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“Spoon-fed you, gave you a sponge bath?” She’s trying for humor, but I can see that she’s hurt, jealous, or some combination of the two.
“She took care of me.”
“Did you fall in love with her?”
“No.” My response is immediate because it’s true and I need her to know that. “I appreciated her, saw her in a different light.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s complicated.” I take a few seconds, wrestling with how to put my thoughts and feelings into words. “I mean, I don’t want to give you the impression that she’s a bad person…She’s not.” Not entirely sure why I’m defending her right now. Lately she’s done plenty to earn herself ‘bad person’ status. “But when we first met, and actually for a long time after, I saw Samantha as someone who’s used to getting her way, maybe a little on the judgmental side. The way she reacted when I got sick was different, though. She was selfless and I gave into it. It was easy, and it was nice to be cared for.”
“To be loved.”
I hang my head. “Yes.”
“So how long have you been together?”
“I’ve broken it off.”
She sucks in a breath but then her voice comes out measured and even. “You were engaged?”
“No! Holy shit, no! We’ve been together since, I don’t know, last January? A little over a year. And I broke it off the other day when I found out what she did. She burned the letter.”
“My letter?”
“Yeah. I still can’t fucking believe it. She destroyed the letter and hid the picture of Ethan. I randomly came across that torn envelope with your return address on it. I don’t think she ever planned on telling me.”
“God,” she shakes her head, tears threatening, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing to say, it just sucks.”
“Yeah, it does.”
* * *
Charlotte
I’m lost in a fantasy, a new one where I dial that same phone number and bitch out the bitchy bitch-girl who practically hung up on me the last two times I called. I’m so worked up that Simon’s words barely register when he says, “I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’m committed to a summer internship with a judge. It starts this coming Monday.”
Before I can think it through, I lodge a complaint. “That’s nearly a week away.” It comes out sounding accusatory and shrewish, same way that I feel. All this talk of his babe and her treachery has left me stomping down the warpath.
“I know, but I have to clear out of student housing this week and move into the studio I’m subletting for the summer.” He pauses then adds, “And I need to get back to take care of a few other things.”
I take a calming breath and rein it in. He’s not my boyfriend, I’ve made no demands where Ethan is concerned, and therefore, I have no claim on his time. I do my best to sound neutral and understanding when I ask, “Were you living with her?” When in reality, the very thought of him sharing his space, his bed, hislifewith her is crushing my soul to bits right now.
“No.”
He doesn’t offer up more, but I’m pretty sure she’s front and center when it comes to the “things” he needs to take care of.
That scene in the movies, the one where broken-up lovers say their goodbyes and exchange the belongings accumulated over the course of a relationship—will it be like that? Will she hand over his razor and a few of his books, but hang on to a t-shirt that smells of him? Will it be a tearful event? I’m now picturing Simon looking at that blond beauty with longing and regret as he hands over a box filled with cashmere sweaters and really pricey hair-care products. Gah!
“I’d come back this coming weekend, but my new boss left me a load of files to read over before I start on Monday. I think he’s punishing me.”
His voice shakes me out of that warped and very painful storyline. “Why would he do that?”
