by Brea Brown
“Yeah. Absolutely. I’ll, uh…” He backs away awkwardly.
After he leaves, I finally take a full breath. My heart races as it struggles to get enough oxygen. I can’t believe it’s only been two days since we broke up. We sound like a couple who’s adjusted to a shaky truce after months of separation. It suddenly strikes me as both sad and funny. And completely abnormal.
In other words, typically me.
24
I’m totally convinced that Leslie and Jude really did sleep together, although I’ll never confront Jude about it. It’s not really my place anymore to care about who he sleeps with, now or ever, as long as he wasn’t doing it while we were together. And I’m sure he wasn’t. But my certainty that he did at some time is bolstered by Leslie’s latest hobby of casually dropping intimate details about him into conversation when she’s near me.
“What’s the deal with that scar on the inside of his thigh? You know, right near his junk? I didn’t get around to asking him about that.”
“Missionary’s not really my favorite position, but some people really like it, huh, Libby?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been with a guy who doesn’t like tattoos… Oh, wait.” Pointed look at me. “Just one, but he was kind of a square.”
Now that I expect her to say these things, I’ve gotten pretty good at avoiding and ignoring her, but there were some cat-fight close calls the first few times (particularly when she asked about the scar). The only thing that keeps me from reacting is that I know she wants me to. And I’ll be damned if I’ll give her the satisfaction.
I can’t believe Jude hasn’t told her to shut up. Surely, in this place, he’s heard from someone what she’s saying. Although… now that I think about it, she and I are usually alone when she drops these gems. Or she’ll say something that I know is a dig but nobody else probably would. And, like I said before, there’s no way in hell I’m going to bring it up to him.
Because when I’m around him, I’m surprisingly good at maintaining a neutral expression and acting like nothing’s wrong. The minute we’re apart, though, I feel myself unraveling. Most nights, I can barely make it to my car before I start shaking. I haven’t eaten dinner—or much of anything—in weeks. I get home, strip down to my underwear, and crawl under the covers, falling into a coma-like sleep until morning, when I get up and do it all again.
The constant reminders of him (and us) don’t help, either. All the cafés, bars, movie theaters, and other hangouts we used to frequent in my neighborhood seem to mock me as I drive past them. Doing laundry has been especially painful. I’ve taken to hauling my baskets of dirty clothes to a nearby Laundromat, just so I can avoid the room in the basement where our last argument took place.
So lately I’ve been a prisoner in my apartment, which I’ve been busy making a Jude-Free Zone. I’ve snapped in half and thrown away my Snow Patrol CDs, deleting the MP3 files from my computer and player. The few pictures I had of us have been buried in the “cat box,” my photo collection of Sandberg. I don’t want to get rid of them permanently, but it’s going to be a long time before I can look at them again. Maybe someday, when I’m digging through Sandberg’s pictures, I’ll come across them and be able to smile. Or not. I’ll burn them then, I guess. For now, I don’t want to get rid of the evidence that I was at one time worthy of someone’s affection.
And every room at work has some kind of memory attached to it, even the parking garage. But at least I can sometimes fool myself into thinking everything’s okay there. He’s right there in his office, after all. We exchange pleasantries. We attend meetings together. We pass each other in the halls and occasionally meet up at the vending or pop machines.
He even called me the day I skipped work for The Anniversary, because Wanda had sent out an email that I was taking a sick day, and he wanted to make sure I was okay. In other words, he knew that without him, I could be dead and no one would find me until Sandberg had eaten half my face. Of course, I didn’t actually take his call. But after I listened to his stammering message on my voicemail, I texted him the lie, “I’m fine. Thanks.” And I didn’t tell anyone—not even Dr. Marsh—how his concern was more depressing than comforting.
Hank came up from Florida for Christmas, so at least I wasn’t alone on the holiday. But as usual, he spent more time with his friends than me. Not that I blamed him. I mean, who wants to spend time with someone who’s either catatonic or on the verge of tears all the time? I tried to be cheerful, but it required more energy than I had. In addition to the present I actually bought specifically for him, I also ended up giving him the limited edition Psycho box set that I had bought for Jude. It didn’t make any sense, and Hank probably knew that it wasn’t originally for him, but it was the easiest way for me to get rid of it.
I hope it all gets easier when Jude’s gone. And he will be soon.
Today he’s packing up his office. I’ve been making myself scarce, not wanting any part of that project. It was bad enough when he had me back up all of his files onto external hard drives. I had to turn my brain almost completely off to get that one done. As the status bar would creep from 0% to 100% on each transfer, I’d picture a door closing by those same degrees. By the time all the files were finished transferring, I was emotionally exhausted.
Now I walk past his office at just the right (or wrong) time, and he flags me down. “Libby! Do you mind giving me a hand here?”
Heart, hand, whatever, I muse with a sigh. “Whatcha need?” I ask perkily.
“Literally, two more hands,” he says, pointing to a large box in the middle of his office. “If you could hold those flaps closed whilst I tape them…”
I do, affecting the most bored expression I can while I surreptitiously study him. He’s wearing his hair shorter now than he ever used to. Today, since he’s packing and doing physical work, he’s wearing jeans and what he’d call a “jumper,” but the rest of us normal folks would call a sweater. His “trainers” (a.k.a., sneakers or tennis shoes) are new-looking. He smells… well, the best word I can come up with is “nostalgic,” although I know it’s not possible for someone to really smell that way. But it makes me nostalgic. And horny, but that’s a totally inappropriate (and purely physical) response that I must stifle.
“Next,” he says, pointing to a box in the corner.
This one’s so stuffed, it barely closes. Finally, I have to resort to sitting on it to keep it shut. He pulls the tape across one end, then the other, working around me. At one point, as he’s leaning over, he presses his face up against my shoulder and grunts with the effort to pull the tape around. I stand and move away so he can’t hear my heartbeat. I’m suddenly sure it’s externally audible.
“That was a dodgy one,” he states. Although he’s still hard to read (harder than ever), I’m almost positive he meant that more than one way.
“Yep,” I reply casually. “Do you need me to take these to the mailroom for you?” Then without waiting for his answer, I make an executive decision. “Yeah, I’ll just take ’em,” I say in a no-nonsense tone.
“No! That’s not necessary. I’ll do it later. They’re a bit heavy.”
“I can handle it.” I’d planned to scoot them along the floor. As long as it meant I could scoot myself out of his presence. To demonstrate, I bend over and push on one end of the biggest box, sliding it toward his office door.
He intercepts me, mirroring my pose on the other side of the box. “Leave it,” he insists. “Really. I was going to get Marvin to help me haul all of these boxes to the mailroom when I’ve finished packing.”
I clench my jaw stubbornly. “Why?”
“Because you’re more of a help to me with taping; I’ve already filled the position of pack mule.”
Giving up, I say, “Fine. Whatever.”
“Whatevuh,” he mocks, smirking at me. “You’re supposed to just follow orders, remember?”
Damn charmer. I can’t help but smile at him when he’s looking at me like that. I straigh
ten and turn in a circle, looking for other open boxes while I avoid his eyes. He follows me around the room as we go from box to box, working without talking.
Finally, he says, “What kind of cake did you order for tomorrow? You know I hate lemon.”
Matter-of-factly, I answer, “I wasn’t put in charge of that.” Thank God.
Tomorrow’s his last day. I’ve already scheduled a vacation day. Even I have my limits. I don’t trust myself to keep up the tough act if I have to be here and watch him walk through those doors for the last time. Of course, I know logically that there has to be a last time for me to see him, and it won’t be any less poignant just because it’s not the last time for everyone else. And I guess he’ll be back periodically, since this is the corporate headquarters for the company, but I won’t be able to hold it together when he says his goodbyes tomorrow. That’s a memory I have no interest in making. And I plan to leave tonight without saying goodbye.
“But you told them I hate lemon cake, right?”
I shoot him a look through my eyelashes. “My, my. Awfully particular, aren’t you? Get the big promotion and suddenly you’re a diva.”
Laughing, he says, “Hey, I don’t think it’s too much to ask to have a flavor of cake at my going-away to-do that I’d be willing to eat.”
“You think it’s going to be a to-do, huh?” I hold the flaps of a smallish box containing a stack of back issues of Architectural Digest.
With a straight face, he answers, “I’ve been all but promised it will be. Gary told me you’ve planned the whole thing, complete with streamers, confetti, and… and… a piñata.”
I crack up. “What are you, six?”
He looks up from the tape gun, an expression of mock-hurt on his face. “I’ll have you know that you don’t have to be a child to like those things.”
“Just have the mentality of one,” I clarify.
“Are you trying to break it to me that none of those things are going to be at my party?”
“I think it’s doubtful.” I put my hand on his arm. “Are you going to be okay?”
He nods solemnly. “I suppose. As long as you’re there…”
Swallowing and blushing, I remove my hand and splutter, “Oh… y-yes. Obviously. Where else would I be?” There are no more boxes to tape, no more distractions.
After a narrowing of his eyes, he says, “I don’t know… You wouldn’t be thinking of bunking off tomorrow, would you?”
I try to laugh him away. “That sounds like something that’s none of your business anymore.” My joke falls flat, though, seeing that it hits close to a whole bundle of nerves.
“But you know what I mean, right? Pull a sickie?”
“Whatever. I’m not calling in sick tomorrow,” I say honestly.
He turns his head and looks skeptically at me from the corner of his eye. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” I say, doing just that with my finger.
“Because I expect a proper goodbye from you. So no eating at dodgy Indian restaurants tonight.”
“Hm,” I reply, rearranging some boxes so there’s a clear route (getaway path) to the door. “You’re getting really used to having your way around here.” Suddenly, something occurs to me. “You’re not going to make a scene in front of everyone, are you? Embarrass me somehow?” Of course, he’s not going to, since I won’t be here, but I want to make sure he never even entertained the idea.
He wipes his brow on his sleeve. “Now why ever would I do that?”
“Yes, why would you do that?” I return.
“I won’t.” This time, he crosses his heart.
“It’s just… I’d prefer not to give everyone a show, complete with hugging and mushy stuff. It’s going to be uncomfortable enough as it is.” It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged out loud that his going away is going to be difficult for me.
Sticking the toe of his shoe in front of the box I’m currently shifting to the side, he says, “Perhaps we should get the ‘mushy stuff’ out of the way now, whilst we have some privacy.”
I’m about to call him crazy, considering we’re at work, and his office blinds and door are wide open, but when I glance out there, I notice everyone’s cleared out for the day. I hadn’t realized how late it was or how long we’d been in here. Even so…
“I don’t think so,” I hedge. Suddenly all of this is too real. He’s really leaving. We’re really over. I don’t do well with real.
Cajolingly, he says, “Aw, come on. Just a little hug. We owe at least that to each other, don’t you think? A proper goodbye.”
Perched on the edge of his desk, I shake my head and whisper, “I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” He stands in front of me and opens his arms. “I promise, no funny business. And no one’s here to see you being nice to me, so your image is safe.”
He walks into me more than I lean forward into his arms. But the result is the same: a hug that starts with me sitting there on his desk with my arms hanging limply at my sides and him wrapping his arms around me and resting his chin on the top of my head.
A hundred images flash through my head in less than two seconds. It seems like I relive every minute with him, like some kind of time-lapsed film in extreme fast-forward. But I manage to see, hear, smell, and taste it all like it’s happening in real time.
I bring my arms up and wrap my hands around the back of his neck, my fingertips sinking into his hair. He sighs. My breath catches in my chest. We fit together like two halves of a raindrop that split when it hit a piece of grime on a dirty window. Two halves that will forever fit perfectly together but will never rejoin.
“God, how is this happening?” I sob, mortified when I realize I’ve said it out loud.
He pulls away and looks down at me. “Say the word, and it ends differently. I don’t want to leave you here.” His lips move in. They’re a millimeter from mine when he says, “Remember when you trusted me implicitly?” and I imagine them kissing Leslie.
“Stop,” I say, pulling away, breaking the spell. I duck around his body and under one of his arms. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Why not?” he demands, more than a little impatiently. “It’s obvious you’re not happy the way things are now.”
Instead of answering him, I flee his office, barely stopping at my cubicle for my purse and coat.
“That’s right, Libby. Run!” he calls after me. “Run away from the biggest cock-up of your life!”
I’m not sure if he means he was my biggest mistake or if rejecting him was. Either way, he doesn’t have to tell me twice to run. I was there before he even suggested it. I don’t want to wait for the elevator, so I crash through the stairwell door and begin a twenty-four flight descent into the parking garage.
After ten flights in these heels, though, I’m done. I emerge on the fifth floor, crying and out-of-breath. I limp to the elevators and press the down arrow. The doors immediately open, so I stumble into the empty car, frantically pressing the button for the parking garage level where my car is waiting. It’s as if I think the harder and faster I press the button, the faster my life will proceed, until it’s just a blur that I don’t really have to experience.
When the elevator spits me out in the concrete garage, I hobble as fast as I can to the row where my car is. I’m simultaneously relieved and annoyed when I see that Jude’s not already there waiting for me, but that an identical navy blue car is parked next to mine.
“Stalker,” I mutter, double-checking the license plate and the presence of Bobblehead Ryne in the car that I get into. It doesn’t matter that my keyless entry wouldn’t work on Jude’s car. I don’t want any chance of another accidental switcheroo, especially tonight. I’m almost free of him.
I’ve just twisted the key in the ignition when my cell phone chimes to alert me to a text message. The masochist in me can’t resist reading it. All it says is, Please don’t.
Scrunching my eyes closed, I toss the phone into the passenger-side floorboar
d. I suck the cold, stale car air in through my teeth, open
25
Once again, I become one with my bed, keeping time in relation to whatever I imagine Jude is doing at the moment. At four o’clock on Friday, I sit up in bed and mentally follow his progress: He’s eating his cake right now. Locking his office door for the last time. Returning his keys to Wanda. Saying his final goodbyes to Lisa, Zoe… and her. Maybe he’s even wondering where I am. He’s getting into his car, driving through the parking garage for the last time, taking a second to get his bearings before he can pull onto the street (he always gets turned around under there). Driving even more cautiously than usual (if that’s possible) to his empty apartment, because it’s snowing. Eating Spaghetti-O’s straight from the can (don’t even get me started listing the ways that’s disgusting) in the middle of all the boxes piled around him. Showering, standing under the hot stream until the water goes cold. Setting his cell phone alarm for an early wake-up call to go to the airport. Going to bed on a mattress in the middle of his bedroom floor.
In actuality, my imaginary Jude reality show only lasts about twenty minutes. He’s probably not even finished eating his chocolate cake (would I let Lisa order anything but his favorite?) when I jump from the bed, suddenly compelled to do one last thing before he leaves forever.
I dig my laptop out from under some dirty laundry on my couch, open it, and boot it up. Quickly, I open the letter I wrote to Jude and that I was going to give to him on The Anniversary. But the break-up was still too raw then, and I never found a good time to give it to him. If I hurry, I can run it over to his place before he even gets home to eat his revolting dinner. I’d email it to him if I knew he’d have access to email during his move. But I want him to read it before he leaves Chicago. It’s suddenly of utmost importance to me.
Before hitting print, I proofread it (sorry; unbreakable habit).
Dear Jude,
I know you don’t understand many things about me (there are things I don’t understand, either), and you will have to resign yourself to the fact that you never will (as I have), but I promised you months ago that I would tell you things that would go a long way to shedding some light on my quirks and no matter what’s happened between us, I think it’s only fair that I make good on that promise.
