Page 7 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
I threw myself back on the couch and kicked my legs in the air. This washappening!
We had long conversations on the app for the next week, and then we moved on to video chats. There was something so intimate about having this virtual tête-à-tête with him, I could feel the sexualtension through the screen. It got to the point where we were texting each other all day and having video calls multiple nights each week. Finally, that summer, we went on our first date. We met at San Fermo, an Italian restaurant in Ballard, where they had set up cozy outdoor tables under strands of string lights. I wore a floral sundress I’d had since college that I worried was too short, subtly tugging at the hem with shaking hands as I walked up to him and said hello.
But what started as something that made me feel good about myself—He saw my potential! He liked me!—devolved into something that made me insecure. We dated for over a year, and it got pretty serious—we stayed over at each other’s places frequently, we talked about the future. But we never met each other’s families.
At first, it was easy to justify why our relationship was so isolated. People were staying home and social distancing. The world was in and out of quarantine. But after the first vaccines came out, we started running out of excuses. So we just stopped talking about meeting each other’s families, about going out with friends. Because deep down we knew that they would think it was wrong. That we shouldn’t be together.
One rainy fall night, we ran into a mutual acquaintance at the movie theater. It was a girl from my high school class, Tessa Jordan. We said a quick hello, and the look on her face was like… it was like she was on a gossip-only diet and she’d been starving in the desert for weeks and we were the juiciest gossip steak she’d ever seen. I could practically see a thought bubble over her head with the messages she was about to send to everyone she still knew from school.
That was when I started thinking seriously about ending it. I didn’t want to retroactively tarnish my own reputation, but more than that, I didn’t want Alex to lose his job. Maybe that wouldn’t happen, but how could we be sure? If a single person claimed thatwe’d had an inappropriate relationship when I was sixteen, he might never work again.
He understood my concerns, but he didn’t think it was as big a deal.
“We’re both adults. You were twenty-five when we started dating” was his typical argument.
“If it’s so fine, then why haven’t I met your parents?”
He never had a good answer for that.
I loved the time we spent together. But I didn’t love the way being with him made me feel. There was a little voice in my head that kept getting stronger that said I didn’t want to hide. I didn’t want to be hidden from his family, to have a secret relationship, to never move forward.
So I ended it. Out of the blue, out of nowhere. I took the coward’s way out and I texted him that it was over. I didn’t even tell him in person. I’m not proud of the way I did it, but I know that ending it was inevitable. We weren’t meant to be. No matter how many times I’ve sobbed alone on my couch, wishing that I could curl up against him and feel the weight of his arm around me as we Netflix-surfed together. But I’ve been strong enough to resist him whenever he’s reached out. I wonder when he’ll give up for good. A part of me that simply yearns to feel wanted hopes that he doesn’t.
On Wednesday afternoon when I’m fully immersed in a planning meeting with a team of engineers, I’m annoyed by the insistent buzzing of my phone.
Probably a spam call.I glance at it and see the name Eddy Gilberstein flashing on the screen. What? Why is my great-uncle calling me? And why can’t boomers learn how to send a text message?
“Mallory, what’s the latest on the executive review of the last build?”
Shoot.I have not been paying attention and have no idea what this person just asked me. It takes me a second to refocus, but I manage to stammer out a BS answer. I get caught up in work details for the next few hours and forget about the phone call entirely. It’s only when I’m heading out the door for my walk, opening my podcast app, that I realize I have a voicemail.
I play the voicemail and start my trek up the hill, the cool evening air riffling my long hair out behind me.
“Mallory, it’s your uncle Eddy here,” comes a deep voice tinged with the American Jewish accent all my older relatives seem to have. “Gimme a call back, would you? Been tryin’ to reach you. Thanks.”
I raise my arms in exasperation. That’s it? Honestly, doesn’t he know people these days need more information? A phone call is sort of a big commitment. Anyway, it’s already past eightP.M.in Florida. I’ll call him back tomorrow.
But I don’t get the chance. In the morning, when there are five minutes left in my yoga class, my phone rings again. I sigh. The final Savasana is my favorite part of class. Oh well.
“Hello?” I answer the phone, mopping my hairline with a clean towel.
“Mallory, it’s Eddy here.”
I know.But I’m not going to explain caller ID to him right now.
“Yes, hi, how are you?” I cross the kitchen and start pulling smoothie ingredients out of the fridge. “Sorry I missed your call yesterday.”
“Fine, fine.”
“What’s going on?” I plunk a tub of yogurt and a carton of oat milk on the counter.
“Well, listen.” He pauses, somewhat hesitantly. “You probably know I’ve been handling some of Lottie’s affairs. Helping Leonard out.”
“That’s nice of you.” I peel a banana and add it to the blender.
“Yeah, well. So here’s the thing. Lottie left you something.”
I stop, clutching a handful of spinach leaves. “She did?”
