Chapter XI
XI
Lucy
As sunshine peeks through the window, I watch James sleep, and I imagine what he’ll look like when he’s forty, sixty, eighty. How his face will wrinkle, whether more perfect freckles will appear.
Then I realize I’m picturing myself as the aging woman at his side, creating visions of a shared lifetime.
What I’ll wear to his third restaurant opening.
How he’ll cheer inappropriately when I’m sworn in as a judge.
Where we’ll fly the whole family for our fiftieth wedding anniversary.
I’m not trying to conjure any of these things, but it feels like my conscious mind has lost control and my subconscious is telling me what it has already decided. Like I have no choice in the matter. Like I might love him.
Fuck.
My heart feels like it might beat out of my chest, and I know I need to get out of here.
But looking at him, I don’t want to leave.
Even as I’m freaking out, it is physically hard for me to pull myself out of bed and walk away from him.
What. The actual. Fuck.
I slip off the mattress as stealthily as I can and pull on my dress from last night.
This isn’t love. It can’t be. It’s only been a few weeks. I have never fallen for someone like this.
I told a guy I dated in high school that I loved him, but I just thought he was hot. At sixteen, that felt like love.
I dated a guy all through our second year of law school, and I said I love you after four months, but I eventually got tired of him. I’m not sure now if I ever loved him or not.
But this. This feels different.
I’ve got to get out of here.
James
I open my eyes, lift my head, and see that Lucy isn’t there. On her pillow, she’s left a note scribbled on a scrap of paper: “Need to get back for class. Stole some leftovers.” I cradle my neck in my hands and close my elbows around my face.
Last night, Lucy fell asleep with her head on my chest, her hair cascading down my side. I don’t remember having any specific thoughts as she lay there, just an overwhelming sense that everything was as it should be.
When I drifted off, I dreamt that Lucy and I were walking cobblestone streets in some European city. I have no idea where—I’ve never been to Europe.
This is bad.
Lucy
On the way back to my place, I try to get a hold of myself.
There are only four more weeks before I leave for The Hague, but I don’t think I can risk this going any further.
I need to cut it off. Cold turkey. Maybe even go on a date with someone else.
That’s always been my best remedy for getting over someone.
Rip that bandage clean off and replace it with a fresh one.
I try to think of who from my class is still around. Or maybe one of my adjunct friends’ friends? But my stomach turns, like it thinks I’m being disloyal to James.
The downtown express is delayed, and fuck, I want to go back to his place. I want to take a walk with him. I want to eat more of his food. I want to feel the weight of his body on top of mine.
I tap my foot like it’s the commute that’s making me agitated. I just need to think this through rationally. What are the benefits of seeing him more, what are the drawbacks?
If I keep seeing him, I could have a great last month in New York. But I risk falling for him even harder. The longing I feel right now, the heartbreak, could get much, much worse.
If I cut it off now, I’ll still be thoroughly bummed, but it would give me time to work through all that and hopefully arrive in the Netherlands with a clear head, ready to focus on my career. Maybe even fall for someone planning to live a life like the one I want.
I can’t imagine spending more than a long weekend in Newport. A sleepy little coastal town? Cute. For the rest of my life? No way. I need movement, adventure, new experiences. James wants routine and stability. That would drive me crazy.
My train finally arrives, and I feel more relaxed as I step on.
Thinking this through is actually helping.
It’s not just that James and I are moving away from each other—even if we were in the same place, we wouldn’t make sense together.
We’re built differently. I can see a look in his eye whenever I mention a far-off country I want to visit.
It’s a look that says, “I love that for you.”
Maybe I don’t actually love him at all. Maybe I’m confusing orgasms with feelings.
Still, I need to shut this thing down.
James
I spend a solid twenty minutes in the kitchen staring down at my phone, trying to figure out what to do. I think I have to end this—the fact that it’s no longer casual for me isn’t fair to either of us.
My French roommates walk in and clock my distress. Chloe pats my shoulder, while Alba hands me a bagel and murmurs, “Ce petit toutou.” I don’t know what that means, but I appreciate that they’ve basically adopted me as their little brother who probably outweighs both of them combined.
I could call to end things, but so much could go wrong. I could lose my nerve, or totally embarrass myself by “breaking up” with her when we were never really together.
I’ll text her. Write something that makes it clear I need space. While maybe leaving the door cracked. Do I want that? The idea of shutting her out entirely is terrifying, even if I know in my head it’s the smart thing to do.
I pick up my phone and write, “hey. thanks again for the house-restaurant idea. i’ll probably be pretty busy digging into all that for a minute. enjoy the leftovers.”
I read it three times, hit send, and wait, my heart in my throat. Five minutes later, Lucy responds. “Totally understand. I’ve got lots to do too.” She ends her message with a pink heart.
OK. It’s done.
I look up and realize a tiny French woman is leaning against each of my shoulders, reading the contents of my chat. “Eat ze bagel,” Chloe says, patting my arm.
Alba nods grimly. “Carbs solve all ze troubles.”