Chapter Thirty
Thirty
“By Friday, he might bring a yoga mat.”
The days blurred into a rhythm of survival: work, appointments, and balancing numbers on a page that never quite added up to security.
I became an expert in pretending everything was fine—answering emails, fixing Tommo’s endless customer relationship management and content hiccups, ignoring the nausea that crept in around mid-morning like clockwork.
Paul didn’t cross my mind much, or at least that’s what I told myself. Until Thursday.
I walked into the office, same as always, lost in thought and half-distracted by a message from Mia reminding me to eat something other than crackers, when I saw it: a small brown paper bag on my desk: Oregon’s Finest, tied in a neat yellow bow.
Inside, a box of ginger tea: the good kind, not the dusty label from the corner store, and a sealed pouch of Oregon hazelnuts that looked suspiciously like they came from one of those overpriced organic shops. Artisanal.
I stared at it for a moment longer than I should have, my heart doing that annoying skip like it hadn’t learned better yet. No one else, except Mia, would think to pair nausea remedies with a souvenir from the life he was building without me.
I sat down slowly, fingers brushing over the yellow ribbon.
A smile escaped before I could stop it. Typical Paul: not ready for words, too proud for apologies, but still needing to do something, and somehow managing to make even kindness feel complicated and suspicious.
My phone buzzed ten minutes later, right on cue.
Paul:
About last time. I was… I know I said some horrendous things, and I’m ashamed of it. Just… yeah. Trying to get better or whatever passes for borderline normal.
I don’t know how to begin. How are you?
I read it twice, his awkward sincerity wrapped in ellipses and a question I had a thousand answers to, but none seemed to fit.
For a second, I lingered over my keyboard, debating whether to ignore it and pretend this was just a misplaced gift from HR. A message from someone that I used to know or thought I knew.
Me:
I’m fine. Thanks.
The typing bubbles appeared almost immediately, then vanished. Then appeared again.
Paul:
Someone told me ginger helps. The hazelnuts… well, Portland’s famous for them. Read they’re rich in folates and other elements. Thought you might… I don’t know. Yeah. Hope that’s okay.
I leaned back in my chair, letting my eyes drift to the window, where the clouds hung low over Nanaimo’s skyline. Flat clouds: no lift, no gliding.
So… he knew. Maybe not from me directly, but he knew I didn’t take the pills.
And now we were here: in this strange limbo where ginger tea stood in for conversations neither of us knew how to start.
I reached into the bag, pulled out a hazelnut, and popped it into my mouth.
Salty. Sweet. Unexpectedly good. Figures.
Some silences were louder than words, and Paul’s was practically deafening.
He’d been back for four days now. No dramatic entrances, no apologies beyond that one awkward message.
Just… there, moving through the office like a ghost who occasionally remembered he had unfinished business with the living.
I caught him looking, once or twice. Not the way he used to: not with that quiet hunger or a lazy, teasing smile.
This was different. A mix of curiosity and surprise, maybe wariness, like he was checking if I didn’t turn into a dragon.
Still standing and carrying what he couldn’t, for both of us.
By Tuesday, the pattern started. A new box of ginger tea appeared on my desk.
Wednesday, a bottle of magnesium tablets: “good for muscle cramps”, according to the neatly folded receipt he left tucked inside, like I wouldn’t know precisely where that suggestion came from.
Thursday, he hovered by my desk after fixing a glitch on my computer: he didn’t say a word, just adjusted the monitor slightly, as if that was the thing that needed realignment.
I didn’t stop him. I didn’t thank him either.
Because this—this was Paul’s version of showing up, just enough to feel like he hadn’t completely abandoned ship.
That evening, I found myself at the kitchen table, staring at the quiet little collection of his offerings.
Tea, medicine, hazelnuts in a half-empty pouch: the total of Paul’s care, arranged like artifacts from a relationship that never really existed the way I thought it did.
I traced the label on the tea box—it was a really nice tin—with a soft smile on my face.
If love were measured in music, IT skills, and organic snacks, Paul would’ve been a great partner.
But I’d learned, because of—or thanks to—him, that wasn’t what I needed, not in a relationship, and definitely not in this situation.
I wasn’t angry anymore, only tired. Tired of wishing he could be someone who understood that care isn’t about gestures—it’s about staying when things get heavy and being present without needing it to feel like a movie script.
Mia:
Still alive? Or did IT boy finally try to explain the meaning of life with another herbal remedy?
I smirked, grateful for her timing.
Me:
He’s moved on to supplements. By Friday, he might bring a yoga mat.
Mia:
You sure he’s not nesting instead of you?
I could practically hear her laugh through the screen.
Me:
He’s… trying, in his own weird way. But you were right: this isn’t about him anymore.
Mia:
Good. Just remember: effort isn’t the same as change, and care isn’t love. He’s still Paul: one step in, two steps out.
Paul cared: probably more than he liked to admit, maybe more than he understood himself.
But he was still chasing some ideal where love had to knock him off his feet to be real, and I was never going to be that storm for him.
This was his version of care, and that was all he could give me, which was fine, in its own way.
Friday afternoon, I was shutting down my laptop when I felt him before I saw him. Paul floated at the edge of my desk, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking like a man who’d rehearsed something a dozen times and still didn’t know how to say it.
“I, uh…” he started, eyes reaching mine but not really looking. “If you… ever need anything. Groceries or a walk, not that you do, but I’m here, if you want. Whatever.”
It was almost endearing, if it wasn’t so painfully him.
I let him fumble, watching him with a kind of detached amusement.
The old me would have filled the silence, offered him a soft landing, but not this time.
Not because I wanted to be mean, but simply because I was so sleepy I could close my eyes at the desk and doze off, easily.
“I’m good, Paul,” I said, steadying my voice before I spoke. “But… thanks.”
His eyes finally met mine then, and for a split second, I saw it: surprise, like he wasn’t expecting me to be this okay and was the one still trying to catch up to the version of me that had already moved past needing him to show up properly, to pretend to love me or save me.
He nodded, shifting his weight like he wanted to say more, but thought better of it, and then he walked away: one step in, two steps out, as always.
I watched him go, a quiet exhale leaving my lungs.
I still… felt him like a magnetic storm.
Funny thing about storms: sometimes, when they pass, you realize it was exhilarating, it made you feel again, love, passion, but you never needed to chase them in the first place.
And as I gathered my things, I realized I didn’t feel lighter because Paul was back—I felt lighter because I wasn’t waiting for him anymore.