Page 113 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

For the millionth time this week, I think of Florida. Snapshots of that secret weekend are always playing in my head, like a bad breakup song on repeat.

“I may have heard of it,” I say.

“Recorded here in eighty-eight, when I was just a skinny kid making store runs and begging John Qualls to teach me everything he knew about sound,” he smiles. “So, what have you got for me today?”

“A few things from the realty company in charge of the house sale. I need your signature here and here. Initials here, here, and here.”

He begins scribbling across the papers as indicated.

“I heard you’re leaving Freeman Maxwell,” he says.

“You heard correctly.”

“I guess my case wasn’t the big win you hoped for?” My eyes slide up to his, trying to gauge what he means by this. “People talk. I know you were up for a big promotion, if everything went well.”

“It wasn’t really about your case,” I tell him. “They knew who they wanted, and in the end it wasn’t me.”

Teddy makes a humming noise before flipping the page, following my finger to the next dotted line.

“Where’s Quentin been lately?”

“No clue,” I say. “Texas, maybe.”

Teddy gives me a long, assessing look. I flip a few more pages, and he slowly adds his uneven signature. “You’re not together anymore?”

“I don’t usually discuss my relationship status with clients, Mr. Glass.”

“C’mon. After everything we’ve been through?” He gives me a twinkly eyed grin that makes him look like a carefree teenager. I give him a chastising smile. “You know, I get that I don’t have the best track record with relationships or anything, but I thought you two had something special.”

Yeah, I thought so too, I think woefully. The signature combination of shame and regret swims in my stomach.

“We were just doing our job,” I offer.

“Maybe. But there was a vibe. Really,” he insists, when he catches the incredulous look on my face. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and part of that is being able to look at something in the beginning stages and really see it – not for what it is – but for what it could be. It’s this feeling that kind of vibrates in your bones, you know? A sixth sense. It’s like hearing a band play for the first time. I can always tell if they’re going to make it. If they mesh. If they’ve gotit. And you two definitely had it.”

I give him a narrowed stare. “Have you been drinking whiskey for breakfast again?”

His boyish face stretches into a grin, and he signs the last page with a flourish, passing my pen back to me.

“Look. For the past six months you’ve been telling it to me like it is. I appreciate that. In a world full of bullshitters, it’s an admirable quality. It’s why I hired you. Consider this me returning the favor. Call him. Despite what that billboard says, your life is about a whole helluva lot more than breaking up.”

“I probably won’t,” I admit. “But thanks.”

***

I sweep through the aisles of Nine Lives, where I’ve been summoned to check out a set of barware that Auntie Lena is sure I can’t live without. Of course, this is her new favorite way to lure me into the shop. First it was an art deco wall clock. Then it was a pair of boots that she swore would be great for fall. I can’t help but suspect that, ever since the breakup – if that’s what you’d even call the end of fake not-dating one’s coworker – that this is Auntie Lena’s way of making sure I’m not sitting home alone. Meg has adopted a similar tactic, suddenly needing emergency taste-testers for coffee cakes and breakfast pastry recipes she’s hoping to sneak onto the cafe’s menu for autumn. As much as I want to call them on their thinly veiled tactics, it also makes me feel like the human equivalent of the baked brie Meg served last time I was at her house: tough on the outside, all warm and gooey underneath. All I can do is greet them with grateful hugs that I hope say everything I can’t.

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for not making me talk about it.

Thank you for not telling me I made a huge mistake.

As the weeks march on, the more I begin to wonder exactly what kind of mistake I made.

Was it all those things that dawned on me the night of the party? That I shouldn’t have put my heart on the line? That I shouldn’t have trusted Quentin?

Or was my biggest mistake the sheer stubborn way I tend to dig my heels in? The way I refused to hear his side. The way I pretended none of it hurt. That I’m invincible. That I don’t miss him.

---