Comedic Timing

Chapter XI

XI

When Sofia leaves, David’s absence fills my apartment. I feel like a teenager, at the mercy of my feelings, somehow only able to access anger or devastation.

His name is like a mantra trapped in my head. I am nearly sick with emotion. Seeing Sofia only solidified how much I want him, in a full, complete way. Seeing Sofia, I was forced to be brave and admit I have feelings for him . I could reveal that I want more.

I give myself permission to continue being courageous.

I start typing David a text message: How are you? When you’re back from your trip, I would love to see you and discuss more about us.

I wince at the words love and discuss —what a strange tone of formality—and try again: Hi. How are you? When you’re back from your trip, let me know if you want to hang out and talk.

I hit send, realizing after I do that my message sounds ominous. My chest tightens, and I take a deep inhale, the breath reaching down to my pelvic floor. I exhale like I’m letting air out of a balloon, slowly as not to startle.

An image appears: David lying next to me, his body curling around mine, his thumb stroking my hip bone. I shake my head, as if to make the memory disappear, at least until I know what happens next.

I distract myself with things that are good for me: working on another essay, watching television so I can discuss something with Jhanaki later, making an unnecessarily elaborate dinner—but even chopping herbs for the salad dressing brings me back to David. I clean the entire apartment, scrubbing away at the kitchen backsplash to EDM, hoping the computer-generated nonsense will dampen my tendency to spiral.

I could be thinking about other things right now, more important things, like my future or social injustices or global crises. But to resist the tug toward David—the way I feel when I’m with him, the thoughts I have of him, the desire I feel for him—only pulls me in deeper.

He texts me back as I’m lighting a candle, settling into the relief of a disinfected apartment. When I see his name on my phone, I almost try to fool myself out of a genuine reaction. As if I hadn’t been checking it every twenty minutes, I place the screen face down. I stare at the flame, watching it dance, trying to prove detachment to myself. I catch a whiff of sandalwood. Of course it smells like David.

I wait two minutes before I read his message.

David: Hey! I just got back. Are you around tonight?

I type out a yes and hit send.

I wait for David at a bar near my apartment. He’s fifteen minutes late. While I stew in my impatience, I ask the bartender for a shot, and she clears the glass before David arrives.

Calling him and asking where he is seems desperate, but I do it anyway.

He answers the phone quickly, shouting, “Hello? Sorry, I’m running late. I’m biking right now. It’s very windy and cold, and it started raining. I’ll be there soon.” The wind whooshes through his words, breaking his speech.

He bursts into the bar, searching for me. I wave at him. His hair is sopping and shiny. He unzips his jacket, sprinkling droplets of water on the floor and into my lap.

“Hi.” He sighs, pulling me into a wet hug. He kisses me on the mouth, and I am so close to forgetting my intentions to have a talk. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, it’s all good,” I respond, clearing my throat.

“I wish I had a towel or something,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. He pulls the barstool closer to his body, and it screeches across the floor.

“We can ask the bartender.”

He waves his hand, it’s fine . We get two beers.

“How was your trip?” I ask.

“It was... very needed,” he says with a sigh. I can see it on him, that inexplicable change that happens to a person after genuinely restorative time away. His skin is lush, his eyes bright, his attention immovable.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reach out,” he adds, hesitant. “I wasn’t in the space to text a lot. And any time I had a moment to talk on the phone, there was no service. But I’m happy to be back, and to see you,” he says, squeezing my thigh.

Intellectually, I understand why I didn’t hear from David. I just hadn’t expected to feel so strongly for him in his absence, so in my head about our relationship, so overcome .

And amidst all these intense emotions, I’d slept with my ex. I had been unfairly resentful toward David to cope with the ferocity of my own feelings, confused and frustrated with not knowing what was next for us. But the reality was I had done something questionable.

“That’s okay.” I smile. “I understand. But I did miss you, and... I don’t know, not hearing from you—truthfully, it didn’t make me feel good.”

David reaches for my hand. “I thought about you a lot,” he whispers, his features soft. “And I was excited to see you again.”

My heart sinks, and I shift in my seat, unable to look him in the eye. There is no good time to tell him this. I pull my hand away. “All the missing you and not hearing from you, it fucked with my head, I think. And there’s something I have to tell you.”

I notice a flash of concern on his face before he nods for me to go on.

“I saw my ex. Sofia.”

David doesn’t seem too disturbed by this information, which is both endearing and unnerving. I brace myself before telling him more.

“She was in town and showed up unannounced. And... we had sex. It was breakup sex . We ended things, once and for all. Like we talked everything through and got closure. It’s over. I wanted to tell you all this because I owe it to you after everything.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” David says, and I feel a little piece of my soul break. He asks the bartender for a glass of water.

I touch his arm. “No, but... I do. I owe you respect and honesty. I mean, we were friends first—”

“Thank you for explaining. For being honest. I get it, how it can feel to be lonely. I guess I’m thrown off because... I’m not sure if this is a sign or something.”

“A sign?” I say incredulously. “A sign of what?”

“That maybe this isn’t a good idea.” He’s talking about us . Us being together. Dread grips my core, suffocating my thoughts.

“I don’t know what to say,” I mumble. “I mean, me being honest with you is a sign of how I feel about you. I thought you... liked me.”

“I do, Naina. I really do. I guess I’m just... hurt,” he says.

I drop my forehead into my hands. I know I had to tell him the truth, but I had dared to hope for a different response.

“I am hurt, and I don’t know, maybe we should pause, take a step back, reevaluate.” He gulps down his water.

Something begins to stir in me, turbulent and explosive, rising through my chest and buzzing through my fingertips.

“You’re such a fuckboy,” I respond, cold and exasperated.

“Naina... what?” David laughs uncomfortably. I savor his reaction, the control I feel from eliciting it.

“You’re a fuckboy. You flirted with me, you made me feel something, then you slept with me and went on a trip, and I didn’t hear from you. Once. And of course I felt horrible, so I did something fucking human—and, fine, stupid —and tried to fill the void, and now you’re using this as an excuse to say we should stop, but in reality, it’s just that—an excuse. You just want this to end without looking like the bad guy. So now I’m the bad guy? Because you went dark on me?”

The words fly out of my mouth, spit collecting at the sides of my lips. My heart pulsates against my chest, my blood hot in my ears.

“Naina... none of that is true. I’m sorry, but it isn’t, and you know it,” David finally says after a moment of painful silence.

“Really? Because that’s exactly how it looks. That’s what happened ,” I retort, refusing to back down.

“ No ,” he presses on cautiously, lowering his voice against mine. “That’s the story you’re choosing to tell yourself to deal with the pain.”

I scoff. “Pain? This isn’t pain. It’s anger.”

“Well, I feel pain,” David says. “Because I did— I do —feel something for you. I don’t want this to end. I’m hurt. I know we aren’t exclusive—we didn’t talk about it—but fuck. Your ex. The only person you’ve ever been with. When I suggested that we take it slow and see how it feels, I meant just that. Only that.” David throws his hands up, helpless. He steadies himself by clasping his fingers together. “I feel for you and what you’re going through with your ex. I don’t want to muck up your—your progress.”

“I’m being honest, David. I’m telling you what happened between Sofia and me. Which is progress,” I explain. “I’m being vulnerable with you, and it feels like you’re just giving up!”

David looks at me from beneath the shadow of his brow, observing me with what seems to be sympathy or perhaps pity. I can’t stand it. Then he clears his throat.

“I know this is hard for you,” he says, his voice solid and sharp. “But I’m not a—a fuckboy .” The word sounds so strange coming from his mouth. I immediately know I mislabeled him.

“I’m trying to be intentional. I have feelings for you,” David continues. “It’s a lot for me to process—to go from being your friend, to almost having you, to this. I know it must have been weird to not hear from me, and I’m sorry it hurt you, but... I’m allowed to be more hurt you slept with your ex, okay?” David throws his hands up. “Fuck, Naina, doesn’t being hurt prove that I care?”

“It does,” I huff.

“I don’t want this to end,” he replies. “I don’t.”

“I realize telling you I slept with my ex is an unorthodox way of showing it,” I say. “But this is me trying.”

“I know,” he says, exhaling. He places his hand on my knee. “And, look, I know I need to try, too. I didn’t mean what I said earlier, about this being a sign or something. I’m just... I don’t know. Scared. I haven’t had many relationships that have felt this real.” He turns away from me. “Any.” He sighs.

My mind races, searching for a way to respond. Conceding might be the only way to move forward. “Maybe we both said mean, dumb things.” I touch his wrist. “The fuckboy comment was wrong, I know. But, look at us, we’re already working through it.”

David gives me a half smile.

“I know you are hurt and that it’s my fault,” I tell him. “I’m really sorry. But I am attempting—unsuccessfully—to explain to you how seeing Sofia made clear how much I want to be with you . I told her about us.”

“What did you tell her?” he asks, now holding my fingers in his hand, stroking them with his thumb.

“That I have feelings for you. That we slept together. That we started out as friends but that, for me, it has become so much more than that.”

“That must have been hard for her,” he says softly, with compassion. I lean off the barstool and throw my arms around his shoulders.

It is one thing to own up to my mistakes; it is another to ask for forgiveness. It’s a level of vulnerability I’ve resisted for years, but in this moment with David, it’s suddenly the only thing I can do.

“You are a good person, David,” I whisper in his ear. “I am sorry I slept with her. I am sorry I hurt you. I am sorry I called you a fuckboy. I am sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He wraps his arms around my lower back. “I need some time to think about us.” He pulls away. “Maybe you could use the time too? Is that okay?”

I am threatened by this suggestion. I’m only just recovering from the ache of not hearing from him. Now he wants to go back to not speaking to each other?

“For how long?” I ask.

He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Five days,” he replies. “How is that?”

“That is a very long time.” I feel petulant and young when I say it.

David laughs with his chest and pats my knee. I rest my chin on my hand, already dreading the silence between us.

“I should leave,” David says. “I hate sitting in wet clothes.”

“I’ll walk out with you.”

I want to be wrapped up in him, to immerse myself in the certainty of what I feel for him. Instead, we put on our jackets and leave the bar. We hug goodbye and walk in opposite directions.

Here it is again: the loss of control. I tried to eradicate uncertainty from my life; I spiraled against it. Now I’ve only generated more of it. I was too late in admitting what I wanted, in admitting that I was at fault, in recovering from it all.

Perhaps what I am receiving, and what I’ve received my entire adult life thus far, is my reflection flung back at me.