Call It What You Want, page 22
“Ethan’s been ignoring me for almost a week now.” I hug my arms around myself.
“A week? Why didn’t you say something sooner?” she replies, surprised.
The confession spills out of me, “Because I’m embarrassed. It’s happening again—I’m losing him, and I have absolutely no control over it. How am I back here? Why didn’t I learn? I’ve been so convinced that the reason I never fully moved on was that we were supposed to try again. We were supposed to work out this time. So why haven’t we? This might sound insane, and I don’t even know if I believe in God, but sometimes I think that he wouldn’t keep putting Ethan back into my life if we weren’t meant to work out one day.”
“Oh, Sloane.” Lauren’s touch is gentle on my shoulder. “Or he’s trying to teach you a lesson. You’re not going to want to hear this, but you need to let him go. Look at what he’s been doing to you for the past two years. You can’t keep living like this, at his every beck and call. This is your life; he doesn’t call the shots. You do.”
Her words, though tough, are laced with love and a desire to see me free from this never-ending cycle.
I can’t manage a reply.
After a few minutes of silence and more sobbing, Lauren turns off the lamp on my nightstand and leaves the room. I fall asleep on top of my comforter, fully dressed, dried tears on both cheeks.
The next morning, I get in the shower and turn the water as hot as it will go in hopes that I can burn off any trace of Ethan. I dry myself off and stare at my naked body in the mirror, thinking about all the times he touched me. Why can’t I remember the last time that he kissed me? What if the last time was the last time? I make myself sick over the thought and kneel in front of the toilet bowl.
I finish up in the bathroom and retrieve my phone from underneath my bed, where I left it last night. I power it on, grab my work bag, and head out the door. As I get out of the elevator, I stare at the only text message I received.
7:42 a.m.
Ethan Brady: Hey. I’m sorry for not replying sooner. I needed some space.
That’s it? That’s all he has to say? I shove the phone back into my bag and, for once, read the advertisements plastered all over the subway car.
***
My voice is a mix of frustration and hurt as I confront him. “You can’t just ignore me for a week and expect me to forget about it, Ethan.”
“I know, and I said I’m sorry,” he says, the apology lacking conviction. “What more do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop avoiding me. Stop avoiding us.”
“I’m not. I needed to be alone.” His defense is weak, and he’s avoiding eye contact.
“You can communicate that then, before ghosting me,” I remind him.
He looks up. “I didn’t ghost you, Sloane. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Sitting on the barstool, I watch as Ethan paces the kitchen.
“Yeah, but for how long?” I question.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “If I could answer that, we’d be dating.”
I stare blankly at him and feel a tear roll down my cheek. Two years ago, any time I’d been around Ethan, I was worried I would say the wrong thing and scare him away. Now, in the middle of my tiny New York City apartment, I’m being the most vulnerable I’ve ever been with anyone.
“I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” He takes a seat next to me and puts his hand on my leg. “I just don’t know what I can say that can make you understand how I’m feeling.”
“I can’t keep doing this one-foot-in, one-foot-out thing with you. We’re not in college anymore, Ethan. I want a relationship. No more of whatever this is,” I say, fighting back tears.
He ignores me for a moment and puts his head in his hands. This is it—this is the moment it all ends. I brace myself for his delivery. I know that’s what he’s thinking.
How do I tell her I can’t give her what she wants?
“I’ve told you this before, Sloane. I need to do this at my own pace and on my own time.” His tone is certain.
I nod; the gesture is small but accepting, and my heart sinks with the familiarity of that sentence.
“Can you promise me something?” I ask, locking eyes with him.
He swallows, visibly uneasy. “Depends.”
“Please just don’t leave me in the dark like that again. I want to be here for you. I’m on your side, but I can’t do that if you ignore me for weeks on end.”
“It was less than a week.” he replies, trying to downplay the situation.
“I’m serious. It hurts.” I’m firm.
Ethan looks at me, finally seeing the pain he’s caused.
“I’ll try,” he says.
Ethan never makes promises he can’t keep, which is why he doesn’t make promises.
I empty the dishwasher and pour myself a glass of wine, knowing he’s probably rolling his eyes behind my back. He plops himself onto the couch and plays on his phone. Is this what our life would be like—that future I’ve been dreaming of—would it be bad communication, half-assed promises, and awkward silences? I’d like to think our relationship would be different once he’s ready to put in the effort and fully commit.
“Should we watch Breaking Bad? I can pour you a glass,” I offer, holding up the bottle of red.
“I’m not in the mood to drink tonight,” he says as he turns on the episode.
Ethan’s body molds to mine as we lie on the couch. I drink my wine too quickly and refill the glass three more times during the two episodes we get through. No matter how much I try, I can’t get our last conversation out of my head. One of his arms is wrapped around my waist, while my head rests on the other.
“Let’s go to bed.” His mouth finds its way to my ear.
I turn around so that I’m facing him, even though his head is still a few inches above mine. My hand grips the back of his neck, I pull him into me, and we start kissing.
Our mouths become one for what feels like hours. I can’t remember the last time we kissed for this long. Maybe the first time we ever kissed in my bedroom at Ascent. I remember the first time we kissed like it happened hours ago. I’m afraid it’s something I’ll never be able to forget.
“My room?” I ask.
“I want to fuck you here,” he whispers. “On the couch.”
So I let him. I let him fuck me on the sectional couch we got from Facebook Marketplace, and the entire time I try not to cry.
Somehow, it feels different than all the other times we’ve had sex. It feels less intimate, like I’m just an object to him. I try not to let it show, but something tells me he knows. Once we’re done, we both lie there. Naked and completely still.
Even though he was just inside of me, he feels so distant. How can I miss him when he’s right here?
“Is it okay if I sleep at home tonight?” he asks, as if my opinion holds any weight.
“Okay,” is all I can manage.
He gets dressed, washes out my wineglass, and puts his shoes on all while I lie naked on the couch. He kisses my forehead and leaves the apartment. I expect myself to cry, but I don’t.
I get off the couch and make my way into my room, where I change into my favorite pajamas and get into bed. Even though it feels like something between us is about to break, something within me feels somewhat at peace.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life thinking, Is this my great love story?, because I want more. I deserve more.
I don’t want calls that go unanswered or texts that are never read. I don’t want to spend holidays, or any day, begging someone to choose me. I deserve someone who chooses me without question. Someone who loves me without doubt. I want someone who shows up, and I realize that my relationship with Ethan isn’t any of those things. It likely never will be.
Maybe this really is the end.
35
Sloane
December 2018
Phillip hands me a blush-colored envelope. My name is written in calligraphy, and without even opening it, I know it’s Graham and Emily’s wedding invitation. The wedding isn’t until summer, but being early is on-brand for them.
I enter our apartment, which is filled with half-packed moving boxes, and avoid opening the envelope. I place it on the counter and stare at it for what feels like an eternity.
Am I ready to open it?
I carefully break the seal and immediately tear up. This is all I want—someone who loves me enough to commit to forever. Even though I know that marriage doesn’t always mean forever, people don’t go into it thinking they’ll get divorced. They go in wanting to spend the rest of their lives together. Why can’t Ethan give this to me?
I grab a magnet from the drawer next to the sink and hang the invitation on the refrigerator. My phone starts buzzing on the counter.
6:38 p.m.
Ethan Brady: Waiting on our food now. Be there in 30.
For a second I forgot about our plans tonight. I hit send on a simple reply and collect myself.
Even though most of our kitchen is packed, we left out a few wineglasses, knowing we’d need them. I reach into the cabinet above the sink for one, pour myself a heavy glass of cab and finish it before he arrives. Something tells me I’m going to need it.
Ethan reaches for two of the ketchup packets and squirts them on his fries. We eat in silence as the TV plays sports coverage from the living room. I pour another glass of wine.
“What should we watch? We need a new show, but I haven’t heard of anything good coming out on Netflix lately. Have you?”
He cuts me off. “I can’t do this anymore, Sloane. I think this needs to end.”
The wineglass in my hand falls to the floor, and I rush to collect the remnants. Tears fill my eyes as I pick up each piece and place it in my other hand.
Here I am again, crying on the kitchen floor.
“Fuck!” Ethan shouts as he rushes to my side. The urgency of the situation begins to sink in, even as my emotions cloud my reality.
I look at my hand and notice there’s a large piece of glass wedged into my palm. Why can’t I feel it? I can see the glass and the blood, but I can’t feel anything. The blood drips down my hand and onto the kitchen rug. I hope Lauren wasn’t planning on taking this with her. Ethan pulls out his phone and helps me up.
I watch as he calls an Uber and grabs my hand to inspect it.
“We should leave it in there. I’m worried about pulling it out. I don’t want it to bleed more.” He’s wrapping my hand with a dish towel while I’m still frozen in shock. Not from the blood but from the heartbreak.
***
“Sloane, I’m so sorry,” he says as he opens the car door. I get into the back seat, and he slides in next to me.
We arrive at the emergency room in what feels like seconds. I still can’t manage to form words, so I can’t tell him that I want him to leave. He checks us in and sits next to me in the waiting room, holding the dish towel over my hand and applying the slightest pressure around where the glass is to stop the bleeding.
“Sloane Hart?” a doctor says, entering the waiting room.
We follow her through a set of double doors, and she shows me to a bed, where I sit while she draws the curtain. I don’t make eye contact with Ethan, because if I do, I think I might be sick.
She examines my hand before reassuring me, “This doesn’t look too bad. I’m going to remove it and then clean the wound before wrapping it up. The cleaning will be the worst part.”
I nod in place of a reply.
I feel no pain as she gets the glass out and cleans my hand. I’m trying to wrap my head around what Ethan said after dinner. He’s had so many chances to end it. I’ve given him so many outs. And instead this is how it ends.
The car ride home is silent. Not even the radio is playing. All that I hear is I can’t do this anymore, Sloane.
I hate how he says my name. I hope I never hear him say it again.
We arrive at our building, and we both stand outside for a moment before walking in.
“Should I come to yours so we can finish talking?” he asks hesitantly.
“No, I don’t think we need to talk more.”
I finally look up and stare at him, pausing before I continue. “I just need you to know that you can’t do this to me anymore. There’s no going back after tonight. I can’t keep doing this to myself. I love you so much that it hurts. It’s made me physically ill on more than one occasion. Love shouldn’t hurt. Love shouldn’t make you sick. I know that you’re not ready, and nothing I can say or do will ever change that. The only person that can change that is you. I would’ve done anything for you—”
A tear falls down my face.
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. We look at each other for a few seconds, and then I break eye contact, turn around, and walk into the building. I never look back.
The elevator ride feels centuries long. As soon as I’m face-to-face with the empty apartment, I break down. Everything is just as we left it. Our empty takeout boxes waiting to be brought to the trash chute, the remnants of my broken wineglass, bloodstained paper towels. I do my best to clean it up without hurting myself again.
I always believed that we’d find our way back to each other every time things ended. Except this time, it feels final—like I’ll never see him again. I can feel it in my bones. This time is really it.
It still hurts. Losing him and missing him still hurts, but in a different way than it did the other times. It doesn’t feel like an earth-shattering heartbreak, but a more subtle lingering pain.
I stay up most of the night replaying our relationship over in my head from the moment we met all the way up to tonight. Our first kiss, our first date, our last kiss, and our last date. I wish things could have unfolded differently between us. I know that deep down he loves and cares about me, but it still isn’t enough.
Some people don’t grow up in a house full of love, and even though my parents aren’t together anymore, for eighteen years of my life, they had a good run. I hate what I know about Ethan’s past, and I wish he felt like he could tell me. In more ways than one, I hate his parents. I hate them for leaving him, but I hate them even more for making him feel like he isn’t deserving of being loved.
36
Ethan
December 2018
When I got back into the city, I avoided replying to Sloane’s texts. I needed to clear my head, process the weekend’s chaos. Now, two days deep into radio silence, I’m still scrambling for the right play. Even though she won’t admit it, I know she’s upset with me for ditching her on Thanksgiving. So I can only imagine how she feels now.
Why the hell can’t I get it right? With her, with anything? I’m stuck in my own head, which is nothing new, I guess.
Laundry day—the epitome of New York. Bag slung over my shoulder, I step into the elevator and finally crack, shooting Sloane a text. Just an I’m sorry, I just needed space, straight up, no chaser, knowing that she’s gonna corner me for a full explanation later anyway.
I walk into her apartment and notice that there’s a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter. Part of me was expecting that—she always drinks when she’s nervous. Usually, I don’t mind it, but for some reason, today it really bothers me. It makes me wonder if alcohol is a coping mechanism for her. I can’t build a life with someone who turns to alcohol when things get tough. Alcohol is the sole reason my life ended up the way that it did, and I really don’t want to sign up for a rerun.
“I want you to stop avoiding me. Stop avoiding us.” She addresses me.
I choose to defend myself. “I’m not. I just needed to be alone.”
“You can communicate that then, before ghosting me.”
“I didn’t ghost you, Sloane. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but for how long?”
I’m cornered, no solid game plan, and I can tell she sees right through me. “I don’t know,” I admit. “If I could answer that, we’d be dating.”
I can see the heartbreak in her eyes. I’ve got to tread lighter—she’s one step away from a breakdown, and I’m the one with the sledgehammer.
Trying to backpedal, I fumble. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” I drop onto the seat beside her, still unsure of how to fix this. “I just don’t know what I can say that can make you understand how I’m feeling.”
“I can’t keep doing this one-foot-in, one-foot-out thing with you. We’re not in college anymore, Ethan. I want a relationship. No more of whatever this is.” For once, she’s firm in her delivery.
“I’ll try,” slips out, and I regret those two words as soon as they leave my mouth.
I know I’ll never be the person she wants or deserves. I need to just let her go and stop trying to be someone I’m not, for both of our sakes.
***
I spend the next few days thinking through everything. Every moment in my childhood, every moment before Sloane, and every moment with Sloane. I try to remember the last time I was truly happy, and it hurts to know that I can’t pinpoint it. Can’t most people? My entire life has been a series of unfortunate events. One after another. How shitty is that? What’s even shittier though is having to explain these things to people—people like Sloane.
It’s not that I don’t want to tell her, I just can’t. I don’t know how. I don’t want to see that look of pity in her eyes. I don’t want anyone to pity me, but especially not her. I’m supposed to be the one she leans on, not the other way around. I’ll never depend on someone in the way she wants me to. I’ll never depend on someone other than myself because, sooner or later, people let me down. They always have and they always will.
I stand in line waiting to pay for our dinner and can’t shake the uneasy feeling inside of me. I know I need to do this.
“Order for Ethan?”
The host hands me a plastic bag with two to-go boxes inside in exchange for my credit card.
The restaurant is six blocks away from our apartment building, which gives me time to run through how I want this to go down. I hate that I’m going to hurt her, which is why I’ve put this off for so long. I prepare the conversation in my head and go over it what feels like a hundred times.
“A week? Why didn’t you say something sooner?” she replies, surprised.
The confession spills out of me, “Because I’m embarrassed. It’s happening again—I’m losing him, and I have absolutely no control over it. How am I back here? Why didn’t I learn? I’ve been so convinced that the reason I never fully moved on was that we were supposed to try again. We were supposed to work out this time. So why haven’t we? This might sound insane, and I don’t even know if I believe in God, but sometimes I think that he wouldn’t keep putting Ethan back into my life if we weren’t meant to work out one day.”
“Oh, Sloane.” Lauren’s touch is gentle on my shoulder. “Or he’s trying to teach you a lesson. You’re not going to want to hear this, but you need to let him go. Look at what he’s been doing to you for the past two years. You can’t keep living like this, at his every beck and call. This is your life; he doesn’t call the shots. You do.”
Her words, though tough, are laced with love and a desire to see me free from this never-ending cycle.
I can’t manage a reply.
After a few minutes of silence and more sobbing, Lauren turns off the lamp on my nightstand and leaves the room. I fall asleep on top of my comforter, fully dressed, dried tears on both cheeks.
The next morning, I get in the shower and turn the water as hot as it will go in hopes that I can burn off any trace of Ethan. I dry myself off and stare at my naked body in the mirror, thinking about all the times he touched me. Why can’t I remember the last time that he kissed me? What if the last time was the last time? I make myself sick over the thought and kneel in front of the toilet bowl.
I finish up in the bathroom and retrieve my phone from underneath my bed, where I left it last night. I power it on, grab my work bag, and head out the door. As I get out of the elevator, I stare at the only text message I received.
7:42 a.m.
Ethan Brady: Hey. I’m sorry for not replying sooner. I needed some space.
That’s it? That’s all he has to say? I shove the phone back into my bag and, for once, read the advertisements plastered all over the subway car.
***
My voice is a mix of frustration and hurt as I confront him. “You can’t just ignore me for a week and expect me to forget about it, Ethan.”
“I know, and I said I’m sorry,” he says, the apology lacking conviction. “What more do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop avoiding me. Stop avoiding us.”
“I’m not. I needed to be alone.” His defense is weak, and he’s avoiding eye contact.
“You can communicate that then, before ghosting me,” I remind him.
He looks up. “I didn’t ghost you, Sloane. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Sitting on the barstool, I watch as Ethan paces the kitchen.
“Yeah, but for how long?” I question.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “If I could answer that, we’d be dating.”
I stare blankly at him and feel a tear roll down my cheek. Two years ago, any time I’d been around Ethan, I was worried I would say the wrong thing and scare him away. Now, in the middle of my tiny New York City apartment, I’m being the most vulnerable I’ve ever been with anyone.
“I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” He takes a seat next to me and puts his hand on my leg. “I just don’t know what I can say that can make you understand how I’m feeling.”
“I can’t keep doing this one-foot-in, one-foot-out thing with you. We’re not in college anymore, Ethan. I want a relationship. No more of whatever this is,” I say, fighting back tears.
He ignores me for a moment and puts his head in his hands. This is it—this is the moment it all ends. I brace myself for his delivery. I know that’s what he’s thinking.
How do I tell her I can’t give her what she wants?
“I’ve told you this before, Sloane. I need to do this at my own pace and on my own time.” His tone is certain.
I nod; the gesture is small but accepting, and my heart sinks with the familiarity of that sentence.
“Can you promise me something?” I ask, locking eyes with him.
He swallows, visibly uneasy. “Depends.”
“Please just don’t leave me in the dark like that again. I want to be here for you. I’m on your side, but I can’t do that if you ignore me for weeks on end.”
“It was less than a week.” he replies, trying to downplay the situation.
“I’m serious. It hurts.” I’m firm.
Ethan looks at me, finally seeing the pain he’s caused.
“I’ll try,” he says.
Ethan never makes promises he can’t keep, which is why he doesn’t make promises.
I empty the dishwasher and pour myself a glass of wine, knowing he’s probably rolling his eyes behind my back. He plops himself onto the couch and plays on his phone. Is this what our life would be like—that future I’ve been dreaming of—would it be bad communication, half-assed promises, and awkward silences? I’d like to think our relationship would be different once he’s ready to put in the effort and fully commit.
“Should we watch Breaking Bad? I can pour you a glass,” I offer, holding up the bottle of red.
“I’m not in the mood to drink tonight,” he says as he turns on the episode.
Ethan’s body molds to mine as we lie on the couch. I drink my wine too quickly and refill the glass three more times during the two episodes we get through. No matter how much I try, I can’t get our last conversation out of my head. One of his arms is wrapped around my waist, while my head rests on the other.
“Let’s go to bed.” His mouth finds its way to my ear.
I turn around so that I’m facing him, even though his head is still a few inches above mine. My hand grips the back of his neck, I pull him into me, and we start kissing.
Our mouths become one for what feels like hours. I can’t remember the last time we kissed for this long. Maybe the first time we ever kissed in my bedroom at Ascent. I remember the first time we kissed like it happened hours ago. I’m afraid it’s something I’ll never be able to forget.
“My room?” I ask.
“I want to fuck you here,” he whispers. “On the couch.”
So I let him. I let him fuck me on the sectional couch we got from Facebook Marketplace, and the entire time I try not to cry.
Somehow, it feels different than all the other times we’ve had sex. It feels less intimate, like I’m just an object to him. I try not to let it show, but something tells me he knows. Once we’re done, we both lie there. Naked and completely still.
Even though he was just inside of me, he feels so distant. How can I miss him when he’s right here?
“Is it okay if I sleep at home tonight?” he asks, as if my opinion holds any weight.
“Okay,” is all I can manage.
He gets dressed, washes out my wineglass, and puts his shoes on all while I lie naked on the couch. He kisses my forehead and leaves the apartment. I expect myself to cry, but I don’t.
I get off the couch and make my way into my room, where I change into my favorite pajamas and get into bed. Even though it feels like something between us is about to break, something within me feels somewhat at peace.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life thinking, Is this my great love story?, because I want more. I deserve more.
I don’t want calls that go unanswered or texts that are never read. I don’t want to spend holidays, or any day, begging someone to choose me. I deserve someone who chooses me without question. Someone who loves me without doubt. I want someone who shows up, and I realize that my relationship with Ethan isn’t any of those things. It likely never will be.
Maybe this really is the end.
35
Sloane
December 2018
Phillip hands me a blush-colored envelope. My name is written in calligraphy, and without even opening it, I know it’s Graham and Emily’s wedding invitation. The wedding isn’t until summer, but being early is on-brand for them.
I enter our apartment, which is filled with half-packed moving boxes, and avoid opening the envelope. I place it on the counter and stare at it for what feels like an eternity.
Am I ready to open it?
I carefully break the seal and immediately tear up. This is all I want—someone who loves me enough to commit to forever. Even though I know that marriage doesn’t always mean forever, people don’t go into it thinking they’ll get divorced. They go in wanting to spend the rest of their lives together. Why can’t Ethan give this to me?
I grab a magnet from the drawer next to the sink and hang the invitation on the refrigerator. My phone starts buzzing on the counter.
6:38 p.m.
Ethan Brady: Waiting on our food now. Be there in 30.
For a second I forgot about our plans tonight. I hit send on a simple reply and collect myself.
Even though most of our kitchen is packed, we left out a few wineglasses, knowing we’d need them. I reach into the cabinet above the sink for one, pour myself a heavy glass of cab and finish it before he arrives. Something tells me I’m going to need it.
Ethan reaches for two of the ketchup packets and squirts them on his fries. We eat in silence as the TV plays sports coverage from the living room. I pour another glass of wine.
“What should we watch? We need a new show, but I haven’t heard of anything good coming out on Netflix lately. Have you?”
He cuts me off. “I can’t do this anymore, Sloane. I think this needs to end.”
The wineglass in my hand falls to the floor, and I rush to collect the remnants. Tears fill my eyes as I pick up each piece and place it in my other hand.
Here I am again, crying on the kitchen floor.
“Fuck!” Ethan shouts as he rushes to my side. The urgency of the situation begins to sink in, even as my emotions cloud my reality.
I look at my hand and notice there’s a large piece of glass wedged into my palm. Why can’t I feel it? I can see the glass and the blood, but I can’t feel anything. The blood drips down my hand and onto the kitchen rug. I hope Lauren wasn’t planning on taking this with her. Ethan pulls out his phone and helps me up.
I watch as he calls an Uber and grabs my hand to inspect it.
“We should leave it in there. I’m worried about pulling it out. I don’t want it to bleed more.” He’s wrapping my hand with a dish towel while I’m still frozen in shock. Not from the blood but from the heartbreak.
***
“Sloane, I’m so sorry,” he says as he opens the car door. I get into the back seat, and he slides in next to me.
We arrive at the emergency room in what feels like seconds. I still can’t manage to form words, so I can’t tell him that I want him to leave. He checks us in and sits next to me in the waiting room, holding the dish towel over my hand and applying the slightest pressure around where the glass is to stop the bleeding.
“Sloane Hart?” a doctor says, entering the waiting room.
We follow her through a set of double doors, and she shows me to a bed, where I sit while she draws the curtain. I don’t make eye contact with Ethan, because if I do, I think I might be sick.
She examines my hand before reassuring me, “This doesn’t look too bad. I’m going to remove it and then clean the wound before wrapping it up. The cleaning will be the worst part.”
I nod in place of a reply.
I feel no pain as she gets the glass out and cleans my hand. I’m trying to wrap my head around what Ethan said after dinner. He’s had so many chances to end it. I’ve given him so many outs. And instead this is how it ends.
The car ride home is silent. Not even the radio is playing. All that I hear is I can’t do this anymore, Sloane.
I hate how he says my name. I hope I never hear him say it again.
We arrive at our building, and we both stand outside for a moment before walking in.
“Should I come to yours so we can finish talking?” he asks hesitantly.
“No, I don’t think we need to talk more.”
I finally look up and stare at him, pausing before I continue. “I just need you to know that you can’t do this to me anymore. There’s no going back after tonight. I can’t keep doing this to myself. I love you so much that it hurts. It’s made me physically ill on more than one occasion. Love shouldn’t hurt. Love shouldn’t make you sick. I know that you’re not ready, and nothing I can say or do will ever change that. The only person that can change that is you. I would’ve done anything for you—”
A tear falls down my face.
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. We look at each other for a few seconds, and then I break eye contact, turn around, and walk into the building. I never look back.
The elevator ride feels centuries long. As soon as I’m face-to-face with the empty apartment, I break down. Everything is just as we left it. Our empty takeout boxes waiting to be brought to the trash chute, the remnants of my broken wineglass, bloodstained paper towels. I do my best to clean it up without hurting myself again.
I always believed that we’d find our way back to each other every time things ended. Except this time, it feels final—like I’ll never see him again. I can feel it in my bones. This time is really it.
It still hurts. Losing him and missing him still hurts, but in a different way than it did the other times. It doesn’t feel like an earth-shattering heartbreak, but a more subtle lingering pain.
I stay up most of the night replaying our relationship over in my head from the moment we met all the way up to tonight. Our first kiss, our first date, our last kiss, and our last date. I wish things could have unfolded differently between us. I know that deep down he loves and cares about me, but it still isn’t enough.
Some people don’t grow up in a house full of love, and even though my parents aren’t together anymore, for eighteen years of my life, they had a good run. I hate what I know about Ethan’s past, and I wish he felt like he could tell me. In more ways than one, I hate his parents. I hate them for leaving him, but I hate them even more for making him feel like he isn’t deserving of being loved.
36
Ethan
December 2018
When I got back into the city, I avoided replying to Sloane’s texts. I needed to clear my head, process the weekend’s chaos. Now, two days deep into radio silence, I’m still scrambling for the right play. Even though she won’t admit it, I know she’s upset with me for ditching her on Thanksgiving. So I can only imagine how she feels now.
Why the hell can’t I get it right? With her, with anything? I’m stuck in my own head, which is nothing new, I guess.
Laundry day—the epitome of New York. Bag slung over my shoulder, I step into the elevator and finally crack, shooting Sloane a text. Just an I’m sorry, I just needed space, straight up, no chaser, knowing that she’s gonna corner me for a full explanation later anyway.
I walk into her apartment and notice that there’s a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter. Part of me was expecting that—she always drinks when she’s nervous. Usually, I don’t mind it, but for some reason, today it really bothers me. It makes me wonder if alcohol is a coping mechanism for her. I can’t build a life with someone who turns to alcohol when things get tough. Alcohol is the sole reason my life ended up the way that it did, and I really don’t want to sign up for a rerun.
“I want you to stop avoiding me. Stop avoiding us.” She addresses me.
I choose to defend myself. “I’m not. I just needed to be alone.”
“You can communicate that then, before ghosting me.”
“I didn’t ghost you, Sloane. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but for how long?”
I’m cornered, no solid game plan, and I can tell she sees right through me. “I don’t know,” I admit. “If I could answer that, we’d be dating.”
I can see the heartbreak in her eyes. I’ve got to tread lighter—she’s one step away from a breakdown, and I’m the one with the sledgehammer.
Trying to backpedal, I fumble. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” I drop onto the seat beside her, still unsure of how to fix this. “I just don’t know what I can say that can make you understand how I’m feeling.”
“I can’t keep doing this one-foot-in, one-foot-out thing with you. We’re not in college anymore, Ethan. I want a relationship. No more of whatever this is.” For once, she’s firm in her delivery.
“I’ll try,” slips out, and I regret those two words as soon as they leave my mouth.
I know I’ll never be the person she wants or deserves. I need to just let her go and stop trying to be someone I’m not, for both of our sakes.
***
I spend the next few days thinking through everything. Every moment in my childhood, every moment before Sloane, and every moment with Sloane. I try to remember the last time I was truly happy, and it hurts to know that I can’t pinpoint it. Can’t most people? My entire life has been a series of unfortunate events. One after another. How shitty is that? What’s even shittier though is having to explain these things to people—people like Sloane.
It’s not that I don’t want to tell her, I just can’t. I don’t know how. I don’t want to see that look of pity in her eyes. I don’t want anyone to pity me, but especially not her. I’m supposed to be the one she leans on, not the other way around. I’ll never depend on someone in the way she wants me to. I’ll never depend on someone other than myself because, sooner or later, people let me down. They always have and they always will.
I stand in line waiting to pay for our dinner and can’t shake the uneasy feeling inside of me. I know I need to do this.
“Order for Ethan?”
The host hands me a plastic bag with two to-go boxes inside in exchange for my credit card.
The restaurant is six blocks away from our apartment building, which gives me time to run through how I want this to go down. I hate that I’m going to hurt her, which is why I’ve put this off for so long. I prepare the conversation in my head and go over it what feels like a hundred times.
