually get along.
I cashed out and left just as a truck pulled up in front of the store and parked. A huge canvas-covered sign jutted out of the cab, casting a shadow over the car behind it. I could make out the top of the big red C of Cassie’s, and that’s when it became all too much. I fled down Frenchmen, past the bike shop, past the Praline Connection and Maison, cutting a hard left at Chartres to the Spinster Hotel, marveling at how much life can change in twenty-four hours. Yesterday at this time, Will and I were heading to Latrobe’s dressed to the nines and looking forward to a future together. Today, I was in sneakers and a stained T-shirt, unlocking my door and running up the stairs leading to my third-floor apartment, barely holding back my tears.
Inside my little apartment, I stripped on the way to the bathroom, turned on the shower, stepped in and let the hot water hit my skin. I stayed like that for a long time, forehead against the tiles, not able to feel my tears. I must have scalded my skin a little because when I finally got out, it hurt to dry off. As I was throwing my hair in a towel, my phone rang in the next room.
Maybe it was Will and this was all a big misunderstanding and he was on his way over because while unloading the Cassie’s sign, all he could think about was how much he loved me. Or it was Jesse checking up on me while a beautiful girl lay napping next to him. When call display showed it was Matilda, I felt relief before I even heard the sound of her calm voice.
“Cassie, you’ve been on my mind all day. How are you doing?”
I told her everything, recounting what Will had said last night, today and what he had decided going forward. Matilda sighed deeply. There was a longer than usual pause before she began to speak.
“This is not an indictment of Will, Cassie, but some men still don’t believe that a woman’s sexual appetite can be as important to satisfy as theirs. Or they don’t believe a woman’s sex life can or should be as varied, complex and interesting. Which baffles me, because, I mean, who are these men having sex with?”
I wasn’t in the mood for sexual politics or a long discussion about Will’s chauvinism or the dreaded double standard.
“I get all that, Matilda. But the thing is, my heart’s just busted,” I said, letting more tears flow. “I love him. And he doesn’t love me anymore.”
She let me blubber for a few moments.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Nothing. And I sure hope you didn’t apologize, because you’ve done nothing wrong. Your sexual history is your business. Your stint in S.E.C.R.E.T. would have benefited him. It’s his loss, Cassie.”
“So I do nothing?”
“Well, do what I always suggest you do when you’re in pain. Get on with living your life as best you can. And remember he’s just a man, a human being. Don’t let this stall your great progress. Get on with things. See what happens. Live your life.”
“I don’t know what to do with myself right now.”
“The Committee could use your help.”
I had quit S.E.C.R.E.T. a month ago when I chose to pursue a relationship with Will. And though I had been happy to leave, a part of me missed the camaraderie, the sheer fun I had with those women, let alone the men. But another part of me was mad at S.E.C.R.E.T.; I hadn’t yet reconciled my past in the organization with my present dilemma.
