“But… I… That’s not at all how I feel!” he stutters.
“I don’t want to hear another word about how you feel,” I declare. “I’ve heard enough for one night.”
He stands with his hands hanging limply at his sides while I grab my messenger bag and unclip my keys from its strap. “I’m sorry. Really. I merely got caught up in the moment. And… and… it’s really rather funny, when you think about how I cocked it up so badly.”
I open the door. “Hilarious. I’m sure I’ll be laughing all the way home.”
22
Of all the things Jude gave me to think about on the way home, I spent the majority of the trip worrying about leaving him stranded at his apartment without a car. But by the time I crossed my own threshold (darkened it, more accurately) I was done worrying about anything having to do with the problems he’d brought on himself with his behavior. I collapsed on the bed, fully clothed, still in my winter wear, and really let myself cry.
If Sandberg were a dog, he would have been all over me, trying to figure out what was wrong, licking me and nudging me with his nose. But that’s why I like cats. I didn’t want to be bothered, touched, or even looked at. Sandberg may have done the latter for a second or two, but I must not have been entertaining enough, because he soon curled his body away from me, tucked his face under his back legs, and resumed his nap.
I was really too stunned and hurt to process everything that had been said at Jude’s; all I could do was feel. And it hurt. A lot. So I tried to cry the pain away. But sleep, rather than tears, was the eventual reliever.
This morning, I wake up, my eyes puffed to slits in my face, my mouth dry, and my body covered in a fine glaze of sweat from all the layers of clothing still piled on me. As soon as I got in my car last night, I turned off my phone, but now I pull it from my coat pocket and turn it on. Twenty-four missed calls. And the little envelope that signifies unheard messages seems to be blinking more furiously than usual.
I feel the tears building again, so I quickly delete all the messages without listening to them and drag myself from the bed. Must keep myself busy. Or angry. But not hurt. And definitely not compassionate.
What if I really had been pregnant? How would I have felt after watching Jude practically rend his clothing despondently at the prospect? It’s hard to conjure the right words to explain the feeling, but “pretty shitty” comes close enough for now. It’s all fun and games to have sex with me and toss out the words “I love you” when it suits his purposes, but when it comes right down to it, he’s obviously more interested in the path his career’s taking than the path our relationship is headed down.
Of course, it’s really not fair for me to resent him for caring about his professional life. He’s doing what he loves to do, not just some job. But he’s never acted like it mattered that much; definitely not more than I matter to him. Maybe this latest development—whatever that may be—has shifted the order of things.
I think of Lisa saying, “They’ve been grooming him,” and I shiver. That terminology hearkens to mind the mafia. Maybe I’ve been watching too many Sopranos reruns. If I had been let in on this “grooming” from the beginning, it probably wouldn’t feel like such a threat, but because it’s obviously some big secret, something that Jude doesn’t want me to know about, it’s scary. Like he’s compartmentalizing everything in his life so that he can easily lop off certain segments when they’re no longer useful to him. Maybe I’ve been a mere diversion while he’s been in Chicago, waiting for his life to really take off.
And now it is, and he’s ready to move on. I can see how the news he thought I was giving him could have put a serious hitch in his plans. His being ready to move on also explains why he was so dismissive about what I was really saying. He doesn’t care anymore about my past. Like his ex-wife, I’m about to be a faint memory in a distant city, part of his past, someone he laughs about with his next girlfriend on lazy weekends in bed.
That’s probably why he’s been avoiding me. I thought it was because he wanted to resist any temptation to tell me things he’s not allowed to tell me; but really, he’s distancing himself. He’s getting ready to dump me. Ditch me. Toss me aside.
He may be surprised to find out that I have a little experience with that, believe it or not. Not by a man, obviously, but I know what it’s like to lie on the frozen ground, pitched away, waiting for someone to rescue me.
Not this time. And I doubt I’m even going to tell him about the last time. Why bother?
Something else has been bothering me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s something Jude said last night, but my mind is such a fog of anger and hurt that I can’t remember exactly what he said or why it bothered me. At the time, I was struggling to understand what he was saying in the context of what I was trying to tell him, so nothing made sense. But now, knowing what I know, something he said is throwing up a red flag. If only I could remember what it was.
Due to all the time I spent alone during the week, my apartment is clean, so there’s no housekeeping to keep me busy. I do a cursory tidying, including refreshing the litter box and gathering up some dirty clothes to take to the building’s laundry facilities in the basement. My
