“Wait! Are you… chucking me? Because I was an arse and hurt your feelings during a moment of weakness?” He voice echoes in the stairwell.
As I unlock my door, I say, “That’s an extreme trivialization of what went down, but… yes. I am.”
When I open the door, he shoulders his way in right behind me, before I can slam it. I suddenly picture him on the rugby field, his arms wrapped around the ball, his elbows flying left and right as he bowls through a muddy group of bodies.
“How can you do this?” he demands, his face screwing up into an expression I’ve never before seen on it. If I had to name it, I’d call it “agony.” “I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ve… I’ve…” Suddenly he stops. Every muscle in his face slackens. He raises his hand and drops it, nodding his head. “Right. Well. I refuse to beg you to reconsider.”
“Good. I think you should leave.” Before I change my mind. Before I cry most unattractively.
He wrenches the door open fully, pauses, and turns around one more time. “I’m sorry. Again. Really. I…” He chokes but clears his throat and says lucidly, “I wish I could have heard more about your mum and dad.”
This statement brings on the most gut-wrenching sobs I’ve produced since their funeral. Somehow I manage to choke out the biggest lie I’ve ever told him. “I’d rather find a… a… bum on the street and talk to him about it than tell you another word!”
Chuckling mirthlessly at my immature statement, he replies, “Right,” and exits, pulling the door softly closed behind him.
I drop the laundry basket and stand in the middle of my apartment, sobbing, until even heartless Sandberg starts rubbing against my legs.
23
I slept the rest of the weekend away. It was the only way I could keep from crying. But I slept so much that this morning, I was sore from lying in bed all weekend. And not sore in a good way, like I used to be. With him.
Now it’s Monday, and I have to be brave. I have to do one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in a long time. Harder than any exam in college. Harder than giving up my dream of traveling and observing other cultures and societies. Harder than taking care of my little brother when I was hardly more than a child myself. Today I have to get out of bed. I have to go to work. I have to swallow my pride. And apologize.
Because I can’t go through with this break-up. Even if it means I take him back just in time for him to say “See ya” on his way to bigger and better things, I can’t be the one to end it. Call me weak, call me spineless, call me whatever you will. What it comes down to is this: I love him. Irrevocably, inexorably, inexplicably, inescapably, and inevitably. And I’m too inexperienced at this to have any pride about it.
I’m wearing a short skirt, high heels, and a low-cut shirt I bought right after Jude and I started sleeping together and I was feeling my hottest. It doesn’t matter that it’s below freezing outside today. That’s what coats are for.
My eyes immediately go to Jude’s office when I step onto the floor and walk through the doors. He’s already in there, sitting at his desk, typing—or what he thinks passes for typing—on his computer. I took my coat off in the elevator, so when he glances up, he gets a good view of me. As soon as I’m sure he’s looking, I smile shyly and head for my station.
I go into my cubicle and bend over a lot while I get situated: putting my purse in my desk, leaning over to check my emails rather than sitting down, and unnecessarily adjusting the position of my trash can under my desk. Then I stretch and reach, watering the potted plant on top of my bookshelf, feeling its leaves and the potting soil to make sure it’s still healthy, standing on tiptoe and flexing my calf muscles in the process.
Lisa prairie dogs and says, “What the hell are you doing over there, yoga?”
Despite not wanting the whole world to know, I confide, “Jude and I had a huge fight this weekend. And I sort of broke up with him. But I may have overreacted. Is he looking at me?”
Lisa doesn’t try to be subtle at all when she turns around to check for me. “Yep. I think I just saw a string of drool drop into his lap.”
“Good. I might need a whole lotta lust on my side later when I ask his forgiveness.”
“You definitely have his attention,” she says, snickering and returning to her desk. “But it may be a while before you guys get a chance to kiss and make up. I have to order lunch for the whole office, and I was told to double the usual budget because they’re making a special celebratory announcement. I think they’re finally going to tell us what the heck’s goin’ on.”
I twist in my chair and take a longer look at Jude, momentarily satisfied when I see he’s still staring at me. But I’m more interested in how he looks at the moment. He’s wearing his newest suit. And he got a haircut. Are those cufflinks? I wish I could see his shoes. If he’s wearing his wing tips, he’s definitely made a more concerted effort than usual with his appearance.
And then he does something that breaks my heart. He waves shyly and smiles nervously. Almost hopefully.
So I do what any insane person would do: I stick my tongue out at him and turn back around to face my computer.
The morning flies by in a flurry of activity. Every time I get a second to catch my breath and decide I’ll go into Jude’s
