Chapter 2
Chapter Two
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Arden
There’s a distinction between making love and fucking someone. I’ve done both, and all manner in between, even some form of copulation that landed on either end of the spectrum. But I’ve been the woman held and caressed and I’ve been the one relentlessly fucked in primal desperation. Which is how I know even through the glass of the window and across the street that’s what’s happening in the bedroom that mirrors mine. I can somehow see the ripples of passion as the beads of sweat roll down the muscles of his back. I know it’s in my mind. Not the movement of his body, that couldn’t be clearer, but the detail that is crafted by the orchestral conductor of my brain to create something symphonic in place of the song that has been on loop.
I’m not a voyeur. I never have been. That’s far from my kink. Though I’m not sure I would have referred to myself as particularly kinky in general. Sex I’ve had plenty of. Both as a single girl looking for whatever validation or gratification I could claim from a night in bed with someone, and the more regimented and routine relationship sex that I’ve found exclusive consistency in. And in all the years since I started having sex never once have I derived pleasure from anything that could be considered voyeuristic. Until, perhaps maybe now.
It’s not that I’ve ever intended to watch him. It’s not that I know anything about him. Besides which apartment is his and that he can last anywhere from seven to thirty-nine minutes depending on a few factors, including partner. Not that I’m timing him . His apartment is also on the fourth floor. And much like me, most of his activities take place at night. Though while my sexual partner lays next to me in that post-come-contentment, cumtentment if you will, I usually default to picking up whichever book is keeping me company in the moonlight. Allowing myself to trust-fall into the romance of a happily ever after where the characters ride off into the sunset and the pancake-breakfast style epilogue is just as sticky sweet. But some nights lately, as someone snores in that monotone metronome kind of way, I can glance through my bedroom window and it becomes less about this primal man and more about me.
I don’t even know how long he’s been there. Maybe he appears whenever I get bored, manifesting around the same time everything fizzled out here. That first night I thought he could have been a figment of my passion starved imagination and I think that’s why I still wonder if it’s just a delusion my mind is projecting while maybe I’m actually asleep. Except, of course, I don’t sleep. And thankfully, neither does he. I don't recall seeing him before a few months ago, and I definitely would have noticed him. But then again, I haven’t really seen him, he’s always shrouded by darkness, I wouldn’t be able to identify him in a line up. The image my brain has invented of this man is just an amalgamation of the men I’ve known, intimately and otherwise, cherry picking their best qualities to construct recognizable sexual prowess of this complete stranger. Does he have music playing? Is that his favorite position? What is he saying? Does he love her? Who knows. But it's a nice distraction.
The moonlight streaks across the hardwood floors of my bedroom, catching only my feet, leaving the rest of me in shadow and I’m lured back into the reality of my own apartment and out of the fantasy of this stranger by the vibrating breaths coming from the man next to me. I chance one more look across the way and I think about how his body moves against hers. If I look away now, it’s not voyeurism. That’s what I’ve told myself recently each time I’m in this exact situation.
I reach for my phone to check the time, though I can tell by the way the sky is lit there aren’t many people who would call this morning. Barely 5 AM, I throw myself back into my pillow, and as usual, my bedfellow is unbothered by the movement.
I’ll lay here long enough for our hero to grovel following the third act break up, and then I’ll start my day in the hopes of finally feeling that early-twenties-movie-montage I’d been promised my entire life post graduation.
I crick my neck up just the smallest bit over the pages of the novel in my hands, peering over it subtly as if I’m not hidden in all meaningful ways. No movement, no lights, whoever he is, they are, they’re gone now. Or maybe, my brain just turned them off and they were never really there.
It’s amazing what creatures of habit human beings are, even against their own self-interest. I hit the street and the not-yet-morning spring air is wet with a chill, but so familiar. It didn’t use to be. It’s not hard to remember a time that weather like this would chill me to my bones, but since then, I’ve seen enough leaves hit the ground and perfected the art of light layers, that crispness of the Cambridge air is more refreshing than anything else. My feet have walked these streets for years and the pattern of the city remains intimately familiar, even in this predawn darkness.
The Coffee Haus doesn’t open until six, but I know better, and manage to shamelessly press my face against the glass and knock when I see a man pop his head up from behind the counter. His face morphing from aggravation to understanding in a matter of seconds. The door opens with a chime from the bells above as I sneak into the almost entirely dark space.
"Couldn’t sleep?" Rush asks. His name is my second favorite thing about him, because it has always felt incredibly ironic, that he is in fact, never in a rush. No long line can motivate him to work at any pace faster than what can only be described as leisurely at best. My first and most favorite thing about him? He lets me in before they officially open. Maybe because he got tired of me hanging around outside the door checking my watch every five minutes willing it to change, maybe because he liked the company when he got everything sorted to open up in the morning. Even if that means tolerating the philosophical debate that a flat white is just a more arrogant latte. Either way, I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially one that hands me a fresh cup of coffee without prompting.
"Unfortunately not," I say as I slouch into the booth they’ve built against the wall near perfectly positioned in the window. Seriously, creatures of habit. Sitting here is different than it once was, but I’m not often haunted by the ghosts of my past, unless of course one walks through the door. Which given the radius I am from where so much of my formative life has been lived, isn’t an impossibility. But this is still my favorite coffee shop that’s walking distance, and sometimes, usually, my feet recall the path even in the dark. I saw the preview of the email when it came through last night while I was a bit more indisposed but I figure there’s no time and place like the present to read it. Popping open my laptop and I click on the familiar, though far less frequent, name. There are changes after all these years, new paint on the walls, new students on campus, and old ones off, and I now occupy the seat that he used to prefer.
It’s as if I can hear his voice as I read the latest email. We exchange them and some supporting texts a handful of times a year, a pattern that has ebbed and flowed as we settled further away from each other and into our lives. But I was the one to initiate most recently based on the latest at work, because despite all the key players in my life, he’s been a good sounding board for decisions, always pragmatic.
The correspondence saved in a folder is probably the only part of him I allow myself now. There is something that inspires a specific brand of self-loathing about hearing from him while I sit here, even though he’s not really here, just whatever memories are clinging to this place we sat when we were more than we are now.
It’s the correspondence that lives in my drafts, going all the way back to the initial break up, that I sometimes click through in an attempt to gain a better understanding of who we were and how I was left so shattered that is the saddest representation of our friendship.
He moved to San Francisco a couple years ago when the company he works for established headquarters there. From his limited social media use it seems like he’s doing well. Surprisingly some of the juiciest updates I got for a time came from my old roommate Stella through his best friend Austin. Austin who still is roaming the streets of Boston’s financial district charming his way through life after Stella rebuffed him time and time again. He always had a clear thing for her, unbothered by any romantic attachments she had, and chased after her like a love-sick puppy. Maybe more of a dirty hound dog . But for me, it meant that after Reid broke up with me, even though we said we’d be friends, there was a back channel of information.
That summer following my freshman year was the hardest I can remember. I spent nights in hotel rooms with my mom crying, her hopes that spending days prancing across the art museums of Europe would inspire me in some ways. And then, I would email him, telling him about the latest thing I saw or ate, acting like it was fine. He had asked me to keep in touch. So I did. Even as my European adventure went from hotels and suitcases with mom to hostels and backpacks with Ethan and Stella. I tried, because I thought that it might mean when I got back to campus that fall we would feel like we hadn’t missed much. But he didn’t miss anything. When I got back to Cambridge, he was gone. He left this city, and me with her.
I called my mom, and she said ‘it was for the best’ . I didn’t believe her at the time, but eventually…
In all the emails sent , he never expressed regret for the breakup. And one night after too much Ouzo and adrenaline from us dancing on tables trying to teach a group of Greeks the ‘Cotton Eyed Joe,’ I wrote the email that has lived on ice in my drafts for years. I used to check on it. Like it was something I needed to feed. I’d open the draft, read what has been seared in my brain since it happened, and eventually close it. Knowing it wasn't worth it. Knowing that I had already thrown myself at him once, any preservation or hope for the future now would mean I couldn’t default to being the needy, childish, girlfriend he broke up with. And while he’s always remained the model of respectful distance, and kept his word in being friends post breakup, for so long I wished he hadn’t. But his friendship is what I asked him for, and after all, he always only gave me what I asked for.
He’s remained in my corner like that email has remained in my drafts.
But now, before I open his latest, I might as well check social media to see if there’s any indication of what his update might include. Nothing notable. I scroll through and see some of his recent posts. Photos of him in his new place in San Francisco, no piano in sight , photos with friends, the kind that look like they are grabbing an after-work-drink , and several photos of his new kitten, I should really get a dog. Between the sporadic emails and infrequent social media posts, we follow along at a distance, staying well out of the bounds we set at the end of my freshman year.
I know the contents of his email are a follow-up to my question about work, as he once interned where I now collect a paycheck, he knows where some of the bodies are buried. Namely, the upcoming ‘Thompson Challenge.’
The Thompson Challenge is named after an account that was under management more than a decade ago, pre-dating either of our employment at the firm, but became sort of management consulting lore. The story goes, the Thompson Solutions only really ever solved one thing, copy and fax machines. Which, for a time, was incredibly lucrative, until email of course . They stayed focused on their path, focused on the original products, never willing to jump on board the digital disruption that could actually help them grow. Until that fateful day that some predecessor’s predecessor's predecessor of my current boss positioned the floundering company as the way for the Patrick Bateman-esque wannabees of the office to fight it out for a promotion. Rumor has it ( as do the files that I’ve looked up, because who doesn’t love a corporate fairy tale ) that Max Harrison won by proposing a merger where Thompson Solutions would partner with an up-and-coming document management system. And much like fairy tales, it was a match made in heaven and everyone lived happily ever after. Especially Max Harrison who was not only promoted but coined the term Thompson Challenge for us all to live through now.
That’s why I emailed Reid. I know it’s coming, I could use a bit of that pragmatic wisdom. Because despite my best efforts, navigating this landscape of bro-fessionals often leaves me as the odd one out, struggling to even be heard in a meeting, let alone taken as seriously as I take myself.
I can almost predict his response, likely that’s why I emailed him in the first place. But it doesn’t stop the momentary pause where I imagine it as something entirely different, the apology I spent months wishing for after he broke up with me. It was almost masochistic choosing his friendship at a time I was so desperate for his love. But after spending the summer away from the red brick buildings of Cambridge, Massachusetts, in just a matter of months, the heartbreak I first felt became secondary to so much else I was trying not to feel. How much easier it would have been if choosing numbness was possible, but it wasn’t. And when I came back to campus that fall and he was gone, it became easier knowing I wouldn’t be holding my breath in fear of the casual bump-in. I got custody of this place, and thank god. I watch as Rush casually fills the machines with coffee beans and the buzz of the shop mixes with the air to trigger the memories I’ve made here since. Not the ones from before. It’s become the place of a hundred first dates, cram sessions, cry sessions, new friendships, old friendships, and like this morning, escapes. So despite the pause, I take a deep breath of the morning grinds, a sip of my coffee, and open the latest exchange.
Dear Arden–
Things in San Francisco are, as you would say, "West-Coasty" but I am well. I began a new role about a month ago and that means I’ll be traveling even more. Already scheduled to head to meet with a media corporation next week. I will let you know when I’m in your area if you want to grab a coffee.
I know how much you must want to see the Thompson Challenge as the ticket to promotion, but promotions don’t happen overnight in companies this size. My advice: Number one — There are people there who have been working towards this longer, they may be positioned to take it. Number two — Don’t be afraid to find a partner to support, you can still show everyone what you’ve got. Number three, most importantly — Slow down and pace yourself, your career is a marathon not a sprint, you’ll get there.
Yours,
Reid
Not in romance, but as plainly as this email. He looks older every time I’ve seen him. Just ever so slightly in ways you don’t expect to notice. The small changes you don’t see when you sleep next to someone nightly, but are screaming at you when they aren’t. I guess that makes sense. I am older too. Though I’ve never felt it. Somehow the idea that I’m aging feels more defined by everyone’s increased expectations and my added responsibilities than it does in any way of my actual psyche.
The first time we saw each other, almost a year after he dumped me, I plastered a smile on my face and acted like I was fine, in some ways I think I might have been, but then I cried the whole way back. But if he was sitting here now he would be dressed like he was coming from work, a suit, maybe even a tie, because he’s always working. If he’s in the area it’s only ever for work, and he does me the favor to squeeze in a hello. He’d order his coffee, and sit across from me. He’d say ‘tell me about work’ and I would kick off into a run-on stream of consciousness explaining the corporate ladder I’m desperate to climb, and how there’s a promotion that I think I absolutely deserve but will be competing against all the other bro-sephs for it. Instead, I just put the abridged version in the email, because that’s what we are, the abridged version.
Hey Reid!
I managed to sneak out before the crack of dawn and am currently sipping the perfect latte in a familiar place. I don’t know the last time you were here but even though the Coffee Haus is entirely different the coffee is still the best around, andddd I’ve managed to, um, let’s say convince one of their baristas to open up early for me.
Your email makes a lot of sense, I just get incredibly frustrated watching the same copy and paste versions of Brads, Chads, and Thads, all on what seems to be a clear growth path, meanwhile I am struggling to even get an idea heard in a meeting. I know what you must be thinking, when have I ever had trouble making sure I’m heard, but let me tell you (though you already know), this corporate life isn’t for the faint of heart.
I’m glad you’re happy in San Francisco! Have you done any of the touristy things? The Golden Gate, Alcatraz, if not, you should definitely play hooky for a museum day, there are some great ones. Thanks for everything! Definitely let me know when you’re in town!
Best,
AB
I stare at my sent email for longer than I care to admit, analyzing every exclamation point like they're evidence in a crime scene. Because that's what corresponding with an ex feels like sometimes, trying to strike the perfect balance between ‘I'm thriving’ and ‘I'm not trying too hard to show you I'm thriving. ’ It's emotional gymnastics, and I never did gymnastics.
The truth is, Reid's emails always leave me feeling like I'm still that freshman girl, desperate to prove I belong in his spaces that weren't built for me. The one left on the back porch of a house party while her boyfriend decided she was too immature. And now, his pragmatic advice which so often has felt like wisdom, while technically sound, has the same energy as a fortune cookie telling you to ‘be patient’ when you're already running late to a meeting. Thanks, but I've been patient. I've been so patient I could teach a masterclass in watching mediocre men fail upward while I perfect the art of nodding supportively in meetings.
Rush slides another latte onto my table without asking, because he's either psychic or he's noticed my descent into an email-induced existential crisis. Probably both.
"You're thinking too loud," he says, and I wonder if maybe he should have been the psychology major instead of Stella.
"Just trying to navigate the delicate art of proving to my ex that I'm living my best life while simultaneously asking for career advice," I say, closing my laptop with perhaps more force than necessary. "You know, normal Tuesday stuff."