Chapter XII
XII
Lucy
It’s been three days since James texted, and I’ve felt every minute of it. That’s how I know this is the right move.
Even though I know I was falling for him, I didn’t expect detoxing to be this hard.
I find myself wanting to reach out to him constantly, wishing I could share some tiny detail of my day.
Like this morning: A student in the class I TA sneezed about twelve times in a row, the tiniest little sneezes I’d ever heard, and the entire class stopped and watched until it was finally over.
Then the professor just carried on like nothing happened.
It was amazing. And it was also nothing. The kind of nothing you can only share with the one or two people who really know you, the people who understand your nothing moments.
I tell Rebecca about the sneezes over dark ’n’ stormies at a dive bar on East Sixth Street where we used to have weekly “Judicial Oversight” happy hours with law school friends. That satisfies the urge for a moment. Then she asks what’s going on with me and James.
“I don’t know, it kind of fizzled.”
“Bullshit,” Rebecca proclaims.
“He told me three days ago he was going to be busy for a while and I haven’t heard from him since, so what would you call it?”
Rebecca glares at me the way only a best friend can—scrutinizing and supportive at the same time. “Did you have a fight?”
“No.” I sit up taller on my stool.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. The last thing we talked about was his restaurant. I had this idea that maybe he could open it in his grandma’s house.”
After a long pause, Rebecca’s glare softens ever so slightly. “Holy shit, that’s brilliant.”
“Thank you.” I shrug. “I don’t know if he’ll go for it, though. He seemed attached to keeping every cross-stitched throw pillow in its perfect place.” Rebecca raises an eyebrow at me, and it elicits instant and appropriate levels of shame. “Sorry.”
“That woman did have a lot of cross-stitched pillows,” Rebecca says. “Kind of like how someone I know has a buttload of travel posters.”
My shame inches up another notch as I consider how hard it would be to let go of even one. “Point taken,” I mutter.
I try to get the conversation back on track, sitting up straight again and taking a sip of my drink. “Anyway. It’s not a big deal. He’s probably just busy figuring out what he wants to do next, so . . . whatever.” Rebecca’s eyes narrow again.
“Please stop looking at me like that. You’re giving me a headache.”
“I just don’t understand why you’re being so blasé about this.” She frowns. “You clearly like him. I’ve barely seen you since graduation, and I’ve tried to make plans with James like three times, but he’s always been busy with you.”
I shake my head, trying to seem perfectly chill. “Look, he’s really nice, and we had a lot of fun.” She sighs at my deeply boring description. “But we always knew there was an expiration date. It just came a little sooner than I hoped.” I catch myself too late. “Expected.”
Rebecca manages to keep a straight face, but I see the mischievous glint in her eye. She pulls out her phone and begins tapping. “What are you doing?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
“Texting James.” I feel the hairs on my neck stand on end as Rebecca dictates, dramatically drawing out each word: “‘What is going on with you and Lucy?’ Send.” She mercifully keeps her eyes on her phone as she waits for a response, and I pretend to be very interested in whatever baseball game is playing on the TV above the bar. What will James say?
Because I know why I want space, but why did he pull back? Is he really all that busy? We were both busy before, but we still found time to hang out. I almost feel like getting over my feelings for him would be easier if he sent a hey, where’d you go? text that I could then bravely ignore.
Rebecca’s phone vibrates, and I catch myself shifting forward in my seat. She groans and tosses her phone on the bar as she recites his response: “what are you talking about?”
My brow furrows, unsure what to make of those words.
Rebecca downs her drink and flags the bartender for another. She either hasn’t noticed the jumble of emotions in me or is giving me a pass. “Whatever,” she grumbles. “If you two want to be withholding and weird, I don’t know how to help you.”
“We don’t need help. But I do appreciate your concern.”
She spins to face me as the bartender slides over a fresh cocktail, and her eyes are the softest they’ve been all night. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being pushy. I just love you, and I love him, and the thought of you two falling for each other was too perfect.”
I give her a little smile. “Sorry to let you down.”
“Yeah. You should be.”
We share a grin and both sip our drinks. “If it helps, I really do think he’s great. Maybe if things were different, this could have been something.”
“You think so?”
Her tone has lost its edge now too, and for some reason, it makes me want to open up.
Speaking in hypotheticals feels easier and less high stakes than discussing my real, current feelings.
“I don’t know. He’s very sweet. I always felt safe with him.
Like I could fully be myself. And we had a lot of fun. Like, a lot.”
She crinkles her nose. “I don’t need to hear the details.”
I laugh. “He’s . . . good. Definitely the kind of person I’d want to end up with someday. Someday being, like, ten years from now.”
“Sure,” she says. “You can’t take dating in your twenties too seriously.”
“Exactly. This is when we experiment and try people on.”
“For sure.”
We’ve always been on the same page about this.
But I never know when someone’s internal switch is going to flip on love and marriage and babies.
It’s already starting to happen with a few of my slightly older law school classmates.
One day a friend will be swearing off relationships forever and imagining buying a house with four friends, then suddenly she feels like she has to marry her crappy boyfriend because the clock is running out to have kids—which she didn’t even want yesterday—and surely no one else will ever love her as much as the guy she happens to be with right now.
I shake my head at Rebecca. “As much as we clicked, honestly, James and I are very different. It sounds like he’d be happy to move back to Oregon and never leave. Like, ever.”
Rebecca tilts her head like that might be right.
“And last I checked, there aren’t too many international human rights cases going down in Newport.”
“Very few,” Rebecca deadpans.
I shrug, trying to comfort myself as much as Rebecca. “So there you go. Couldn’t have worked regardless.”
“I guess,” Rebecca sighs. “But love is supposed to conquer all, right?”
I give her a half smile. “Good thing I don’t love him.”
James
It’s been a week since my last message to Lucy.
I’ve wanted to text or call her about eight thousand times.
When I ate the last of the leftovers. When a kid on the subway sang “Tomorrow” from Annie at the top of his lungs for no apparent reason.
When I found one of her hair ties in my pocket.
But so far, I’ve managed to resist the urge.
Because as much as I’ve been itching to reach out, I haven’t heard a word from her. No check-in to see if this house-restaurant idea will work out. No little messages about something cute or random that happened. Nothing.
With each hour that passes, I feel more and more certain that I’ll never see her again. At least not romantically. Maybe in a few years, we’ll cross paths at Rebecca’s wedding, and she’ll be like, “Oh, yeah. Jason, right?”
To distract from my wallowing, I’ve been picking up extra catering jobs—sometimes doing two gigs a day—and making truly excellent food. Shredded pork bao. Soft pretzels from scratch. Mini lobster rolls.
On my one day off, I threw myself into getting answers about the restaurant.
I talked to a city planner in Newport who said rezoning my grandma’s house for commercial use would be an annoying process, but doable since it’s so close to downtown.
The same goes for licensing and permits—all long slogs, but possible.
I started an updated proposal to get the capital I need, which is now about a quarter of my original ask, and I bought a little notebook so I can sketch out different floor plans, logo designs, and place settings on my commutes.
And the more I sit with this idea, really process it, the more excited I become.
It still feels weird changing so much of a house that I have so many memories in, but the idea of giving it new life, new purpose, letting it be part of my dream—it just feels right.
And I never would have considered it without Lucy.
It’ll be months, maybe over a year, before I can actually open, but the sooner I get back to Oregon, the faster everything can go. I tell myself that leaving in three weeks is something to look forward to.
That’s how I manage the days.
But the nights are another problem.
Tonight, I hit my bed, and I just want to sink into it and never get up again. Tonight, I wonder if she’s already seeing some new guy who summers in Italy or works in finance.
Tonight, I wonder if Miriam and I will get back together.
She loves Oregon the way I do. She once said she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I don’t even know if she’s still there, or if she’s single, or if she’d want to hear from me. But lying in bed, I pick up my phone and toy with the idea of texting her to find out.
But what greets me is a note from Rebecca: “Bday party for ME on my roof next Sat. You’re cooking. Get excited. Yes, Lucy’s gonna be there. Don’t be weird.”
Well, fuck.