Page 2 of Fun Together
“And one more thing. How are you going to move on if you’re still talking to Andrew all the time?”
Yep, I could be pondering the merits of green or yellow in the calendar for client meetings right now.
“First of all, that’s harsh. The company knows I exist.” I work for a pretty big software tech company and I’m not delusional enough to think the CEO knows who I am. But at least the marketing team knows who takes the lunch orders and makes sure the conference room is set up for our Monday Morning Mind Merge. Yes, it’s really called that. “Second of all, we don’ttalkall the time. Wetextmaybe once a week, twice at the mo?—”
“That’s so weird,” she interrupts.
“We’re still friends, though.” Kind of. It’s not like we have deep heart-to-hearts or anything. Yesterday I asked him when he’d like to come by and get the suitcase. Last week I had to let him know that I saw the lemon biscotti out at Trader Joe’s. He loves those.
“How? Even if you want to be friends still, I figured he’d have more self-respect than that.”
“Jesus, Rett!”
“Sorry.” Her voice softens a little. “But it feels like a bit of a ‘having your cake and eating it too' situation. I know you want to stay friends with him, but do you worry he might have an inkling of hope that you’ll want to get back together?”
On some level I know she’s right, because she’s very succinctly verbalized what might be causing the incessant gnawing I’ve had in my gut ever since he asked me the single question that I had been mortifyingly unprepared to hear. The question that most people would be waiting in blissful anticipation to be asked after being in a committed relationship for six years. It’s a burning guilt that no number of Tums will fix that propels me to keep reaching out to him, like I need some kind of reassurance that he doesn’t hate me.
But what if he is holding out hope that we’ll get back together? I don’t want to be someone who keeps that hope alive, no matter how awful it feels to disappoint him. That damage has been done already.
I get up and draw a doodle of a big red heart on the dry erase board behind me. “Yeah, I don’t want him to think that.”
“It’s good he’s going out of town. In fact, I’d like to not so humbly suggest youdon’treach out to him while he’s gone.”
I’ve practically been walking on eggshells in my own life since the breakup. It’s especially hard because I’m the bad guy in this scenario. I’ve been nonstop plagued with visions of Andrew standing in front of a roaring fire, tossing our mementos into the flames, camera zooming in to show a slow motion shot of a single tear gliding down his angular cheek.
She continues, breaking me out of my reverie, “And you need to climb out of your hermit hole and have some fun.”
“Hermit hole is a little dramatic.” So what if I have a bundle of blankets and pillows arranged on my couch that I affectionately refer to as my nest? “It’s called being cozy.”
“Whatever. Want some help unpacking tonight?”
“Sure, are you coming back today? What about your grandma?”
“I’m almost to her house now. She’s got something she wants to talk to me about before shemakes her exit. I told her she’s just moving to a nursing home, not stepping one foot in the grave.”
It makes me think of my own grandpa still living at home alone. I visit him every Sunday and he has a nurse that comes by a couple of times a week to check in on him, but I wonder how sustainable that really is. I’ve never even thought about broaching the subject of him moving out. It’s got to be difficult to leave the place you’ve called home for over half your life.
“If there’s anything I can do to help just let me know.”
I hear a car door slam through the phone. “I’ll text you when I’m on the way over tonight. Please go home now.”
It’s 3:45, so I think I can safely make my escape. “Yes, ma’am. Tell Grandma Minnie I said hello.”
I make my way back to my desk, check my email one more time, and head for the elevator. After stepping inside, I lean my head against the back wall and close my eyes, letting the hum of the cables soothe me.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Andrew: Sorry I’ve had something come up tomorrow afternoon. Can I come by in the morning instead?Maybe around 10?
I don’t answer yet, choosing to continue my elevator meditation session for another moment. I feel the first twinges of a caffeine-comedown headache and want nothing more than to crawl into my definitely-not-a-hermit-hole and take a nap.
A small part of me wonders if Rett is right, and I use work as an excuse to avoid thinking about things. Sure, I’m tired and want to go home, but what’s waiting for me there? At least she’s coming over later and I won’t be spending yet another Friday night alone.
The elevator jerks to a stop on the third floor, or what everyone here refers to as “no man’s land” because it’s where the accounting and human resources offices are located. I’ve never had a reason to go there, but I’ve always imagined a completely windowless space with a single, flickering light bulb dangling from a wire in the ceiling. I bet some hapless accountant has spent the entire day sweating over the single spreadsheet keeping this company running, also not allowed to leave because of a boss that guilt trips them into working outside of usual hours.
I step aside to allow them to enter.
And when my brain catches up to my eyes and I see who is getting into the elevator with me, I become seriously worried that I might be hallucinating.
