Page 130 of The Unraveling

We don’t talk much on the way, just amicable silence and observations about the things we pass. It’s like we’re saving the real talk for when we’re sitting down, looking at each other. With a confidence-giving drink in front of us each.

The pub is busy and cozy, but we find a table near the fireplace in the back corner.

“I’ll have a stout,” he says, when the server comes over.

“Same,” I say. As much as I love champagne, I kind of feel like I could go the rest of my life without expensive wine ever again after the last few months.

“So how have—” he begins, but I cut him off.

“This psycho ballerina Arabella blocked your phone number. Actually, you met her. That night after New Year’s at the burlesque place. But the point is, she blocked you and I didn’t know. Did you—have you tried to text me? Or call me? At all?”

He looks confused for a moment, and then nods slowly. “Ah.”

“What?”

He pulls his phone out, pulls up our text screen, and puts it on the table in front of me.

Text after text after text after text.

The most recent ones say things like:

I get that you’ve probably blocked me, but I feel like if I keep texting, one day you’ll answer.

Last month:

I hope you’re doing okay. I know we’re not talking, but I wish I could get ahold of you.

And back in January:

Please come home. I love you. We’ll get through this.

I look up at him. “You texted me.”

He laughs. “Yeah, you could say that.”

The server puts our beers down in front of us and we both thank him.

“Cheers,” says Jordan.

“Cheers.”

We both sip, and then we start talking.

I tell him everything. What happened the night I left. Everything about my mom’s estate. Mimi’s bills. I even tell him how I fell in with Alistair.

Laying it all out the way I do, like a story, it feels like it happened to someone else. Someone I have compassion for. Someone who was really lost.

Someone who tried to blow up her life.

Alistair. He feels like a person from my life a million years ago. I can’t figure out why, at first, but the more I talk, the more clear it becomes.

I just needed protection. Security. Safety.

That night at the Seven, he had said all the right words. He’d said, Maybe your problem isn’t that you’re going to turn into your mom, maybe the problem is you can’t accept peace when it’s on offer. Maybe your life is actually falling into place, not falling apart.

Then he’d said I should let go. And then he’d said, Maybe I’m not going to betray you in the end. Maybe you’re actually hanging around with a good guy who’s really just trying to look out for you.

His words had had the ring of truth, but something had felt wrong. They’d felt almost right, but not quite.

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