Page 2 of Love Undecided
“The guy?” I ask.
“Bauer.”
Why does he care about Bauer? They don’t even like each other.
“Uh, fine, I guess. Working hard, all that stuff.”
“And the two of you?” he asks.
“The two of us?”
“This is how we are playing it, right? You ask about Stacy, I ask about Bauer.”
“Okay….”
“So, the two of you are well? You’re happy?”
As in how we work as partners when I consult for the SSPD in solving crimes?
“Sure,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “I mean he’s smart and thorough. And he knows what he’s doing, which is nice.”
He raises his sunglasses, purposefully I’m sure so I can melt in his eyes.
“Kat, I don’t want it to be like this. Fuck. You know I’m still in love with you. I’m just hoping you’ll eventually realize you’re still in love with me too.”
I have realized that, but I’m not about to admit it to him.
“Let’s be real, he’s never going to be as good for you as I am,” he says.
“Why would—”
“Let me finish,” he says. “No one is going to be as good for you as I am. You don’t belong with him. The same way I don’t belong with Stacy.”
“But, I’m not—”
He interrupts me again, telling me all his reasons for feeling the way that he does. For why he’s right and I’m wrong.
I wait for a break in his tirade, and gulp the remainder of my wine, signaling the waitress for another, fully prepared to keep drinking until I have to pour myself into an Uber.
Because now is when I break his heart.
Again.
“You need to let me go,” I tell him. “Even if you aren't with Stacy, we won’t work. I can’t be with you. Your mom died from the same fucking disease that I have, I can’t be with anyone who has seen me the way that you have.”
He really just needs to move on with his life. Get married, have babies, coach little league, and host Sunday barbecues.
I feel the tears start to streak down my face. I look away from him toward the water, hoping the ocean breeze will blow them dry before he has a chance to see them.
But I keep talking, “I can’t ask you to commit yourself to a life of caretaking and hoping for miracles. To living in constant anticipation of when it will resurface and how. Always seeing me as a helpless, weakened victim, with one foot in the grave. That is no way for you to live.”
“Fuck, Kat.” He leans forward again, resting his forearms on the table, the muscles in his arms flexing.
“Baby, don’t cry.” He reaches across the table and cups my face, using his thumb to gently wipe away the tears.
I blow my nose in my napkin, it makes one of those goose-like honking noises and I start to laugh.
Then I can’t stop.
