Page 9 of A Me and You Thing
Something’s wrong. I’m sure of it. “What is it, Bree? What happened?”
“Ben broke up with me last night,” she blurts as her eyes well with tears.
Not good. I know how much she loved him. “Oh, sweetie. Come on, I’ll grab the chocolate therapy and let’s talk.”
We sit down on the couch and each stuff a chocolate in our mouths. “What happened?” I ask again.
“The usual.”
“You told him?”
“I did. Things were starting to get serious between us, and I felt it was time. First off, he didn’t even know what severe endometriosis is.”
“He’s a guy. Why would he?”
“Right? But the explanation isn’t exactly polite dinner conversation, so my timing was way off.”
I cringe. “Please tell me that didn’t happen.”
“Oh, it happened. Let’s pause for a minute while I hang my head in shame.”
“No, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
She moves on. “It just felt like the right time, and I was so nervous, I just blurted it out. I don’t know what I was thinking. I swear he turned a sickly shade of green and couldn’t eat the rest of his dinner. I felt like I suddenly became gross in his eyes.”
“A lot of men have no clue what women have to go through every month.”
“Ben doesn’t have any sisters, so he seemed inordinately clueless. I explained that twenty-five to fifty percent of women with severe endometriosis are infertile. I admitted the doctor has told me the odds of ever having children are very low, but I also told him the possibility is there. Except we can’t count on it. I mentioned the possibility of adoption, but his coat was on and his foot already halfway out the door. He couldn’t hightail it outta there fast enough.”
While she’s hiding behind levity, her physical reactions betray her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes wide with unshed tears. I hurt for her.
“I’m sorry, Bree. If that’s how he felt, then he doesn’t deserve you.” I’m sure she’s heard that line a thousand times.
“His true colors turned out to be a messy finger-painting. Don’t worry, I didn’t let him escape without going off on him.”
“Oh, no.” Bree has no filter. When a love interest upsets her, look out world.
“Oh, yes. I told him he was a jerk and a loser, along with a few other choice words. It just sorta slipped out.”
“Sounds like a priceless Bree moment.” She’s really good at telling it like it is.
I never met Ben, even though Bree and I kept saying we’d get together and double date one night. Life and distance kept interfering. “He doesn’t sound like the man for you.” When I see her face scrunch, I want to burst into tears. She’s really struggling to maintain her composure.
“I’m not sure I can handle one more rejection.” Instead of crying, she grabs a third chocolate.
Bree doesn’t cook. She survives only because restaurants exist. She tends to choose healthy food, but the real reason she looks so good is because she’s an avid runner. I lean forward and hug her svelte frame tightly. There are no words to make it better, no consoling to wash away the hurt. All I can do is be here for her. Bree and I have been besties since middle school. We’re total opposites, yet we remain friends to this day. I’m the Melanie to her Scarlett, but I don’t mind the role. (We went through a phase where we were obsessed withGone with the Wind.) I still remember how many days of school she missed each month. To this day, she works from home during bad spells, feeling like a zombie on her pain meds.
I know one day she’ll find someone who loves her no matter how many biological children she can—or cannot—give him, but I feel trite voicing it aloud. She’s well aware.
“It’s okay, Bree. You’re allowed to have a good cry over this. I’m here for you. Just let it out.”
“You have no idea what kind of monster is about to be unleashed.”
“Yes, I do. And she needs to be set free.”
Bree lets herself cry on my shoulder—and she does cry harder than I expect. It’s disturbing, so I hold her even more tightly in response. I even listen while she curses every living, breathing male creature on the earth. I get it. She’s hurt. My heart aches for her.
She goes on. “Why do I want a man anyway? I saw a joke the other day on Facebook. It said women think they marry the man of their dreams. Ten years later he’s just a sofa that farts. Who needs that in their life? Not me.”
