Chapter Thirty-Eight
The adage “In like a lion, out like a lamb” does not apply to March in Liverpool, unless both the lion and the lamb are trapped in a perpetual deluge.
Nor does it apply to my emotional state; there, it’s more along the lines of “In like one of those sad, runty wildebeests who has been separated from the herd and is about to be devoured, out like that sad, runty wildebeest’s best friend, who is very relieved she did not get mauled to death by lions, but is not, by any reasonable definition of the word, ‘happy.’ ” But that’s a lot less catchy, so I get it.
My conversation with Claire has stuck with me in a way that I didn’t expect, and that lingers on as April dawns.
I keep replaying bits of it in my mind, wondering what she did with my information, wondering if she hates me or him or herself.
I don’t like the idea that there’s someone out there who doesn’t like me, but I’m going to have to make peace with it—after all, if anyone deserves to hate me, it’s Claire.
But the thing is, I’m not even sure she does.
I think what I said may have been helpful, clarifying, even if it was hard to hear.
I sure as hell hated hearing that Steven was cheating on me, but at the same time it was oddly freeing.
Maybe she feels the same about this—maybe she can spin our near miss into the thing that gives her the freedom to leave once and for all, to pursue her own life on her own terms and not feel like she’s the one who drove it all into the ground.
But that’s their journey to walk, not mine, and I can’t expend any more energy on it.
I’ve got bigger emotional fish to fry: It’s my birthday.
It really crept up on me this year, what with, like, everything.
But lo and behold, there it is. Thirty-one.
It was supposed to be my last birthday as an unmarried girl; now it’s my first birthday as a single woman. Perhaps the first of many.
Mersey is playing at home, but I skip the match and go to brunch with Amina instead.
Apart from the hour where I watched him while she got her hair cut, it’s her first time being away from Hamza.
While she talks a big game about how happy she is to have even one minute of freedom (and listens to me retell the Claire saga with the appropriate level of gasping and clutching of pearls), there’s a restlessness to her that signals she can’t wait to be back home with her kid.
It’s sweet, and I’m touched she came out for me, but it somehow makes everything more sad.
Oh, and Mersey ends up losing, which fits the narrative.
The rest of the day is spent fielding video calls from my family.
It’s been almost ten months since I saw any of them in person, which is the longest I’ve ever gone.
That’s probably why I burst into tears when my mom tells me that as a birthday surprise, she and my dad bought tickets to come to Liverpool in July.
Of course, she then tells me that my brother Kyle upgraded them to business class because his agency has had such a great year, but it wouldn’t be a conversation with Mom without me coming away feeling a teensy bit inadequate.
Josh calls, as he has done every few days since we made up.
Erica is there too, peppering me with questions about the progress I’m making against her list. I’ll admit that even though I preemptively resented her having such a focused involvement in my self-improvement plans, it’s actually great.
She’s an incredible motivator, and every time we hang up, it makes me want to attack the list with renewed vigor.
Sadie’s solution to my birthday blues is, of course, sex, so she tarts me up and picks a bar.
I go along because she’s been so good to me, but my heart’s not in it.
To make matters worse, when I’m getting ready—wearing the exact same outfit as the last time she took me out—I realize I’ve lost my favorite bracelet, the one I had Lachlan clasp for me.
That thought triggers a flood of memories, and all I can think about is Lachlan texting me that night, and what happened after.
No amount of fake smiles and hair flips can paper over the ache eating away at the core of me, and it turns out strangers in a bar don’t want to hear your thoughts on the Myxoma virus, actually.
I duck out after what feels like a polite amount of time and return to my flat for a long bath and a cup of tea—both things I am into now, being properly British.
I am so grateful to have such kind people in my life.
I love them for trying to make this a good day.
But all I want to do is go to bed and wake up on a day that’s not special, that draws less attention to the gnawing, agonizing loneliness I’m carrying around with me.
As it turns out, the universe has other plans.
For the first few weeks after that night at the club, my whole body would tense up every time I got a text or a call, anticipating that it would be Lachlan and I’d have no idea what to say.
That faded, as all things do, and I can check my phone with equanimity these days, knowing it won’t be him.
Whatever he needed to say to me he said on the dance floor, and no text on a random Saturday night is going to reopen that book.
So when my phone rings as I’m towel-drying my hair, there’s no part of my mind that expects it to be Lachlan calling.
And I’m right, it’s not Lachlan; it’s worse. There, buzzing away on my dresser, is an incoming FaceTime from ULTIMATE SHITWAD—DO NOT CALL.
Huh.
Steven. His name comes to me like some old forgotten memory, like a medieval battle between the French and English I learned about in history class and then immediately forgot.
It’s odd, given the outsized role he played in my life.
If this were last summer and he was calling, I’d be bombing into a tailspin; just seeing his name on my screen would have triggered an embarrassing display of histrionics. But now? Just…huh.
Before I can think about it too much, I pick up. His face blinks into view and he smiles, but it’s not genuine. The one thing I learned from watching him cheat on me for years was to recognize when he was lying to me. “Hey, Abby. Happy birthday.”
“Hey.”
He fidgets, squares his shoulders. “It’s good to see you. You look great.”
I want to correct him. I want to deflect the compliment and say no, I don’t look great, I just got out of the bath and my hair’s a mess and also I’m dead inside. But I’m trying not to do that anymore, so I just say thanks.
A silence for the ages fills the digital space between us, but I’m not going to be the one to break it.
Instead, I try to process what I’m feeling.
It’s curious, really. I always thought that if I ever saw Steven again, there would be some residual anger, some flare-up of emotion that I’d buried deep down in my soul.
But I’ve got nothing. This is a man I was in love with for six years, a man I was prepared to pledge my whole life to, a man who repeatedly betrayed me and broke my heart, but looking at him now, it’s like he’s nothing more than a long-forgotten summer camp friend, or a coworker from three jobs ago.
I can’t muster anything other than a tepid, polite curiosity about what’s going on in his life.
It’s humbling, in a way. Humbling to know that at the peak of Steven and Abby, I thought what we had was a great love.
I thought, This is it, I’ve found him, I’m so lucky.
And after it ended, I carried around that niggling doubt that maybe he was it, maybe he was the greatest love I’d ever get.
But I know that’s not true now, for so many reasons.
Great love doesn’t end like this, with milquetoast video chats.
Great love doesn’t end with a whimper. The hollowness in my heart is not because of Steven.
The light in my eyes was not extinguished by him.
And this realization washes over me like a balm.
Nothing Steven can say right now will hurt me, because I don’t care enough about him to let it.
I’ve been hurt for real now. I know what it’s like. And Steven can’t even come close.
Huh.
“So, how are you?” he asks. “How’s London?”
“Liverpool, actually. And it’s good. The job is really good.”
“Bet the weather is pretty bad though, right?”
“Mmm.” I will not give him the courtesy of small talk.
In fact, I’m going to ramp it up. “How are you? Still with Jessica?” Her name slips from my lips like nothing.
I held on to it for so long, never saying it out loud, like she was Beetlejuice or the bogeyman or something to be summoned from the depths of hell. But now? She’s nothing to me.
But it catches Steven off guard, because he stammers a bit before settling on an answer. “Yeah, we’re still together. In fact, um…in fact we’re expecting a baby.”
“Ah, congratulations,” I say, not meaning it. Not maliciously, just…with total noninterest. It’s like hearing that the local TV weatherman is expecting a child. Who gives a shit? It’s odd, since I guess that was supposed to be my baby. But I find I’m so relieved it’s not.
“Anyway,” Steven says when he realizes I’m not going to ask any follow-up questions. “What’s new with you? Josh told me you were dating one of the soccer players you work for?”
I register the first stab of something like emotion, a brief tremor of anxiety that trills outward from my chest. “You talk to Josh?”
“No, but I ran into him in Porter Square a few weeks ago and we chatted for a bit. So is it true?”
I’m touched that Josh would lie for me—especially when Lachlan was such a bone of contention between us—because what better way to get revenge on your ex-fiancé than by dating a world-class athlete?
But I’m sure Josh told that little fib never expecting Steven to ring me up and ask about it head-on.
I’m sure Josh never intended to cause the roiling mess of emotions that jockey for position in my sad, broken brain.
What I should say is something like: No, I’m not dating a player, that would be ridiculous.
I didn’t meet the man of my actual dreams and fall deeply in love with him, only to have it be ripped away by our shared cowardice.
I didn’t dive straight from the heartbreak of a broken engagement into an even deeper, soul-destroying emotional affair with my married best friend, that would be so foolish. No, the rumors are untrue.
What I do say is “Yeah, I am. He’s great.” I swallow against the lie and double down. “He’s actually here now, though, so I’ve got to run. But thanks for calling. All best with Jessica and the baby.”
I end the call before Steven can say goodbye, because my pathetic little lie is catching up with me and soon I’ll be crying—and I don’t want Steven to think it’s because of him.
I crawl into bed and pull the duvet over my head, my tears soaking the pillowcase.
What a fantastic way to end this decade of my life.