Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
B eing without him feels like an open wound. Everything makes the pain sear, even the air. I want to crawl out of my skin. The warmth of the sunny May days seems to be taunting me. It's all made infinitely worse because this entire situation was my doing. My brilliant idea. I have no one to blame but myself.
Despite the agony of the past few weeks, part of me still feels resolute in this decision. What I am experiencing now is exactly what I was trying to explain to Matt. Total consumption. I need to learn how to harness it. How to love him and be loved by him and still remember to come up for air. How not to lose sight of all the things and people in my life that make me me .
The past few nights I woke up in a blind panic that perhaps this sabbatical will not end the way I think it will. I worry that Matt will use this time apart to realize he does not want to be with me. That I'm not worth the fuss. Or he'll find someone else. Someone in LA. Someone who more accurately fits the idea he's had in his head for years, someone who predates me. I try not to let myself go there because it makes my heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vise.
I pull out my phone at least twenty times a day to call or text him, a habit I can't shake. He kicked off his spring tour two weeks after that last night in my apartment. I keep tabs on him and his shows. The reviews all agree the tour is a huge success. He hasn't called or texted me, but he is sending me emails. We didn't establish any ground rules for what this “breather” entails so Matt has taken it upon himself to send me emails, the first one explaining his stance.
May 2, 2025
To: julia.anderson11
From: mattyjohnson80
Subject: One.
Jules,
I'm emailing you because it's technically not talking to you. It's talking at you. You don't have to read them. You can have your breather. I still don't know what that means. I miss you. I love you.
Matt
The emails show up every morning. After several days of it, I realize they are satisfying my urge to connect with him and ultimately defeating the entire purpose of this. I make a folder so all his emails will automatically go there and I don't have to see them in my inbox.
I need to use this time wisely. I decide I'll give myself until my thirty-ninth birthday at the end of the month to figure out whatever it is I think I need to figure out.
I walk into the hospital and drop my stuff off in my office, noting my painting for the four hundredth time. The one that now constantly reminds me of Matt. And his insights. His intelligence that I love and admire. I think about taking it down, but that seems dramatic.
I walk to the other side of the building and grab a hard hat before entering the construction zone that is the pediatric behavioral health emergency department. It is a beautiful disaster of dust and drywall and saws, and a crew of twenty people is working to make it perfect. Coming here is a soothing little ritual that keeps me focused. I check in on the project every day. Something about seeing actual physical progress—a wall where there had been nothing—is immensely satisfying.
Outside of work, I try to balance keeping myself busy and deliberately not, so I can pay attention to how I'm feeling. My field hockey team wraps up the season with a winning record, and some of the girls talk about signing up for the Marine Corps Marathon in the fall to motivate them to stay in shape over the summer. On a whim, I decide to train with them. Now, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, the girls and I hit the concrete jungle to crank out miles. I am humbled every time by their youth, energy, and fully intact knees. Despite my aching muscles and blistered feet, I feel stronger mentally and physically. The running gives me room to think.
I make it a point to see a friend at least once a week, usually Meredith. The morning after Matt left, I sent her a text explaining what I had done, and an hour later she was at my front door.
"You are an idiot. But I love you. It'll be fine," she said, and pushed her way in with a bag of bagels, cream cheese, lox, and Veuve.
Lately Meredith has been heckling me about my upcoming birthday. "We are doing something. Whether you like it or not. It's the last year of your thirties."
I don't want to do anything, but I begrudgingly settle on going to dinner with her at one of our favorite spots. Pressure grows in my chest as I think about the fact that I won't be spending my birthday with Matt. I hadn't quite thought that part through. The idea bums me out more than I care to admit.
* * *
My birthday arrives with little fanfare—a few calls and texts from friends and family, and my work family orders in our favorite Thai and Crumbl cookies to celebrate. I show up to dinner with Meredith feeling more melancholy than anything. The sinking feeling that has been my constant companion intensifies as each hour in the day passes with nothing from Matt. No text, no call, no card, no flowers, nothing. There's a chance he sent me an email, but I haven't checked the folder, which takes every ounce of my willpower. I feel pathetic.
Meredith and I are two bottles of wine deep, and despite her good intentions and an incredibly generous gift—a cream Staud bucket bag—my mood is tanked.
"Jules. You've gotta perk up. You're a serious buzzkill."
"What is wrong with me? Am I a masochist?"
"Hmm … Are you sure you want to ask me that?"
"I'm serious, Mere. Why am I pushing away someone I love so much? What am I doing? The whole argument that precipitated this break seems so dumb every time I think about it."
"I don't know if you'll be able to pinpoint an exact reason, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with your past. It's not just you—Matt has a past, too. Maybe you're testing him, maybe you're scared, maybe you're trigger shy, maybe you don't want to get hurt again, but that's all bullshit, and you know it.”
"I know."
"I don't think it was the wrong choice for you take a little break, to zoom out a little. You guys are intense, which is not criticism. But at some point, you're going to have make a choice. And to make that choice you're probably going to have to stop overthinking, stop worrying, stop trying to analyze every little detail. You've gotta jump in, hope for the best, and do what you can to make it last. And if it doesn't? So what? You start over again—that's not anything new for you."
She's right. And again, I think about what a gift girlfriends are.
"Enough moping. Let's get out of here. We're going out out—to a new place just around the corner. There will be music and dancing and bottle service. A bunch of my coworkers are there tonight, and I am not taking no for an answer."
"A club? Seriously?"
"Yes. It's your birthday, and even though you're trying your best to make it depressing as hell, I think we can turn it around. We are not dead. We are young and beautiful, and we are going out. Get up!"
"Okay, okay!" I smile for the first time all day, happy to hand the night's reins to Meredith.
* * *
We show up to the swanky club, a place I have not been in many years. I'd forgotten the allure of places like this—all low lighting, sexy furniture, loud music, and well-dressed, beautiful people sipping cocktails. Meredith's friends have taken over one of the lounge areas, and several bottles are splayed across the table. When I walk up, everyone cheers, "Happy birthday!" I thank them, and Meredith pours me a very strong drink. "Sit. Enjoy. It's your fucking birthday!" she demands.
I do. And I find myself able to get lost in the music, the conversation, and these very smart and funny New Yorkers I haven't been out with in a long time. I've missed this.
A man to my right strikes up a conversation.
"So what birthday are we celebrating? Twenty-five?"
"Ha. Good one."
"Yeah, not my best work."
"I'm Julia."
"Yes, I know, I've heard a lot about you from Meredith. I'm Andrew." He offers me his hand.
I take a good look at him—he's tall, at least six feet, and very muscular. I can see his shoulders rippling underneath his custom suit. His hair is dark, almost black, with salt and pepper on the sides, cut short and neat. But his eyes are the centerpiece—piercing blue and gorgeous, especially in contrast to his dark features.
It hits me that this is the corporate sexpot Meredith tried to set me up with months ago.
"I was supposed to take you out a long time ago." He gives me a warm smile.
"Ah, yes. It's all coming back to me now. Sorry it didn't work out."
"It's okay, I only wallowed for a night or two. But I was intrigued. Meredith is a fantastic saleswoman."
"That she is. And only a night or two of wallowing? Not weeks?"
"If I'd seen you, I would've wallowed longer. I guess I missed my chance. I do occasionally peruse the pop culture section of the news."
"Right." He knows about Matt.
"But your boyfriend isn't here?" He glances around the room.
"No, he couldn't make it."
"What a shame."
"Excuse me?”
"Leaving a beautiful woman by herself on her birthday."
It lands. And I'm startled at how intrigued I am by this man flirting with me. I can imagine life with a guy like Andrew so clearly. We'd be in New York forever. He'd work downtown, and I'd be at the hospital uptown, and we'd find a gorgeous penthouse somewhere in between and a house out East where we'd spend the summer. He might work late and travel on occasion, but he'd be home, and I'd be home, and we'd have dinner together with our kids almost every night and take Murphy for long walks in the park where no one would follow us or take pictures of us or weigh in on our relationship. It seems so easy, simple, to love someone like him. To make it work with someone like him. But as quickly as the fantasy enters my mind, it blows out like a birthday candle. And all I can think of is Matt. His messy hair, his worn jeans. His pensive face. His hands.
"We're celebrating in a few weeks when he wraps up touring," I lie.
I chat with him a while longer. Before I know it, I am two more cocktails deep and way more than buzzed, yet my thoughts remain clear. I excuse myself from Andrew and find Meredith in the crowd.
"You know he didn't do anything for my birthday. No call. No text. No nothing."
She stares at me dubiously, biting her lip. "Didn't you tell him to not talk to you?"
"Yes, but I guess I just thought he would. Maybe that means something."
I think her eyes might pop out of her head. "For the love of God, Jules! You are exasperating!" she screams at me over the music. "You can't tell him to leave you alone and then expect him to do something."
"I know. Whatever. He's probably fucking Ariana or Alessandra or some other LA chick right now," I mumble into my drink.
"He is not."
"How do you know?"
"Because, you idiot, he asked me about your birthday. He wanted to do something. Something big. And I told him not to. I told him it would be better for him to respect your wishes. Because I thought that is what you wanted!" She's incensed.
Shit .
I turn around and beeline to my purse sitting on the couch, fumbling for my phone. I open my email.
I open the folder.
I have more than thirty emails from him. But I only focus on the one from today. At the very top.
May 28, 2025
To: julia.anderson11
From: mattyjohnson80
Subject: happy birthday
Jules,
Happy birthday, babe. You're thirty-nine today. I had lots of things planned, lots of ideas on how I would celebrate you today and probably all weekend. Maybe all month. I'd been planning for weeks. I wanted to reciprocate how you made me feel on my birthday in Mexico. I wanted to make sure you had no doubts about how much I loved you. But a trusted advisor thought it best for me ditch my plans—to lay low and play it cool. To give you your goddamn breather.
In the past month I've ridden the entire roller coaster of emotions. First, I was stunned. Then I spent most of my time being sad, feeling sorry for myself, wondering what I did wrong, what I could've done differently, and mostly just missing you. Then I felt hopeful. Surely, you'd reach out to me soon, but today, it's been almost a month. I've emailed you every day and it’s still radio silence. So now, I'm angry. I'm angry that you chose this and in the same breath told me how much you love me—it's a bit of a mindfuck, and something I never anticipated from you. Anyway, thinking about all of this over the past month has made me realize maybe you were onto something. And that this breather was the right call, despite my strong protest. I need the space to do some thinking, too. I’ll honor your wishes and this will be my last email. I'll be back in New York on July first after tour ends. Let's meet then and see what we've figured out. Enjoy your birthday.
Matt
I read and reread it five times. How much I loved you . Loved. Past tense.
My heart is in my throat and tears prick my eyes. I run for the front door, in desperate need of fresh air. I walk two blocks before I catch my breath. I pull out my phone and order an Uber, then shoot a quick text to Meredith.
Overserved, took an Uber home. Thanks for making me go out tonight. Love you.
On the short ride home, I frantically text my brother and book a flight to Denver for three days from now. I feel like I'm on the verge of a breakdown.
For the hundredth time, I wonder, What have I done ?