Page 43 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

Lately more than ever, I’m grateful to be a part of this outdoor pack. I used to hit the fitness center in my apartment building most mornings, but I ran into Quentin around sunrise one day recently. There are only two treadmills in our small facility, so when he powered up the one beside me, my early morning escape quickly turned into an obsessive test of my peripheral vision. It’s not that he did anything in particular to make things weird – he gave me a polite nod, plugged in his own headphones, and set his pace – but it was admittedly weird. I had sweat stains down the front of my tank top, which was clinging to me like I was aiming for runner-up in a wet T-shirt contest, and my cherry-red cheeks and limp ponytail felt glaringly obvious, my movements suddenly mechanical. Every few breaths I caught the faint high notes of his laundry detergent and the warm woodsy undertones of his skin, which flooded me with flirty thoughts of the night we met, juxtaposed with the stark contrast of our present relationship. It felt impossible to escape from thoughts about things like Quentin when Quentin was quite literally running alongside me.

When I tried to switch things up to avoid him, I stumbled upon him again one night after dinner. This time he was working with free weights, facing the wall of windows that gazes into the treetops of the city. The lean muscles of his arms flexed and extended, showing off subtle definition in places I’m not sure I have muscles. He was nowhere near the treadmills, but I slipped out before he could spot me. I can’t decide if that evening run-in was proof that he’s just a gym junkie or that he was trying to avoid me, too. In the end, I decided it would be easier to get outside more anyway. I spend nine-plus hours every weekday in relative proximity to him; I don’t want to spend my free time devoting anymore brain cells to his existence.

Like I am right now.

I push myself harder, hoping a faster pace will help me outrun all of this. It does the trick. My lungs burn, my limbs throb, and my footfalls match the pace of the power playlist with such satisfying accuracy that I’m almost smiling. There’s something triumphant about it, like I’m reenacting that scene from Rocky, complete with fist pumping and compelling music, and then I catch sight of myself.

Not my current, sweaty, jogging self, but my cross-armed, almost-green-eyed, professional-headshot-ready self, who is smiling into westbound interstate traffic like she wants to be the only thing you’re thinking about as you leave our little corner of the state. That sing-songy tagline is plastered alongside my image in a clean, modern font.

The best part of breaking up is calling Heidi Krupp.

I slow to a stop, but my heart rate seems to speed up. I’m suddenly aware of every pint of blood in my body, pumping through my veins with the force of CPR chest compressions, as if my own organs are trying to resuscitate me. I have to remind myself to breathe. The logo and phone number for Freeman, Maxwell, and Lewis is perfectly positioned in the bottom corner of the full-size billboard.

When I first got the job, Meg used to cackle about the unfortunate acronym, and anytime I would have a bad day at work she found it particularly hilarious to reply “FML!” with a laugh-until-you-cry emoji. This is probably the first time in my tenure that I understand the irony. Here, with my hands on my knees, trying to steady my breath, looking at an advertisement for what is starting to feel like my alter ego, I cannot decide whether I want to laugh or cry.

“Fuck my life,” I murmur.

I watch cars whir beneath the billboard in desperation, hoping it’s one of those high-tech ones that cycles through multiple images, limiting my exposure as it cross-promotes NBA games, a local credit union, and the pandas at our award-winning zoo. Sandwiched between things like that, it would be likely that nobody would notice me. Nobody wants to think about divorce when they can think about pandas.

Unfortunately, it’s not that kind of billboard. It’s the old school kind, the kind that a team of people probably had to wear safety harnesses to plaster five stories up, static, there for all to see. I’ve never wished to see a road sign giving me questionable medical advice or warning me to get right with Jesus more in my life. Anything would be better than this.

Who would do something like this?

I think of Jeanine the journalist, but I know this isn’t the magazine’s doing. This was someone from my own firm – Quentin, maybe? I have to admit it could just as easily be the board. Or maybe someone closer, like Henry. Someone I trust. The sting of betrayal sears through me.

Josie claps me on the back as she speeds past.

“You good?” she says.

I give her the most half-hearted thumbs up of my life and call back, “Leg cramp.”

She accepts this with a nod as she continues her trek, and I realize as I watch her ponytail swing behind her that at some point I’m going to have to make my way back. Hands on my hips, I pace the small stretch of clover off the edge of the sidewalk, torn between scaling the cityscape and ripping down the image with my bare hands or collapsing into the grass. It’s really the rage that saves me. Its current comes quickly behind the hurt feelings, washing through me like welcome rain.

I turn on a beat that hits hard and fast. My lungs burn, my limbs throb, and half an hour later I collapse onto a cracked pleather stool under one of the propeller-style ceiling fans at Bar None. I chug two glasses of water before accepting my half-price beer. My fingers fidget with my phone, and I fight the urge to fling accusations around via text.

Throughout that first pint, I solidify the certainty that this needs to be a strategic investigation, one that will allow me to properly enact my vengeance. By the second drink – a hazy, raspberry lager – I catch myself briefly thinking about Callum, which I haven’t done in ages. I wonder why I’m thinking about him now. Maybe this low-key fixation with Quentin and Callum is my body’s way of reminding me that it’s only thirty-two and does in fact still have needs. Or maybe this is just the comedown. I’ve cycled through plenty of primal emotions in the past half-hour: shock and shame, anger and desperation, with the result being that every cell in my body feels tight and coiled, itching for release.

I’m actually considering downloading one of those dating apps again when two of the interns, Yolanda and William, climb onto the stools beside me.

“Hey,” Yolanda grins. “I thought that was you.”

“A slightly different version of me than you usually see,” I admit with a rueful smile, motioning to my drawstring shorts and damp tank top.

Yolanda laughs. “Best Workout, Bar None?”

“Yeah,” I nod. For a moment that’s all I think about saying, because a suspicious part of me wonders: were they in on it? I realize after an awkward beat that I’m being paranoid. They’re interns; they don’t have the signing power to rent ad space. I also know they don’t have the combined disposable income to afford it as a joke. I’ve seen the way they argue over who’s buying lunch and how to split delivery tabs down to the penny. I lower my hackles.

“You thinking of joining us?” I offer.

“No, but I’ve seen the t-shirts,” she says. “You’re a regular?”

“Sometimes. What about you guys? Come here often?”

Yolanda shrugs, and William looks evasive, and I realize that it’s possible they’re on a date. Yolanda is wearing a short, floral dress with sandals, looking much younger than she does on weekdays in her monochrome sheath dresses, and William has traded his shirt and tie for a polo and summery shorts. After a few beats, I see them realize that I’m realizing. William excuses himself to go talk to a potentially non-existent friend across the bar, and Yolanda scoots another stool closer. She waits to speak until he’s out of earshot.

“Hey, so, we’re just…”

I stop her before she can say ‘friends’.

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