by Claire Cain
“Thanks. Me too.”
She turned her attention back to Luke. “Congrats on the nomination. You deserve it.”
“Thanks. You too.” He smiled warmly at her, and my stomach sunk.
“Nomination?” I asked, trying to make sense of both their conversation and the sinking sensation I couldn’t escape.
“We were both nominated for the MacArthur award. They announced that tonight. We won’t find out if we actually get it for a while because a board convenes to review the submissions and it’s quite a process.” Luke said this looking everywhere but at me.
“What he’s not saying is it’s a pretty big deal. Most people are never nominated, and, at the risk of sounding incredibly arrogant, only really excellent officers get nominated,” Rae explained.
“Wow. Yeah. Congratulations to you both.”
Rae left us to mingle and we made the rounds after that, spoke to the Wilsons and a few other familiar faces including Ally and Jose. I ate the salad that came with my meal, but that was it. I had no appetite. I couldn’t touch the now-cold entrée, which made me feel worse.
By the time we were in the car on the way back to Gate 3, I was more miserable than I’d been that morning before I’d decided to come. I felt my own indecision wrap around me like a rope, tying my hands and keeping me from enjoying any given moment, so wrapped up in my lateness as I was.
“Captain Jackson’s nice, I like her.” I immediately regretted letting the words slip out. I’d promised myself I would not bring her up.
“Yep. She’s a good officer.”
“Are you guys… friends?” Oh, kill me now, why was I digging at this?
“Sure. As much as anyone in the battalion I guess. We were in command at the same time in Afghanistan last year. She’s moved to a different battalion now but was here for the farewell, and the news of the nomination.” He seemed unaffected by my questioning, but I saw his eyes slide toward me and narrow a bit, trying to read my intention.
And what was my intention? What was I after? To hear him say she was pretty? To hear him say they’d dated when I was fairly certain they hadn’t? Who was this version of me, picking at him and being jealous and suspicious? Ugh.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
I could do this.
I could clear my mind of all that nonsense and get this back on track.
I was trying to shake off my mood, trying to feel like I could rally and enjoy the rest of the evening. I needed to properly congratulate him about his award and hear more about it. I’d missed a big moment for him, and that had to be part of his frustration. Maybe we’d go back to Luke’s and watch a movie, or maybe we could talk it out and get over this hump of awkwardness.
“I’m probably going to call it an early night. I’m sure you’re exhausted too…” he said from his seat and a thousand miles away.
“Sure, yeah, of course. I am. I should head back sooner than later.” It was 8:15 on a Friday night. I hadn’t seen him in five days, had barely talked to him, and this was going to be it for the night. My hopes plummeted.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” he said, and even though it might not have been, what I heard felt forced.
“Of course.” I didn’t want to apologize again for being late. In the end, my lateness was frustrating, but for me, it wasn’t what had me feeling so terrible. Maybe it was the same for him.
He came around and gave me a quick hug, a quick peck on the lips, and opened my car’s door for me. He waited to back out of his parking spot until I’d backed out of mine and drove off in the opposite direction of his house, toward Nashville.
When I got home, I sent up the “home safe text” to let Luke know I was back. He responded “good,” and then said nothing else. And neither did I.
I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it was radio silence after that from both of us.
Instead of waiting by the phone, hoping he’d suddenly call and say he was over being frustrated, or disappointed, or whatever he was, and that he wanted me to forget the mess of the day and the week and that he’d be right over to kiss and make up, I took a long shower during which I cried my guts out to the point of dry-heaving. I felt like a total idiot, like I’d screwed up every good thing in my life. Sure, I thought Janie would recover, but I’d flaked out on her. I couldn’t go back and change things, so I had to just deal with it. Really, she was the least of my worries.
And Luke? I knew he was upset. He was interacting like he was fine on the surface, and I didn’t even think he was trying to make me feel bad, but oh ratatouille on a stick, did I. I’d gone from the high of realizing I wanted to show up for him, and that I felt it was worth it to give a little in terms of my own schedule and life, to the low of the reality where I was late, it was awkward, and I ultimately wished I hadn’t gone anyway.
Add to that my weird interaction with his boss, my uncharacteristic and raging jealousy of a woman who was always nice and seemed to have no link to Luke beyond being in the same unit, and I hardly knew myself.
A good cleansing cry was inevitable.
By Saturday afternoon, I felt physically ill. There I was in love with the guy, and I’d failed him. I knew it. I was too wrapped up in my own junk to see that at first, but I had. And if I hadn’t been so confused by my love for him and the ensuing irrational fear of losing myself in that love, or whatever it was I was thinking, I might have been able to help him understand me better. I might have been able to just talk to him and that might have fixed everything before it was broken. I would have figured out that I wanted to go, or he would have been able to reassure me that it was just fine and I wouldn’t have felt so mixed up about staying.
Saturday evening, I sent him a text. I was restless, and I could feel that my level of upset was growing and would soon balloon so far out of control that nothing would be able to stop it. I raised a little white flag to see if he’d come out and play.
Me: How has your day been?
I checked my phone over and over and didn’t hear back for another eighteen hours.
Eighteen. Hours.
Torture.
Luke: Sorry, went camping at Land Between the Lakes.
Me: Oh, nice. Did you go with friends? How was it?
Luke: By myself. Helped me clear my head.
Me: Ok. Do you want to talk?
Luke: Probably not tonight, ok?
That text felt like the kiss of death.
Me: Ok. Looking forward to the movie next weekend, if that still works for you.
He didn’t respond. I cried for most of the rest of the night.
On Monday morning, I sat ram-rod straight in my office chair, my left knee bouncing, my nerves a pit of snakes in my belly. I had a meeting with my boss in an hour, and it was scheduled that morning—this didn’t bode well. All I could think was that Janie really was that pissed.
I knew she was upset but… I had the sense this meeting wasn’t one where I was going to be winning an award.
So there I was, feeling like my heart was ripped open by my own stupidity and feeling woefully underprepared for a meeting with my boss for some unknown reason.
Ok. Not entirely unknown.
When the time came, I padded down the hall in my black flats and straightened my suit jacket. I said a silent prayer of thanks that I actually looked decently professional despite my end-of-the-world crying jag late last night that left me feeling raw and exhausted.
“Alex, have a seat.” Mr. Burney gestured to the comfortable chair across from his desk. I sat down and waited with a pleasant smile on my face.
“I’ll get to it. I need to know you’re here—you’re in this,” he said as he squinted at me and nodded his head like he was willing me to confirm that I was. He pinched one side of his glasses—a gesture I’d seen him make when he was irritated or stressed.
“I am, Mr. Burney. I absolutely am,” I said, feeling the knot in my gut double in size. I folded my fingers in my lap, preventing me from emphasizing my words
with my shaking hands.
“Your performance so far is as expected, if not better. You’ve delivered on everything we’ve asked.” I felt a fleeting sense of relief before I realized his serious face hadn’t changed. He reached to finger his glasses again, and my stomach sank.
“Can I ask where your concern is coming from?” I kept my voice steady, low, calm.
“I know you left the Campo event on Friday…”
“That was—I had a conflict, and it’s not something I anticipate being an issue again,” I explained.
“It’s not something we can afford, Alex. We’ve brought you here, and we want you to be a part of the team.”
If possible, I sank deeper into my seat. I might have sunk into the floor if the chair I was sitting in wasn’t reinforced steel or some other immoveable force beneath me.
“I understand. I want that too,” I said, willing my voice to remain clear and not cloud with the flood of humiliation and shame I was feeling.
This was what it must have felt like to be sent to the principal’s office, a thing that had never happened to me except when she wanted to ask me to convince the student body to do something or notify me of an award I was receiving.
“I’m glad.” Mr. Burney’s voice cut through my self-condemnation. “And I want you to have a life. I know you left New York because you felt like you had none. I’m not saying that—I’m not saying don’t have a life. I’m saying, if you say you’re going to be there, then be there.”
“Absolutely,” I said, and I felt my cheeks brighten with my embarrassment. “It wasn’t my intention to leave. I didn’t handle the situation well, and for that I’m sorry.” I felt my nails digging into my palm.
“I know it won’t happen again. When I heard you left, I remembered we never had our first quarter performance review, and I wanted to give you some feedback. You’re doing well, and everything you’re bringing to the table is good. I’m checking in to see how you’re doing. I know leaving New York was a big change.” He raised his eyebrows and waited.
“It was that, yes. But, I’m happy here. Really, I am, and I appreciate you speaking with me. This shouldn’t be an issue again.” I gave him a wide-eyed look that probably looked more like exhausted raccoon than convincingly earnest employee, but it happened.
“I’m sure it won’t be,” he said and stood. He extended a hand and I shook it, and then I all but ran back to my office and planned to hide out until it was reasonable for me to leave.
I shut my door and leaned against it. I breathed through my nose and gritted my teeth against the tears I could feel pricking in my eyes.
I was humiliated. I was embarrassed by my flaking on Janie, by my inability to figure out what mattered most to me until the last minute, and by my boss’s need to talk to me, even if it was couched in mostly positive feedback. I’d never had anything close to a reprimand before. I was a goodie-two-shoes and I was happy with that. This was a prime example of why I spent my life overachieving. I’d much rather get accolades than reprimands.
Duh, who wouldn’t? But still.
I didn’t regret leaving in terms of my attempt to go support Luke. What was clear now was that I’d bungled everything beyond repair. If I had simply talked to Janie beforehand, maybe found a replacement… Who knew when Janie would ask me for anything again, and I was sure I could check her off the list of supporting staff for future events for me.
The fact that it took so long for me to figure out I should be with Luke, that sacrificing a little something, something I could give on, was the right choice… that was embarrassing. And it was disappointing. That showed me my failing in terms of being a generous part of the relationship, which I desperately wanted.
How could I have messed everything up so deftly in the matter of a week?
That night I sat on the couch and stared unseeing at the TV while Lemon purred over my shoulders. He seemed to sense I needed his heavy, fury warmth to comfort me.
By Friday that week, I was running on fumes. I might have stalled out because I couldn’t get anything done at work. I’d cried more tears in those seven days than I’d probably cried cumulatively in my entire life.
That might sound dramatic, but it was true. I hated feeling so clueless, so unmoored, so unsure. I hated feeling so completely in love with Luke and yet knowing I’d hurt him and messed everything up between us. I felt humiliated by my questioning him about Rae Jackson and the jealousy I felt despite my total faith in Luke (and for that matter, my overarching positive view of Rae, which only made things worse). I felt angry with myself for missing the announcement of his nomination for the award, which I’d since looked up and discovered was, in fact, a very big deal. I felt angry with him for not understanding my showing up late even though I knew I’d done something wrong. I felt furious that he wouldn’t just talk to me. I felt embarrassed by my fumbling of the Campo event, and my ego was a long way from recovering from the meeting with Mr. Burney.
I felt stripped bare and I didn’t know what to do. I was longing to be with Luke—I knew if I could talk with him, I could explain myself, and he would understand where I was coming from. Maybe we could talk about what life would be like, and he could help me understand what my life would be like if we stayed together. If he wanted to stay together.
He had always been a good listener, and he had always been reasonable. Maybe it was that ability to see black and white so clearly. His freezing me out, his minimal, one-word responses to texts were killing me and infuriating me. And with each volley I sent out, I felt a piece of my hope turn to dust when he responded with a forced, singular word.
I felt angry, and sad, and scared. Because this wasn’t like Luke, and at this point, it was past the point of concern or alarm. It was a full-on panic attack-inducing situation, and I was barely keeping it together.
Luke and I had planned to go to the newest Avengers movie that night after work weeks ago. We’d missed opening weekend of the movie by a mile and never saw it in theaters, but we’d made plans to go when we stumbled upon a random showing we thought we could make. In one reluctant word (who knew if it was, but at this point every text was read as reluctant or begrudging since I couldn’t hear his voice or see his face and give it context), he’d confirmed he was still planning to go, and I felt almost giddy at the thought of him.
Or, I would have felt giddy if I hadn’t felt so much anxiety and dread.
Why dread? Precisely because I didn’t have any idea what he was feeling. Because I was a bumbling mess of overwrought emotion and bubbling with love even as I was feeling embarrassed, sad, and angry with him. I still wanted him desperately, but his choice to essentially cut me off made it feel like this was the last of something and not the beginning of something.
More than all of the other emotions I was feeling, I was missing him with an ache I couldn’t ignore. I felt like I was missing a limb. I know, I know—that sounded so cliché, but it was like sending him off to basic training all over again, except I didn’t know when he’d get back. And worse, my love wasn’t some childish, unspecific, friendly and familiar crush. My love for him wasn’t ignorant.
It was swallowing me whole.
By the end of the day I was toast. I was put on a new account and trying to suss out what the people—a music charity for underprivileged Nashville residents—really wanted out of their event. They came in expecting Carrie Underwood, Brad Paisley, and Wynn Reynolds, an up and comer in the city, to donate time and all kinds of things that were just not going to happen on their timeline, so I had my work cut out for me. It was a great organization, but it was going to be an uphill battle to make them see they couldn’t order up country music stars for their cause just because their organization had to do with music and was located in Nashville.
This was exactly the kind of problem that typically exhilarated me. I loved figuring out these puzzles, and sometimes I was even able to enjoy the clients who had these absurd demands because it forced me to figure out alternatives and thi
nk creatively. It appealed to my Miss Fix It personality. This week, it felt nothing but draining and frustrating.
I also got an email from my friend back at FixEvents in New York. She pressed me to respond to Brenda’s offer, and I remembered it was on a long list of emails to deal with—I’d been so unproductive in my fog of emotion that week that I’d be working from home that weekend, no doubt.
I gathered up the large pile of to do list post-its accumulated over the last week or so and shoved them and my laptop in my bag. I shut my office door at five o’clock exactly and made for my car, trying to remember that being face to face with Luke would give us the chance to figure things out, get our heads together, and… fix things.
It’d be good.
Right?
I heard my doorbell ring right on time, and my entire body reacted. My mouth felt dry, my eyes felt wet, my skin felt tight, my heart raced, I had to pee, my palms were sweaty, and honestly, I wanted to puke—I was a mess.
What if he took one look at me and could tell I was hopelessly and completely in love with him, that I was pathetic enough to be ready to give up my life for him—or at least, to talk about what it might be like.
What if he was repelled by my desperation?
Or, what if I’d burned the bridge? I didn’t want to believe my mistake could do that, but he felt so far away. It’d been two weeks since I spent the night at his house, but it truly felt like it had been at least a month.
What if, as the sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach had been telling me for the past six days, he was done with me?
I tried to loosen up by shoulders and steady my breathing as I opened the door.
And of course.
Of course he was standing there, stunning in jeans and a dark green button-up shirt, holding a small bouquet of mums. He’d styled his hair just a bit since it was slightly longer on top lately, and his face was freshly shaved and smooth. He stood tall and straight and muscular, and even with a serious look on his face, the corners of his mouth turned up into the suggestion of a smile.
