23. Jake
Jake
Mackenzie’s on my mind.
She shouldn’t be. I’m the one who told her that a relationship was a non-starter between us. I’m the one who pushed her away. I’m the one who shouldn’t be thinking of her at all.
But I can’t stop.
I should be able to push memories and fantasies out of my mind.
After all, I’m working a stupid number of hours.
I don’t have time for the basic maintenance of life, let alone pleasure.
My condo is a pit – I haven’t had time to find another cleaning lady.
My fridge is empty because I haven’t had time to go grocery shopping.
I’m living off Door Dash and leftovers. I haven’t had time for a proper work-out because my weights are buried under paperwork and I’m barely sleeping.
This is not a healthy lifestyle, but I’m trying to push through it.
What’s so demanding?
First, there’s my job, which is busy right now. My boss has been giving me the side-eye for the amount of time I’ve taken to work on my dad’s estate – and she has no idea how much more there’s been, after office hours – and I do want to be considered for that promotion.
Who am I kidding? I WANT that promotion and that corner office and that pay boost.
So, in last week’s meeting, when she wanted to reassign the daily report on the Asian markets, I volunteered. It means I’m in the office two hours earlier than was previously the case, and still staying just as long at night. Who needs lunch? I now eat at my desk.
And then, in the evening, I crunch the numbers for my alternate legacy plan.
They stink, at least so far, which means I have to modify the variables and work through them again.
I can smell that this solution will work but thus far, it doesn’t.
In the meantime, Paula duBois is building the real estate database of all time, on my dime, a speculative venture based on the assumption that I can make my plan work.
It’s July in Toronto, which means the days are hot enough to melt the asphalt and the air is as thick as motor oil.
The humidity is killer. (Which reminds me: I have shirts to take to the laundry.
If I don’t get to that tomorrow, I’ll be dressing casual at work, like it or not.) I haven’t even had time to stare out over the cool sparkle of the lake or fantasize about sailing.
I need to make the plan work.
I need to get my life in order.
I need to stop thinking about Mackenzie.
And then, at 11:53 PM on Wednesday night, my phone receives a text message.
Are you awake? I’d like to talk.
Mackenzie. I’m astonished. It’s like I conjured her up.
If I’d known yearning was that powerful, I would have let loose sooner. As it is, I nearly drop the phone in my hurry to grab it.
I send a thumbs-up emoji and my phone rings instantly.
“Tell me about her,” Mackenzie says immediately. I don’t even have a chance to wallow in the sound of her voice, to enjoy the fact that she’s calling me. Nope, she gets right to the point.
I open my mouth to protest ignorance, but she anticipates me.
“I don’t know her name, but you know who I mean. The least romantic person ever, I think you said. And you said it like it was a crime.”
She waits and I fill the silence.
“Is this a habit of yours? Phoning people up and interrogating them on random weeknights?”
“No.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “But you’re special.”
Mmm. I like the sound of that. It’s a guilty pleasure. “How so?”
She pauses for a beat. “You listen.”
Ah. I don’t know what to say. I officially have a warm-fuzzy, perhaps my first ever, and I don’t know what to do with that either.
“How’ve you been?” I ask instead of answering her leading question.
“Fine.”
“Time for the harvest yet?”
“Not quite. The grapes need to ripen a little more.” There’s silence between us for a long minute, then Mackenzie clears her throat. “I’ve been in Victoria visiting my mom.”
Ah. “I expect it was nice there.”
“Well, yes and no. Come on, Jake, enough small talk. Tell me about her.”
I could bluff my way out of this, but I don’t want to. There’s a reason Mackenzie is asking, and of all the people in all the world, she’s one person I trust with the truth.
“Chelsea,” I say, like it’s a confession. “Her name was Chelsea. She was the younger sister of one of my roommates from university. Well, she probably still is.” Mackenzie gives a breath of laughter. “We dated for a while.”
“Go on and tell me how many days.”
“A hundred and seven, although we didn’t see each other every one of those days.”
“That’s almost four months.”
“Yes. Fifteen weekends.”
“But you broke up, despite a promising early run,” she guesses, correctly. “Why?”
Again, I’m tempted to stonewall her, because it’s not pertinent to anything – but then, maybe it is. Mackenzie called and she called for a reason. Just because I don’t know what that reason is, doesn’t mean I should shut her down.
I’m glad she called and I should show it.
“It looked like a perfect fit. We had a lot in common. She’s an accountant. I’m a financial advisor. We were a good age to choose to be a couple.”
“Biological clocks.” She says this like it’s a hanging offense, so I leave it alone.
“And just general mating habits. Everyone I know seemed to get married between thirty and thirty-five. Although, of course, some of them are divorced now.”
“And you looked good together.”
“Yes. We did. Chelsea dressed well, always perfectly turned out. Pretty. Charming. Great laugh. Better than that, she was smart.” As I remember all of this, I’m wondering whether I was right to break up with her.
“Probably still is. She loved to plan everything. She was organized. She had contingency plans for her contingency plans, which was impressive and thorough.”
“Maybe too organized?”
“Maybe. She sent me a spreadsheet every Friday afternoon on the dot of three, a schedule of all activities for our weekend ahead.”
Mackenzie chuckles, a throaty sound that sends fire right through me. “No.”
“Yes. Each cell was thirty minutes. She even scheduled sex. I knew what time to have it up.”
“And for how long.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, that’s got to be better than not scheduling any sex.”
“True.” I smile. “But she made me realize how much I appreciate spontaneity.”
“What went wrong?”
“I ignored the time slot where I was scheduled to propose.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to. I also didn’t understand how or why it would take an hour, when sex took half that much time, but details.”
Mackenzie laughs. “But why not? Other than the spontaneity thing, you said you two were good together.”
I wouldn’t confess this to anyone else, but this is Mackenzie and I know that somehow, in some way, she’s asking me to help her make a choice. I’m tempted to shout ‘walk away’ just on principle, but it’s not my place to do that. I can’t decide for her.
I might be able to help with her choice, though.
I take a breath. “Chelsea and I were seemingly perfect for each other. People thought we were two halves who had found each other. We thought the same way for a while.”
“But?” Mackenzie invites.
I sigh. “We wanted different things in the immediate future.”
“Kids?”
“White wedding, kids, house, dog, cottage, winter vacations to all-inclusive resorts, etc., etc.”
“I’ll guess she was a big yes to that assortment.”
“And I was a bit less enthused. It seems so average to want the same thing as everyone else.”
She laughs again, not troubled by my confession, and I smile. “You could have discussed that, maybe compromised or made a new plan.”
“We could have. Maybe I should have.”
“But you didn’t, Jake. Why?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to make this confession aloud, because the next conclusion is obvious. Then I figure why not. Keeping everything to myself my entire life hasn’t gotten me where I want to be. Why not just tell the truth?
We have no relationship.
I have no stake in a future with Mackenzie.
Of all the people in all the world, she’s the safest one to confide in. I’ll probably never talk to her again.
“I didn’t love her,” I say, my voice husky.
“Ouch. No softening the blow from Jake. Did you tell her that? Because that would have been an asshole thing to do.”
“Would it?” I demand, my temper rising. “Is it wrong to tell someone the truth of your feelings? I think honesty is the least thing you owe anyone you hold in any regard.”
“Well, I…” Mackenzie begins, but it’s too late. I’m on a roll.
“If I had loved her, I would have done anything for her,” I reply, my words crisp.
“If I’d loved her, I would have done anything in my power to make her happy, and probably reached for some things beyond my power.
I would have worked to be a better person and a better partner and I would have given everything to build a future with her, just to be with her.
I would have moved fucking mountains. But I didn’t love Chelsea, so I didn’t even negotiate.
It was too easy to imagine life without her and I don’t regret a single thing.
” I take a breath. “For whatever it’s worth, I don’t think she loved me either.
I just fit the qualifications for the next task on her To Do list, and that wasn’t nearly good enough to shape the rest of my life. ”
There is silence and I know I’ve said too much.
“Holy shit. You’re a romantic,” Mackenzie says finally, her amazement clear.
“I don’t have to wear a T-shirt declaring as much, do I?”
“No, but I’d never guess. You’re so prickly and pragmatic…”
“And I know that when you expect the very best, you’re highly likely to be disappointed.
The chances of finding the kind of partnership that inspires me are just about non-existent.
The chances of finding it and making it work over the long term are non-existent.
Better to be self-reliant, than to be disappointed over and over and over again. ”
Better to disappoint yourself than the one you love.
“But what if the perfect match slips through your fingers because of your strategy?”