Make Me Lose

by Leigh, Ember

  He laughs a little, as if the question is ridiculous. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Tell me what it is you’re striving for.” I cross my arms. “I want to hear you say it. Just so we’re on the same page.”

  He watches me, hands on his hips, the sunlight spilling in from the windows all around him. He’s like some sort of magazine ad come to life. Except the tension in the room is so thick I’m close to choking.

  “I want to be at the top.”

  I nod. “Right. You want to be the best. Like always.”

  “Like you don’t?”

  I pour more coffee into my mug, even though it’s not empty. I need something to occupy my hands. To lessen the tension thrumming through me. “This isn’t about me.”

  He scoffs. Now we’re fighting. That noise signaled the starting gun. “Sure. When I aspire to be the best at my career, it’s wrong. But when you do it, it’s noble. I get it.”

  I shoot him a look. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Why are you acting like there’s something wrong with what I’m gunning for?”

  I clench my teeth and force myself to take a breath before responding. This could spiral into dangerous territory. Maybe it already has. “I never said there was anything wrong with what you wanted. I’m trying to help you feel better about life. You hate what you do, and I want you to love what you do. Is that so wrong?”

  “Right. Well I didn’t Ask Hazel, now, did I? You can save your advice for somebody who needs it.” He sends me a dark look and storms out of the living room. The bedroom door shuts behind him, and I’m left gaping in the kitchen.

  I replay our heated exchange in my head, feeling both defensive and regretful. I didn’t want to attack him—but I do want him to do something he likes more. I want the relaxed, happy Grayson I knew in Bayshore. I want the man who can take me out to dinner before eight p.m., who can actually leave the workplace behind. I curl up on the couch, heart pounding as I wait for some sign of life from him.

  When he finally comes out of the bedroom, he sits on the couch across from me. He’s put on a T-shirt and running shoes. He doesn’t meet my gaze.

  “Better now?” I ask.

  “I need to go for a run.”

  “Good. Do it.” I sniff, coming to standing. “I’ll go wander the neighborhood.”

  “Do you want to come with me?”

  “No. I’m fine.” I squeeze his shoulder as I walk past him. We should let the conversation lie for now…and he needs a chance to get his head straight. Before we entirely ruin these precious few hours he has away from work. “Get your run in, and then we’ll go get breakfast.”

  Before I disappear into the bedroom, he grabs my wrist and brings me against him for a hard but brief kiss. There’s anger there, as well as heartbreaking love. I watch him go, and when it’s just me in the apartment, I’m sadder than ever.

  But still, I rally. I try not to dwell on our unfinished conversation while he’s gone, nor while we head out for a delicious brunch and occupy ourselves with a trip to Manhattan to visit museums. We end up having a great day and a sexy night. The tension that edged our morning dissolves.

  Until Sunday, that is.

  Gray wakes up to a phone call at eight a.m. Of course, it’s work.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, I told you, Ian,” he spits, tearing the covers off him. We’d been spooning a half-second ago, and the second his phone went off, his entire body went rigid and tense. “You need to figure this out.”

  Ian must have got a word in edgewise, because Grayson is quiet for a moment. Then he groans, his head falling into his hands.

  “So he quit?” Gray sounds resigned. More silence.

  “I’ll be in at seven,” Gray says. I’ve never heard him so dejected. My flight leaves at six. I frown as he hangs up the phone. He sits at the edge of the bed, rubbing his forehead.

  “You should quit too,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Gray throws his phone onto the floor, hard enough to make me wince, and storms into the bathroom.

  Our morning is quiet. Brimming with unspoken sentiments. I know he’s pissed about work, but no matter what I do to distract him or make him feel better, he bats it away. It’s lose-lose with Grayson today. I flew five hundred miles to watch him hate his job and almost break his phone twice.

  Great.

  We manage to catch breakfast at a spot nearby and then spend some time walking in the park and window shopping. He loosens slightly during the day. I even coax a smile out of him a few times. But once we’re in his car heading for the airport, that black cloud consumes him again.

  “You know,” I say, as we enter the gridlock of Sunday traffic heading toward the airport. “Maybe you should come to Bayshore next.”

  “That defeats the purpose,” he says in a low voice, the duh tone more than clear. “This is about you moving out here, not the other way around.”

  Frustration kicks up to a boil. I can’t keep the snark at bay anymore. “Sure seems like it would do you good to get out of the city again.”

  “New York is not the problem,” he mutters, and then he swears under his breath. “What is this asshole doing?” He gestures toward the Corolla in front of us, hogging two lanes, not moving. He rolls down his window and sticks his head out. “Move your ass!”

  “Grayson,” I hiss, swatting at his arm.

  “How are we supposed to move if you’re fucking stopped?” he shouts. Honks swell around us. I cover my mouth. Unbelievable. But this is New York traffic, I guess. Everybody is impatient and stressed and stuck in traffic. Just like us.

  He rolls the window up once the car jerks forward. A middle finger flies and his nostrils flare.

  “That motherfucker—”

  “Gray.” I grab his arm. “Come back to me. Let that shit go.”

  A heated sigh escapes him. “What?” he snaps.

  My eyes flutter shut. I’m counting to five. He’s roped me into his stress bubble, and I do not want to be here on my purported vacay weekend.

  Except nothing about this visit has felt like a vacation. Not like the first time. And I don’t think there’s much chance of Grayson’s work life improving.

  “You know,” I start, once I’ve retrieved an ounce of calm. “New York is lovely.”

  “See?” He slaps the steering wheel, like I finally get it. “I’ve been telling you. You’ll fall in love.”

  “It’s the kind of place I love to visit.”

  He’s quiet then, like he’s mulling over the information. When he glances my way, there’s suspicion in his gaze. “What are you trying to say?”

  “It’s a stressful place,” I say. “I mean, look at you. I’ve never seen you act like this—”

  “Everyone in the city drives like this—it’s part of life here.”

  “And sure, there are lots of awesome things. I love where you live; I love your neighborhood. But is all the awesomeness worth…this?” I gesture around us at the sea of cars packed in. The highway stretches for miles, and there’s no end in sight. “I mean, we plan getting to the airport like I’m taking a flight to Denmark, not to Ohio. Don’t get me wrong. I like the hustle and bustle, but I—” My words bottom out suddenly. The truth is quivering on the edge—I just need the strength to speak it. “I don’t know why I would join you in a place that doesn’t make you happy.”

  His jaw flexes. He’s white-knuckling the steering wheel again. He takes a long time to respond. “I love New York. And I’ll admit, there is something missing here.” When he glances at me, his blue eyes are swimming with sincerity. “But that something is you.”

  My eyes drift closed. The weight of this request isn’t a good one. It isn’t comforting or relieving. And that’s when it hits me. If moving to New York to be with Grayson was the right thing to do, I wouldn’t be fighting to convince myself. I wouldn’t be scraping up willpower to imagine my career here.

  I want to be a tourist in New York. Not a resident.

  I can’t do this. Not
even for Gray.

  “Then you know where to find me,” I finally say, my voice a whisper. Tears are in my eyes already. This breaking-up shit sucks. But I can’t force myself into a hole that isn’t made for me. And if Grayson can’t fit into the Bayshore-sized hole, then there’s nowhere left to go.

  Gray looks over at me, hurt creasing his face. “Hazel.”

  I swallow the knot in my throat, unable to say anything else right now.

  “Come on,” he says, desperation making his voice harsh. “Quit fucking around.”

  “This isn’t going to work,” I say, picking at my cuticles. “This isn’t….it doesn’t feel good. Maybe you like being stressed out and hating life. But that’s not what I signed up for. I don’t want to abandon what I worked for. And neither do you. So let’s accept the facts and move on.”

  My own words hurt to say, but I need to stick with logic here. If I went with my emotions only, I’d be visiting Brooklyn once a month until I was ninety. But that’s not what I’m looking for. Not a once-or-twice-a-month boyfriend.

  And I know this.

  I knew better.

  The rest of the ride to the airport is taut. I blink away tears, wipe away a few that dare to spill, and when he pulls into the departures area, I’m halfway out the door before he’s put the car in park.

  I’m waiting at the trunk for him to open it, but he doesn’t. He gets out of the car and walks toward me, anger and hurt mingling in his expression. The look on his face is a punch to the heart. It’s hard to keep his gaze. But this is the last time. It needs to be done.

  “Don’t fucking do this,” he pleads.

  “Open the trunk,” I say, finally yanking my eyes off him. If I look at him a second longer, I’m going to crumble. I’ll take back everything and do the once-a-month thing until my death bed. That arrangement would be slightly less painful than not having him at all.

  “Hazel,” he says, stepping closer. “We need to be together. We’re fucking—” He draws a terse breath. “We’re fucking soul mates. You know that, right?”

  I pinch my eyes shut, jiggling like I have to pee. “Open the trunk. I need to go check my bag. I’m late because you almost road-raged that Corolla. Come on, Grayson.”

  He watches me for another moment, and then the trunk clicks open. I tug out my luggage in a flash, and before I can turn away, he’s got me by the wrist.

  “Babe,” he says, softer this time, the plea so intense it nearly sends me to my knees.

  “This isn’t gonna work,” I say, my voice thick with tears. A few spill out now that I’m looking him in the eye, and I fight the sob that threatens to hitch out of me. “But don’t worry. I’ll be in love with you forever, so you can at least rest easy that you’ve ruined my love life.”

  I try to walk away, but he pulls me into him. The temptation is too great. I melt into his hug, clinging to him like he’s the last piece of driftwood in the ocean. My tears dampen his T-shirt, but I can’t stay here long. Because if stay here, I’ll never leave.

  “Goodbye, Grayson.” I finally rip myself away and hurry toward the door.

  I can feel his stormy blues cutting through me.

  I don’t look back.

  Chapter 28

  GRAYSON

  Once, back when I first moved into the city, I was taking the subway into Brooklyn. In the far-flung stop where I’d gotten off, a weird smell filled the underground cavern. It smelled like burning trash, the thick scent of rot and chemicals filling the air.

  When I got to the exit, I found out that it really was trash burning.

  And right now, that dumpster fire is appealing compared to the reality of my waking life.

  If only I could stumble upon a flaming pile of actual shit, I’d feel like I’d hit the lottery.

  I’m back to the grindstone at work, and now that I don’t have the bright spot of Hazel in my life, it’s one thousand percent worse.

  I have nothing to look forward to, except the eventual zeros trailing behind my bank account total. But that’s a someday thing. I don’t have a now-day thing.

  I have nothing.

  The first few days after Hazel dumped me are full of work but laced with a sadness so profound I can barely eat a full meal. It feels like we’ve ended a twenty-year relationship. Like everything that grounded me has been torn up and thrown away.

  We dated for roughly two months. Not a year. Not five years. Not even a full fiscal quarter. How could I miss someone who made up so little of my waking life?

  I know how. It’s because Hazel and I defy the rules. We’ve always been out to surpass the norm. Finally tapping into the deep well of emotion between us could only lead to this level of intensity. Even after two months.

  But now? I’ve got to pick up the pieces, but I don’t know where she threw them.

  After a week of haunting dreams, I realize she didn’t throw the pieces away—she took them with her.

  Bayshore invades my subconscious. When I cross the Brooklyn Bridge each morning, I can only see the lake. One morning I have a dream about taking the Jet Ski to the sand bar and finding Luke there, and suddenly I have a six pack of beers underneath the seat of the Jet Ski—and then Hazel swims up. She’s naked, but once I notice, Luke is gone. It’s no wonder I woke up rock hard after that dream.

  But that’s not the only dream. In no particular order, I dream about: not being able to find a good wine at The Daily Shop and buying sparkling water—the horror!—instead; running into my mom in the middle of the old car wash that closed in the late 90s, where one drug deal took place and the local newspaper had a field day about it; and of course, Hazel.

  I dream about her in ways that defy reason. In one dream, she’s herself. In another, she’s blonde and pregnant, but I never got the sense if the baby was mine or—God forbid—some other man’s. In a different dream, she’s a house I walk into.

  I last four days without texting her. And then I send her one emoji, because apparently I’m a teenager. It’s the emoji with the two hearts, in case you’re wondering. It represents the throbbing that’s going on in my chest cavity on a daily basis.

  She takes a few days to write back. And when she does, it’s with a broken heart.

  So there’s that.

  It’s easy for the days to melt by, despite heartbreak, because of the punishing pace of my work schedule. And the more I lose myself in the mess, the harder it becomes to tolerate. At least pre-Hazel, work was somehow a solace, if one I only begrudgingly accepted.

  But now? I can’t stop thinking about being back home. About being literally anywhere but at work. And more and more, I’m entertaining ideas about what might come after.

  To be clear, I’ve always entertained ideas about what comes after investment banking. My plan was to retire by age forty-five, so that I could have a decent run at trying something else. It also occurred to me, during my month in Bayshore, that I might try turning to renovation work full time as my next gig.

  But I’m thinking about it now. I can’t stop imagining how I still want to finish that trim around the back door and lift the raggedy ass tile in the laundry room. Sometimes I still laugh to myself about all the hilarious conversations Weston, Mav and I had while we laid flooring. The morning rhythms of working on the house—thermos of coffee, sawdust everywhere, tools stacked up—are memories that plague me worse than locusts.

  So when Mrs. Koch e-mails me a week after Hazel and I break up to finally talk about her son’s potential schooling out here, I’m not surprised when our talk turns to Bayshore-related things. She mentions her husband’s recent dental implants (very traumatizing), her son’s graduation party (extremely windy, nobody could eat the cake), and the trouble she’s had on the Bayshore Bicentennial Committee in their hunt for a renovation company to properly (and please, God, without price gouging) restore a building that Hazel purchased last year in the spirit of fostering community.

  Hazel purchasing a downtown building? This is news to me. I’m almost offended t
hat she never mentioned it. But I pursue all the necessary details through my nearly daily e-mails with Mrs. Koch. Progress is stalled because Bayshore’s vision is to support local, and there aren’t any local businesses that can do the job…and all the far-flung companies that placed bids want too much money to account for transportation and lodging expenses.

  Mrs. Koch explains in great detail how they’ve only recently turned an eye toward renovating some of the flagging downtown buildings, and the vision they have is one that will be a sight to behold…if they can ever get there.

  Each time I respond to her, pressing for more information, a weird heat in my chest spreads further. Like I’m wearing a winter coat in the middle of a sauna. Prickles and discomfort tinged with restlessness. Creativity is pulsing through me, even though I’m braindead and exhausted from work.

  Within two days of learning all this about Mrs. Koch’s issues, I have a business plan drawn up. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m simply passing time because I’m sad and heartbroken and physically wasting away in my office. I need something to do that doesn’t involve assisting in mergers and acquisitions or advising clients about derivatives.

  I want to use a fucking hammer again, and I’m bored despite being overworked. So in my meager down time, I create GrayWorks, LLC.

  I use a template I found online. I’ve never started my own business before, so I could be doing this all wrong. I’d ask Hazel, but there isn’t an emoji for it, and like she said all those years that were really just weeks ago—we’re supposed to be weaning.

  This is something to pass the time.

  Before another two weeks go by, I run my idea by Mrs. Koch, and she’s interested. I mean deeply interested. She asks me for my federal ID number so she can put together paperwork for my bid. My head spins when I read those words.

  I can’t possibly be bidding on this project. It would mean relocating to Bayshore for the duration of the project. Her e-mail forces me to research how to get the ID number, and long story short, I set up my LLC in the state of Ohio using my house as the address.