I stood there with my arms around her because two hours earlier she had still been my girlfriend and muscle memory does not disappear as quickly as labels do.
“I was so afraid you’d hate me,” she whispered.
“I don’t hate you.”
“See?”
She pulled back.
“This is why I know we’ll be amazing friends.”
I wish I had understood that sentence then.
What she meant was:
You are handling being rejected so well that I am confident I will still have access to you afterward.
Marissa arrived fifty minutes later.
Tara’s best friend since college.
She knocked once and entered after Tara opened the door.
Marissa looked uncomfortable immediately.
She hugged Tara.
Then looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She seemed caught off guard.
“I don’t know. Everything.”
“It’s fine.”
It was not fine.
But Marissa did not create the situation.
Tara picked up the bag.
“I’ll text you tomorrow.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
She waited.
Maybe she expected another hug.
I did not move.
Finally, she followed Marissa into the hallway.
Marissa gave me one last sympathetic glance before the elevator doors closed.
The apartment went silent.
That was when it hurt.
Not during the conversation.
After.
There were two coffee cups in the sink.
Her shoes beside the door.
A sweater over the dining chair.
Half a bottle of her shampoo in the shower.
Her photograph with her sister on the bookshelf.
Our life had not physically received the update yet.
I sat on the couch until almost two in the morning.
I did not cry dramatically.
There was no broken glass.
I did not send angry messages.
I just kept looking around at a home that had become outdated in less than two hours.
The next morning, Tara texted at 7:04.
Hey. Hope you slept okay.
I stared at it.
Before I could decide whether to answer, another appeared.
I forgot my work laptop.
Then:
Could you bring it to Marissa’s?
I was already preparing for work.
Marissa lived twenty-five minutes in the wrong direction.
I replied:
I’ll bring it to the front desk at your office Monday morning.
Tara answered immediately.
Can’t you just drop it here? I need it this weekend.
I typed:
I already have plans today. Monday is easier for me.
Three dots.
Then:
Plans?
I looked at that one for a while.
Yesterday, she had ended our relationship because she needed independence.
This morning, apparently, I was already expected to account for my schedule.
I replied:
Friend stuff. I’ll leave the laptop Monday.
No answer.
Saturday morning she tried again.
Marissa and I are going to the new brunch place. Want to come?
That restaurant had been on our couple list for weeks.
I wrote:
Thanks, but I’m good. Have fun.
Tara:
Come on. We always do Saturday brunch.
Me:
We did when we were dating.
That produced almost two hours of silence.
Then:
This is weird.
I asked:
What is?
Her answer came fast.
You’re acting distant.