Page 116 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

My heart twists. I clear the notification with a grimace.

Of all the things our technology knows about us, shouldn’t my devices have enough sense to pick up on the fact that Quentin and I are no longer speaking and therefore have no need to meet for dinner? It can advertise me a pair of shoes I daydreamed about exactly once, show me fifty versions of a sports bra I once gave a ten second glance, but it can’t figure out that we abruptly stopped exchanging texts and calls and spending time in each other’s immediate proximity? It really can’t come to the logical conclusion that there’s no way in hell I’m going to make this date?

I wonder, though, if maybe it also knows how many times I’ve imagined opening my door to find him standing there. I know every detail of this scene by heart. The way he would tug me against him. The way his mouth would catch mine. The way I would simply ignite under his touch.

Maybe it also knows how many times I considered the absolute pleasure of him. The easy give and take. How he mapped the location of every secret desire with his hands, and teeth, and tongue, and how I can’t forget the insatiable feel of him. The fact that – even knowing what I know now – I don’t know if I could stop myself from falling in love with him. I don’t know if I would want to.

I buy the flowers, walk to the bar, and order a cocktail. Shortly after seven, Meg texts.

M: So sorry, babe. I think Jojo ate baker’s chocolate. We’re on our way to the emergency vet.

H: Omg. What can I do? Should I meet you?

M: No, we’ve got it under control! Enjoy your Saturday night. I’ll keep you updated.

I swirl the last few sips of my drink in the glass and deflate. Going home to sit alone feels utterly depressing. Though I’ve spent plenty of weekends during my adult life alone, lately they’ve felt… lonelier. I pay my tab and wander out onto the sidewalk.

The High Limit is located at the top of a historic hotel, which I have to pass to get home. It’s old-fashioned and romantic, with a big fountain in the lobby and ducks – actual ducks – in the lobby bar. I think about taking a longer route, maybe veering onto another street, but eventually I find myself standing right in front of its revolving gold doors, with the cool air conditioning sweeping past me every time someone walks in or out. I go inside and make my way onto the elevator, hitting the button for the top floor.

I doubt he ever canceled the reservation. I’ll just go up for one drink, I tell myself. Or maybe I’ll have a beautiful dinner alone. There’s nothing wrong with being alone. Read also: Independent. Self-sufficient. Fully confident that I can eat a meal without anyone sitting across from me.

The hostess smiles when I step off the elevator. “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes,” I tell her. “I believe it’s under Maxwell.”

“Ah yes. Table for two. Right this way,” she tells me.

I want to correct her, explain that it will only be me, and I plan to address this as soon as I’m seated. But the moment we make our way into the dining room, I realize I don’t have any breath left to speak the words. The air has been knocked out of my chest, because Quentin is sitting at the table. When we approach, he stands so abruptly that the strategically placed glassware on the white tablecloth rattles.

“Um, hi. Hey,” he stammers. “I didn’t think you would…”

The unfinished words hang between us. Remember? Show up? Ever speak to him again?

I swallow thickly. “Yeah. It’s good to see you.”

He looks familiar and surprising all at once. His hair is a little longer, framing his face in unruly waves. His tan is a bit darker. His cheekbones are a bit more defined, as if maybe his face is a bit thinner. He dressed up for this. He’s wearing dark pants and a gray sport coat with the sleeves pushed up. The cuffs of his light blue button down are folded back at the cuff, giving the whole thing a sexy-casual vibe. They make his eyes look especially deep-ocean dark as they dance across my face.

“Sit,” he insists. “I mean, um… please, have a seat.”

I sit, if only so that he’ll stop doing this gentleman bit with the standing. The hostess drifts away, and we both preoccupy ourselves with studying the menus so that we don’t have to make eye contact. The server comes by, and Quentin orders a bottle of wine. Part of me wants to criticize his presumption, but mostly I’m grateful. It makes this feel somewhat normal, as if sitting across the table from one’s ex-coworker – ex-whatever-we-were – can feel normal. I realize I’m twisting my hands into the ends of my hair, and I lower them into my lap. My heart flails in my throat. I feel ridiculous.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing here,” I admit.

“Me either,” he says.

“We have that in common, at least.”

His mouth quirks at the corner.

“You know, when I first made this reservation, I had this crazy feeling we were, I dunno, soulmates or something,” he says sheepishly. “So even when you told me you weren’t available until now, I thought… that’s okay, I’ll wait. But I feel like I have to tell you that I’m not the same guy I was three months ago.”

I allow myself to be quietly intrigued by this. “How so?”

“For starters, that guy had a lot to prove. He thought he was here to prove to himself that he could be worthy of his family’s approval. He wanted to show them that he could be successful – that he was better than any of them ever gave him credit for – and he was willing to do whatever it took to prove it, even if it cost him. And it did. Cost him.”

“I see,” I say, though I don’t really. I can’t understand the point of all this. The server returns and pours us each a glass of red wine, leaving the bottle on the table between us. “And what about now? You don’t want their approval?”

“Now I know that I never really needed it. I get to define what success looks like for me. I get to decide whose opinions matter. And theirs don’t. They really don’t. I’m not that kid anymore.”

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