34 Sloane
December 2018
Ethan hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts since Thanksgiving. Which, despite his lack of communication skills, is very unusual for him.
Everything I’ve been feeling over the past few weeks wasn’t just my own insecurities; they were alarm bells going off. My gut has been telling me exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid: You’re losing him. You’re losing him again, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
You can’t beg someone to love you, as much as I wish you can, you can’t. You shouldn’t have to convince someone that you’re good enough or you’re worth it. That’s something I’m still learning.
I insert my key into the lock and turn it, the familiar click signaling my homecoming. The door swings open, and I’m greeted by the smell of fresh basil, a hint of garlic, and the new vanilla candle I bought last week.
“Are you cooking?” I yell, hoping my voice carries through the apartment.
“Homemade pizzas!” Lauren returns the same energy.
“Four?” I ask, gesturing to the spread in front of us. “Who’s eating all of these?”
“I figured Miles and Ethan. One for each of us! We can do our own toppings.”
“Oh, um,” I stutter, trying to wrack my brain for an excuse to come up with for Ethan. I don’t want to tell her the truth—that he’s been ghosting me. “Ethan’s tied up at work, so we won’t need one for him.”
“More for us!” Lauren shrugs. A weight is lifted from my shoulders knowing that she doesn’t suspect anything. I hate hiding things from Lauren, but I know what she’ll say. She’ll say exactly what I’m thinking.
He’s pulling away again. This time though, I’m completely aware.
After dinner, I do the dishes for Lauren and then escape to my room. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the lock screen on my phone.
Six days. It’s been almost a week of being left on delivered, not even on read. Which is even more frustrating considering I know he’s seen the notification. I hate how he has so much control over me. He knows my daily routine, when I leave for work and when I get home, so I know he’s been leaving early and staying late to avoid running into me.
I launch my phone across the bed, and it falls into the sliver of space between the mattress and the wall. Silent tears fall down my face and soak the pillow that Ethan usually sleeps on.
Why did I have to fall in love with someone that couldn’t love me back? In the beginning, I was convinced he was my “right person, wrong time.” Now, I’m starting to think that may just be a phrase people use when they love someone so deeply and know that person doesn’t, and never can, love them back the same way. So instead, they’ll make up excuses about timing and places to avoid the inevitable ending.
Knock, knock.
Before I have the chance to wipe away my tears, Lauren is standing in the doorway—a scene I’m all too familiar with.
“What’s wrong?” There’s concern in her voice.
“Nothing, I’m fine. It’s nothing.” I sniffle.
“Clearly it’s something.”
“Ethan’s been ignoring me for almost a week now.” I hug my arms around myself.
“A week? Why didn’t you say something sooner?” she replies, surprised.
The confession spills out of me, “Because I’m embarrassed. It’s happening again—I’m losing him, and I have absolutely no control over it. How am I back here? Why didn’t I learn? I’ve been so convinced that the reason I never fully moved on was that we were supposed to try again. We were supposed to work out this time. So why haven’t we? This might sound insane, and I don’t even know if I believe in God, but sometimes I think that he wouldn’t keep putting Ethan back into my life if we weren’t meant to work out one day.”
“Oh, Sloane.” Lauren’s touch is gentle on my shoulder. “Or he’s trying to teach you a lesson. You’re not going to want to hear this, but you need to let him go. Look at what he’s been doing to you for the past two years. You can’t keep living like this, at his every beck and call. This is your life; he doesn’t call the shots. You do.”
Her words, though tough, are laced with love and a desire to see me free from this never-ending cycle.
I can’t manage a reply.
After a few minutes of silence and more sobbing, Lauren turns off the lamp on my nightstand and leaves the room. I fall asleep on top of my comforter, fully dressed, dried tears on both cheeks.
The next morning, I get in the shower and turn the water as hot as it will go in hopes that I can burn off any trace of Ethan. I dry myself off and stare at my naked body in the mirror, thinking about all the times he touched me. Why can’t I remember the last time that he kissed me? What if the last time was the last time? I make myself sick over the thought and kneel in front of the toilet bowl.
I finish up in the bathroom and retrieve my phone from underneath my bed, where I left it last night. I power it on, grab my work bag, and head out the door. As I get out of the elevator, I stare at the only text message I received.
7:42 a.m.
Ethan Brady:Hey. I’m sorry for not replying sooner. I needed some space.
That’s it? That’s all he has to say? I shove the phone back into my bag and, for once, read the advertisements plastered all over the subway car.
***
My voice is a mix of frustration and hurt as I confront him. “You can’t just ignore me for a week and expect me to forget about it, Ethan.”
“I know, and I said I’m sorry,” he says, the apology lacking conviction. “What more do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop avoiding me. Stop avoiding us.”
“I’m not. I needed to be alone.” His defense is weak, and he’s avoiding eye contact.
“You can communicate that then, before ghosting me,” I remind him.
He looks up. “I didn’t ghost you, Sloane. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
Sitting on the barstool, I watch as Ethan paces the kitchen.
“Yeah, but for how long?” I question.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “If I could answer that, we’d be dating.”
I stare blankly at him and feel a tear roll down my cheek. Two years ago, any time I’d been around Ethan, I was worried I would say the wrong thing and scare him away. Now, in the middle of my tiny New York City apartment, I’m being the most vulnerable I’ve ever been with anyone.
“I didn’t mean that in a bad way.” He takes a seat next to me and puts his hand on my leg. “I just don’t know what I can say that can make you understand how I’m feeling.”
“I can’t keep doing this one-foot-in, one-foot-out thing with you. We’re not in college anymore, Ethan. I want a relationship. No more of whatever this is,” I say, fighting back tears.
He ignores me for a moment and puts his head in his hands. This is it—this is the moment it all ends. I brace myself for his delivery. I know that’s what he’s thinking.
How do I tell her I can’t give her what she wants?
“I’ve told you this before, Sloane. I need to do this at my own pace and on my own time.” His tone is certain.
I nod; the gesture is small but accepting, and my heart sinks with the familiarity of that sentence.
“Can you promise me something?” I ask, locking eyes with him.
He swallows, visibly uneasy. “Depends.”
“Please just don’t leave me in the dark like that again. I want to be here for you. I’m on your side, but I can’t do that if you ignore me for weeks on end.”
“It was less than a week.” he replies, trying to downplay the situation.
“I’m serious. It hurts.” I’m firm.
Ethan looks at me, finally seeing the pain he’s caused.
“I’ll try,” he says.
Ethan never makes promises he can’t keep, which is why he doesn’t make promises.
I empty the dishwasher and pour myself a glass of wine, knowing he’s probably rolling his eyes behind my back. He plops himself onto the couch and plays on his phone. Is this what our life would be like—that future I’ve been dreaming of—would it be bad communication, half-assed promises, and awkward silences? I’d like to think our relationship would be different once he’s ready to put in the effort and fully commit.
“Should we watch Breaking Bad? I can pour you a glass,” I offer, holding up the bottle of red.
“I’m not in the mood to drink tonight,” he says as he turns on the episode.
Ethan’s body molds to mine as we lie on the couch. I drink my wine too quickly and refill the glass three more times during the two episodes we get through. No matter how much I try, I can’t get our last conversation out of my head. One of his arms is wrapped around my waist, while my head rests on the other.
“Let’s go to bed.” His mouth finds its way to my ear.
I turn around so that I’m facing him, even though his head is still a few inches above mine. My hand grips the back of his neck, I pull him into me, and we start kissing.
Our mouths become one for what feels like hours. I can’t remember the last time we kissed for this long. Maybe the first time we ever kissed in my bedroom at Ascent. I remember the first time we kissed like it happened hours ago. I’m afraid it’s something I’ll never be able to forget.
“My room?” I ask.
“I want to fuck you here,” he whispers. “On the couch.”
So I let him. I let him fuck me on the sectional couch we got from Facebook Marketplace, and the entire time I try not to cry.
Somehow, it feels different than all the other times we’ve had sex. It feels less intimate, like I’m just an object to him. I try not to let it show, but something tells me he knows. Once we’re done, we both lie there. Naked and completely still.
Even though he was just inside of me, he feels so distant. How can I miss him when he’s right here?
“Is it okay if I sleep at home tonight?” he asks, as if my opinion holds any weight.
“Okay,” is all I can manage.
He gets dressed, washes out my wineglass, and puts his shoes on all while I lie naked on the couch. He kisses my forehead and leaves the apartment. I expect myself to cry, but I don’t.
I get off the couch and make my way into my room, where I change into my favorite pajamas and get into bed. Even though it feels like something between us is about to break, something within me feels somewhat at peace.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life thinking, Is this my great love story?, because I want more. I deserve more.
I don’t want calls that go unanswered or texts that are never read. I don’t want to spend holidays, or any day, begging someone to choose me. I deserve someone who chooses me without question. Someone who loves me without doubt. I want someone who shows up, and I realize that my relationship with Ethan isn’t any of those things. It likely never will be.
Maybe this really is the end.