Page 9 of It Should Have Been Me

I pick out the licorice ones and toss them into the ashtray before giving him a handful. I only realize after he pops the little beans into his mouth that I did that without thinking. The thing is, he once told me that he wanted to share every packet of Jelly Bellies with me, and from that second, it becameourthing. Eating this is something I’ve never done by myself or with another person. It’s sacred somehow, intimate. It’soursand the whole process of sharing it with him is second nature, muscle memory developed from the act of doing this with him for years. Somehow, that makes me feel like my body is slipping into the normal routine of being around him. And it shouldn’t. Nothing about my interactions with him should feelnormal. I shift uncomfortably and look straight ahead instead.

He sneaks a peek at me, and his lips quirk up slightly. “So...I hear you have a boyfriend?”

I slowly chew the candy in my mouth. “Uh...awkward, but...yes, I do. He’ll be flying over the week after next.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s a great guy, Scott.”

His blue eyes fix on me for a few seconds, and he looks a little sad. “He treats you good?”

I nod. “Of course. He’s thoughtful and romantic and very kind. He takes really good care of me. And we have a lot in common, too. We both love to travel, and we both love art. He’s a painter. His work is amazing. You should see it sometime.”

“That’s great.” His tone remains casual, even though I see his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “I’m happy for you, Cat. You got what you’ve always wanted.”

Even though I know he’s genuinely happy for me, I can hear the slight resentment in his voice. It hurts him to know thathewasn’t what I wanted. Well, that’s the way he sees it. He blurs the line between the man I wanted and the life I wanted. He sees it as the same thing. It isn’t. It’s not that I didn’t wanthim. I did. With everything in me, I wanted him. I just didn’t want the boring, conventional, mediocre life. I didn’t want the house in the suburbs and carpooling the kids to school. I wanted thrill-seeking adventure and never knowing what the future holds. I tried to explain that to him during our last conversation, but he just didn’t get it because he can’t separate the two — himself from the life he was offering me. It shouldn’t matter to him now anyway, though. He dumped me. Quite brutally, in fact, so if anyone should be resentful here, it’s me.

We fall into silence and it’s a little tense before he speaks again. “So...he’s an artist?”

“Yep.”

His eyes narrow at me in a somewhat playful way. “I bet he has a man-bun.”

Abject shock plays with my expression and my mouth drops open. “He does not!”

He obviously sees something in my reaction because douche mode immediately kicks in. “He does! You’re dating a guy with a man-bun? Really?”

“Okay...okay, listen. His hair is...a little long and on very...veryrare occasions...he might—”

“He wears it in a fucking man-bun!”

I erupt with laughter. Even after all these years, he still has the unique ability to make me laugh without inhibitions. It’s weird. We seem to be simultaneously floating between discomfort and familiarity.

“Shit, I can’t believe it.” He’s still chuckling when he stops outside an apartment building and switches off the car. “We’re here.” He unstraps his seatbelt. “Do you want to wait in the car or...do you wanna come up?”

“Uh...I need the bathroom, so I’ll come up.”

I hop out, and he leads me inside to the elevator. After slotting in a key and turning it, he punches in a code, and the elevator takes us up to the twelfth floor. The whole floor is the living space, so we walk straight out of the elevator into his kitchen. Beyond the modern lightwood countertops, the space extends to an open-plan lounge and a small dining area. His apartment is exactly how I pictured it would look.

Rustic style emphasized by rugged, natural finishes. Stone walls and exposed beams on the ceilings make it feel manly, yet still cozy. All the décor has soft, earthy tones. The dark weathered wooden flooring coupled with the sunlight streaming in from the double-volume windows gives this place a homely warmth. It’s right on the beach and the view of the ocean is breathtaking.

“This is beautiful,” I say, looking around.

“Thanks. The view from the roof is even better.”

There’s a lingering silence, almost as if this is the part when he offers a quick tour of the place, but he remains quiet, which sort of gives me the vibe that he doesn’t want me in his personal space.

I clear my throat and resume the conversation as if the pause didn’t happen. “I bet it is. I’m guessing you have exclusive access because you’re renting the top floor.”

“Oh, I’m not renting. I bought it a few months ago.”

My eyes widen. “Beachfront property? Again, I’m going to point out that this is not how I expected a teacher to live.”

“Again, I’m going to point out that I have a friend named Peter. I saw this as a lucrative investment, so I asked him for a loan to buy the whole building. I use the rentals from the other tenants to pay back the loan, so technically, it’s paying itself off. This way I’m not out of pocketandI don’t have to pay rent. It’ll be mine in about six years.”

“You’ve always been so smart and responsible when it comes to money,” I muse.

Something about that comment seems to irritate him, but he ignores it and points to the corridor on the left. “Bathroom is down that way.”

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