38 Gemma
T he next Monday, James, of all people, approaches my desk.
“Hey, hope you had a good birthday,” he says.
Regretting my decision to work through lunch, I keep my attention focused on my computer and my tuna sandwich, determined not to say a word to him.
“I was wondering,” he goes on, undeterred by my lack of a reaction. “Can I talk to you in private? Not now, obviously. But after work.”
I frown at just the thought of having a one-on-one conversation with him.
And then he asks me the question that makes my stomach recoil.
“Do you want to come over for some drinks? For old times’ sake.”
I stare at him with an open mouth. How does James even have the nerve to invite me for drinks at the condo that used to be our home?
He chuckles nervously. “Look, I still have all the stuff you left in the closet. And I know it’s been several months, but I… I feel like I never explained to you why we… you know. Maybe we can talk while you come get your stuff? Sorry it took so long to get to this point. I think I needed some time to process.”
But then, I finally hear it. The sadness in his voice. The wretched grief and pain that I wanted to hear from him since that first Monday I saw him after the breakup.
I frown. “Did you and Daphne break up?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. But that’s not why I came to talk to you, I swear. Or at least, I don’t want to get back together or anything. Breaking up with Daphne made me realize how fucked up our breakup left me. And I figured, you probably understand that more than anyone.”
I think back to all the things I did after our breakup and wince. Plus, I never found out why James decided to end our engagement. Closure, I guess, would be nice.
I also want my stuff back, now that I have the space for everything.
“Okay,” I finally say.
Later today, we leave the office together, and I notice small changes in the late afternoon light. James’s hair is longer and shaggier than he usually cut it when we were dating. His glasses are different, too, gray instead of the black frames he had when we were together. He seems a lot older, more mature somehow, although realistically he probably doesn’t have more than one or two new wrinkles. I wonder if our breakup aged me as well.
He’s familiar and foreign, all at once.
We walk mostly in silence to our— his —condo, only talking occasionally when he brings up the new food trucks or stores that popped up since the last time we walked this path together. He also asks about me and my parents, and I ask him about his family. I hate to admit it, but catching up like this is nice. After all, we dated for seven years, and it’s not like we hated each other’s loved ones during the time we were together.
I guess there will always be a part of my life that’s enmeshed with him, like a part of his will always be with me.
When we get to the condo, James says, “So, I’ve made quite a few changes since, um… you moved out.”
He opens the door, and my jaw drops open. When we lived together, our condo wasn’t exactly spacious, but it was very cozy and warm, with shelves full of books and plants. We also had a TV, on which James and I binge-watched shows and played video games together, all while our soft, plush rug kept our feet warm.
Now, the TV’s still there, but everything else is gone, replaced by sleek leather sofas and a black coffee table. There’s not even a hint that I used to live here, and I don’t know if I feel sad or amazed. If I didn’t recognize the floor plan, I’d wonder if this is even the same condo.
“Looks like a real bachelor pad,” I say flatly. “You did a good job redecorating the place.”
“Thanks,” he replies. “It took me a while to figure out what I was doing, but I think I’m finally getting somewhere. All the home and real estate articles I wrote for Horizon finally came in handy.”
What are you doing? a voice says in the back of my head. Get out of here. This isn’t your home anymore.
James opens the closet door to reveal four boxes stacked together. I can only assume that’s all my stuff. James carries them to the living room, and I sit on one of the sofas to go through and make sure I have everything.
Before I can even process what he’s doing, James goes to the kitchen and comes back with two glasses and an all-too-familiar bottle.
My stomach turns. “Isn’t that the wine we bought the last time we went to Napa with your parents?” I wince, thinking about the post I had to delete from my Instagram.
A pained look also flashes across James’s face. “I know. I couldn’t bring myself to drink it after…” He trails off and clears his throat, before trying again. “What better time to drink it than now, right?”
I smile tightly and accept a glass of wine from James. But I don’t make any real move to drink it. And neither does he.
“So…” James settles down on the couch beside me with his own glass in one hand. Thankfully, he maintains a careful distance, probably to avoid making things even weirder. Compared to how close we sat together in this living room in the past, the way we’re sitting now feels strange, like we’ve fallen into some kind of parallel universe.
“So?” I set my wine down on the coffee table.
“Are you…” He laughs awkwardly and continues, “Still with that girl? Celeste, right? Your college ex. I was surprised to see her at the New Year’s party. I thought she moved to Korea, or at least, that’s what I remember you telling me.”
“No,” I reply. I don’t elaborate.
“Oh, okay. Daphne and I were seeing each other, but it was… a bit of a roller coaster. I learned the hard way that I’m not ready for another relationship.”
My ears perk up with surprise, but I pretend not to be interested. Instead, I keep my eyes focused on my hands and say, “And you’re telling me this why?”
James shrugs. “I thought you’d want to know.”
I don’t respond. James has dated me long enough to know all my tells, so he correctly interprets my silence as curiosity.
“I regret it, you know,” he continues, his normally loud and confident voice coming out so quietly that it gives me pause. For once, he almost sounds vulnerable . “Breaking up with you, I mean. I was… scared. After we got engaged, everything got so serious. Marriage, kids, all of that was suddenly around the corner, like boom, boom, boom. I missed the days when we could have fun without thinking about all that serious stuff.”
“ You proposed to me, James,” I reply. “ You decided to take the next step with me.”
“I know. But also, like, of course I did! The one thing I was sure about was my feelings about you. Everything else, though…” He sighs. “In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t called things off when I did.”
A thrill of satisfaction runs through me. But I keep my voice low and steady when I ask, “Then why did you?”
The day we broke up, I walked away from this condo without getting a straight answer from him. I just let that slide, allowing James to tear my life apart without even knowing why. Granted, if I’m being fair to myself, I was in a lot of shock and pain. But today, I’m completely calm. Keeping my eyes fixed on his, I cross my arms across my chest and wait.
James sighs again, and nervously says, “Look, this isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go. I mean, come on, you’re thirty now, too, so you know what it’s like… it’s terrifying…”
He can’t even meet my gaze. In fact, he’s staring down at the floor, doing everything in his power to not make eye contact with me. I’m hit with the memory of how he acted the Monday after the breakup. Like I was invisible. Before, I thought it was some superiority complex, an arrogant display of “I’m perfectly fine without you.” But now, in my much calmer state, I realize he’s not trying so hard to avoid eye contact because he thinks he’s better than me.
He’s avoiding it because he’s hiding something .
I’m suddenly reminded of how Daphne glared at me in the printer room a couple weeks after James’s and my breakup. How, unlike James, she didn’t even try to talk to me at the holiday party. She didn’t act like she was embarrassed or ashamed to be someone’s fast, messy rebound. She treated me like I was an interloper. In their relationship.
“Did you sleep with Daphne?” I ask. “While we were still together. Is that why you wanted to break up?”
James’s eyes widen. But he doesn’t say anything, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor.
That’s all the answer I need.
Anger rolls and crackles through my chest. I get to my feet and explode, like I did the day he broke up with me. “You know what, James, first of all, fuck you.” My voice comes out strained with pain and disbelief. “Really, how dare you get engaged to me and then just… cheat like I meant nothing to you? If you were that unsatisfied in our relationship, why couldn’t you tell me without wasting seven years of my life?”
James gets on his feet, too. He finally meets my gaze, and I’m taken aback by how there’s not even a single bit of remorse in his face. He looks angry .
“Because I still loved you!” he yells. “I was just… scared . I only started seeing Daphne as a way to blow off steam so I could stay with you . But then one day, she asked me to choose. And at the time, she seemed like the more fun, less stressful option.”
I step back, baffled at his logic. While I was changing myself, making myself smaller and more palatable to keep the peace between us, he was… fucking someone else ? And then he chose her over me, when I was the one with the ring?
“Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling so much with all the pressure?” I ask through gritted teeth. “We could have gone to couples counseling.”
He scoffs. “And what, have two therapy people breathing down my neck? You’re a fucking relationship advice columnist. Do you not realize how intimidating that is? If I told you everything that I was feeling, you’d probably try to therapize me like I’m one of your readers. And then you’d get an actual professional for backup to basically repeat everything you told me.”
I briefly close my eyes. Every single one of James’s words cuts through my heart like a knife. “You don’t know that, and we’ll never know how I’ll really react, because you didn’t even try to get help. Also, don’t blame me for something you did. Cheating to cope with things instead of talking is not normal!”
We glare at each other, wide-eyed and red-faced, breathing heavily and our nostrils flaring in the living room where we previously only used to laugh.
“This was a mistake,” I say, heading back to the door. “Just donate all my stuff to charity. Or dump it. I don’t want any reminders of the time we spent together.”
I don’t even give him a chance to respond before I leave the condo.