We sit down. And we talk. She tells me, “I wish you could have tried harder, Carl.” and I say, “I know that. I know that now.”
She says, “I’m sorry I didn’t break up with you in person. I couldn’t.” She pauses. “Actually, I’m sorry I broke up with you without giving you a chance to explain.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to give you the explanation you deserved,” I admit.
“Which is?”
“That you were right. About everything. That I was being selfish and unfair.” The three-month-old speech poured out of me. “And not just to Blake. I was selfish and unfair to you, especially, and I’m sorry you had to go through that for seven years. I’m sorry I took advantage of how patient you were with me. I’m sorry I took you for granted. I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary. I’m sorry I stood you up because I was too busy trying to sabotage someone’s wedding. And I’m really, really sorry I never listened to you. I’d like to make it up to you, if you’d let me. You know, as a friend.”
She blinks. “Wow.”
I laugh. “Yeah. Wow.”
“You’ll make it up to me? Really?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good.”
“Except... how do I do that?”
She looks at me for a long time. I’m worried I asked the wrong question, but it is possible that she is amused at my complete lack of certainty, which gives her complete control. I realize I have no idea what she’s going to say—maybe she’s going to tell me to quit this wedding-photography-apprenticeship-whatever nonsense and get a “real” job, or stop making beer night with the boys a top priority. Maybe she’s going to tell me to cut my hair, or make an effort to dress nicely when we go out again. IF we go out again. Maybe she’s going to tell me to grow up and get a life.
She smiles. “You can start by getting up and dancing with me.”
THIS CLOSURE
1
Seven months and five days after we broke up, I thought I saw you coming out of a store, one hand full of your shopping bags bursting with brand-new clothes, the other on your brand-new boyfriend’s arm. He looked vaguely familiar, like I knew him from somewhere, but it was you I couldn’t tear my eyes from. Your hair was lighter, wavier, and I couldn’t decide whether or not I liked it. The way you dressed was different—you looked less laid-back and more like you cared—and I didn’t know if it was a good different or a bad different. The way you laughed had also changed: you closed your eyes and tilted your head back, and it was like your whole body was laughing. I wasn’t sure if it made you look better, but I knew it made you look happier.
Over lunch at the cramped office pantry the following day, I tell my friend Irene, trying to sound like this sort of thing happened to me all the time, “I saw my ex with her new boyfriend.”
“She’s not your ex, Lucas,” she reminds me. And she’s right—technically, you’re not my ex. I met you formally at a party eleven months and twenty-five days ago, although I had always known who you were because everyone just knows who you are (we went to the same college, and you starred in a big TV commercial at the start of senior year). You asked me if I wanted a drink, and I said sure, and you shoved your almost-full bottle of beer into my hands. It was lukewarm, and I wasn’t even sure that it was clean, but I took a swig anyway. I had to gulp the whole thing down before I could say, “I’m Lucas.” You smiled and said, “Nice to meet you. I’m Bettina,” and I almost replied, “I know.” I ended up getting you a drink (you asked for a Lychee Martini but picked out the lychee bits and left them on a soggy napkin on the counter), and we ended up talking until your friend dragged you out the door at four AM. Of course, that night, and for many nights afterwards, I was pretty much convinced we were meant to be together.
“And I bet the new boyfriend looks exactly like all the other boyfriends,” Irene continues. “Tall, rugged, muscular, looks like he could beat the crap out of your scrawny ass?”
“Very funny,” I say. But again, she’s right—you do seem to have a template for the guys you go for. The night I met you, you had just broken up with a champion swimmer; the following week, you were dating your trainer at the gym. A month after that, you were sitting courtside at a professional basketball game, clapping and cheering and fulfilling your girlfriend duties to the MVP. For months, I watched you flit from one jock to the next, but none of them turned out to be strong enough to hold you down. For months, I watched, but I never said anything about it. I couldn’t—I wasn’t sure I had the right to. I didn’t even know if you’d listen to me. I was just some guy you met at a party, some guy you can call at two AM when you’re tipsy and miserable, some guy who can pick you up when it’s raining and you need a ride home, some guy you can fall asleep next to on the couch and wake up the next day without any remorse whatsoever.
Irene shakes her head. “Does this girl have any idea how much you like her?”
“Liked,” I correct her, as if the lack of the letter D were the real issue and not the use of like instead of the more accurate love. Nonetheless, I emphasize the D because I want to properly divide my life into the past, the present, and the future, and I’m trying so hard to categorize you as part of my past. I don’t want you to be the shadow always hanging over my head, haunting me every time I attempt to move on. I don’t want to hope and mope and whine and pine. I don’t want my mother to keep worrying about me, asking unnecessary questions like, Are you awake? Are you sad? I don’t want to have to keep answering her with the same accommodating optimism one would extend to a repetitive child: I’m trying to sleep, but come in, or, I’m fine, Mom. I can manage. I don’t want to be hurt, because I am, still, and the fact that you didn’t do it on purpose doesn’t cancel it out. I don’t want to be in love with you anymore. Because I can deal with you being the one that got away—at least that was your choice, your responsibility. But I won’t allow you to be the one who never left my mind because I never tried to forget.
Irene asks if I’m over you, and I say, “It was a long time ago.”
2
Of course, seven months isn’t a long time, but considering how you’ve only been a part of my life for less than a year, it should be. They say the amount of time it takes to get over someone should be one-third of the time you were together (or in our case, “together”), which means seven months and five days exceeds the allotted moving on period. It seemed everything unraveled at such a swift pace for the two of us; it makes no sense that I’m picking up the pieces in slow motion.
If we were starring in a romantic movie, this is how it would work: We come into each other’s lives via a serendipitous meet-cute. You are heartbroken, I am smitten. You try to get over your ex by dating around as I remain a constant, loyal presence in your life. One day, you snap out of it—you’ve had enough of jerks. You’re ready to be treated the way you should be. And then you realize, through a series of flashbacks of the happy times we’ve spent together, that I’ve been here all along, that the circumstances seem to have shoved us together, that you cannot fight fate anymore. You realize that you too are in love with me. Meanwhile, I lose hope that you will ever feel the same way and spontaneously decide to escape by accepting a job offer in the States. You drive to the airport to stop me. You run through traffic. You dodge security personnel. And just when I’m about to board my flight, you call my name, and you tell me everything I’ve been wanting to hear. (Or you burst into the waiting area too late, then turn around to see me holding my suitcase, having chosen at the last minute to stay.) We kiss, and everything spins into a blur. At that moment, we are the only two people in the world.
That’s not how it worked for us. I had always been smitten, even before the meet-cute, even before you were heartbroken. You dated around while I remained a constant, loyal presence. But you didn’t snap out of it. You didn’t realize we belonged together. You didn’t feel the same way.
This is what happened: The night we met, as you picked out the lychee bits from your Martini, you told me
about breaking up with Swimming Champ, your boyfriend since high school (I don’t remember his name; maybe I just didn’t pay enough attention), and how one day, he hinted at getting married in a couple of years and you found yourself panicking: What if he wasn’t The One? What if he wasn’t even The One Before The One? You ended up avoiding his calls, leaving his text messages unanswered, refusing to acknowledge his side of the equation, until he finally gave up on you and flew off to Switzerland, for good. You were hurt; why didn’t he fight for you? You showed me the folder of couple photos on your phone and asked me to erase it because you couldn’t bring yourself to. You looked away and I pressed delete. I’m not sure why you confided in me—I’d like to think something in me made you trust me right away, but it could have been because I was a stranger with no pre-conceived notions of you and Swimming Champ, or simply because I was right there beside you and it was convenient. Maybe you found me charming and interesting, or maybe you were just lonely, but as your friend dragged you out the door, you asked for my phone, keyed in your number, and said, “Call me, okay.” It didn’t sound like a request.
The next day, I got up at eight, left my phone on my bed, and went jogging around my village. I didn’t want to call so early and wake you, but more to the point, I didn’t want to seem too eager. I ran around for two hours, trying to come up with a good opening line. Hey, Bettina was too generic, Good morning was too formal, and What’s up just sounded wrong because I was the one calling you. I was prepared for you to say Lucas who? and decided I wouldn’t take this memory lapse against you. I was also prepared for you to call me a stalker and deny ever giving me your number. What I wasn’t prepared for was you answering the phone after one ring and barking, “So are we having lunch or not?”
My carefully planned opening line went out the window. I stammered, “Uh, hi Bettina, I’m, uh, yeah, hi, this is Lucas. From last night?”
“I know,” you said impatiently.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Who else would it be?” I could almost see you rolling your eyes and tapping your foot, one hand on your hip.
I didn’t have an answer for that. So I said, “Yes, we’re having lunch.”
“Good,” you said. “Pick me up in fifteen minutes.” I looked down at my soaked grey t-shirt and ratty basketball shorts and wanted to ask for an extension, but instead I said, “I don’t know where your house is.” That was a lie. Of course I knew where you lived—I drove past it every day on the way to work (it’s actually part of the route, okay), and I knew it was your house because you usually had breakfast on the porch, sipping a cup of coffee lazily, your bare legs stretched out in front of you.
“I’ll text you the address,” you told me.
“Great,” I said. Then, because I was worried you’d think I wasn’t taking any sort of initiative: “I can’t wait to see you again.” But you had already put down the phone.
So we had lunch, and saw a movie, and hung out at a small coffee shop beside the Korean grocery my officemate’s family owned. “I like it here,” you told me. “It’s so peaceful.” We were sitting side by side, and the day’s events were so surprising, the night so calm and lovely, and the place so quiet like it was keeping our secrets for us, that I felt compelled to take your hand. You let me.
The ride home seemed to take forever (I had run out of things to say, and the lack of conversation fell short of comfortable), and at the same time, passed me by in a blur—I didn’t want the night to be over because I wasn’t sure if a brand new day would still bring you with it. When we stopped in front of your house, you looked at me like you were expecting something—expecting, as opposed to simply waiting. So I leaned over and did what I figured you wanted me to do, hoping I was right, and then, as you were kissing me back, hoping it was enough to keep you.
And it was, at least for four months and twenty days. Of course, my definition of “keep” was just having you as a welcome addition to my otherwise ordinary life, not having you as my girlfriend or even officially going out with you. You dated all these other guys, but nothing ever lasted long, and it was easy for me to harbor the hope that all these casual flings would eventually lead you to the serious, steady deal: me. For four months and twenty days, I guess we were friends, technically, and we had impromptu breakfasts and late-night sitcom marathons and weekend road trips to Tagaytay, just the two of us. Of course, there were also times when we would have coffee so you could dissect whether or not this or that guy was interested in you, and times when you would ask me to go shopping with you for a date outfit, a date which did not include me. Every time we walked back to my car after dinner or a movie, you liked linking your arm through mine, and occasionally, you would look up at me and say, “Are you sure you’re not falling in love with me, Lucas? Tell me the truth.”
And I would always reply, “Are you sure you want the truth?” You would fall silent and clutch my arm tighter; you never gave me an answer.
But one night, seven months and six days ago, you asked me to tell you the truth, and I did. The truth was this: I couldn’t stop thinking about you and that kiss we shared once and never spoke of again. Every moment was a moment further from the one where I leaned towards you and you pulled me in close. Every thought of you brought back that moment, our moment—the feel of your lips brushing against mine for the first time, for the last time. The truth was, at that moment, we were caught in the same place, breathing in the same air, which was why I couldn’t understand how it meant the world to me while it meant nothing to you at all.
You looked at me for a long time before you finally said, “I’m sorry I even asked. I just wanted to make sure you were okay with this.”
“With what?”
“I don’t know. This.”
You untangled your arm from mine and told me, “I’m sorry it meant something to you.” I said, “I’m sorry it meant something to me, too.”
That was the last time we saw each other.
3
Right after Irene asks if I’m over you, and I say, “It was a long time ago,” my phone starts ringing. I deleted your name from my phone book, but I had your number memorized whether I liked it or not, and I looked at Irene like I was checking if this was her idea of a joke.
“What?” she says, genuinely as confused as I am. “Answer it.”
I do. I hear your voice on the other end of the line, “Hi, Lucas. It’s Bettina.”
I give myself away by saying, “I know.” But maybe I don’t really care.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Who else would it be?”
You laugh; so you still remember our first phone conversation. I have to remind myself that this doesn’t give me license to conjure various possibilities in my head. Not now. Not anymore.
“We’re having lunch,” you tell me. “Can you meet me now?”
“I just had lunch,” I say.
“Coffee, then. At that café beside the Korean grocery. That’s not too far from your office.”
A pause. Am I really doing this? Do I want to do this? And more importantly, why? “Okay,” I say. “I’ll see you in fifteen.”
I hang up and start putting away my sandwich wrapper and the oatmeal cookie I was saving for dessert. “Cover for me first?” I ask Irene.
She nods. “Good luck.”
There is a certain amount of preparation that should go into meeting up with an ex, and it occurs to me that I should be pissed that I do not have the privilege of time right now. If I had known this was going to happen, I would have gotten a haircut, or worn a nicer shirt, or at least shaved. I would have been confident, I would have walked in with a swagger, I would have felt so good about myself that it didn’t matter how I felt about you.
You are waiting for me by the door, a huge smile on your face. You throw your arms around me, and one whiff of your hair and the feel of your cheek pressed against mine bring everything back: that bottle of beer you shoved into my hands, the sound of your voice wh
en it’s two AM and you’ve had too much to drink, the warmth of your fingers intertwined with mine, that first and only kiss. You pull away and lead me to a table for two by the window. As you sit down, I think, You are always finding ways to get my hopes up.
I say, “It’s been a while.”
“I’ve been busy,” you explain. I hate how you think this was your decision, how you don’t even consider the fact that maybe I’ve been busy, too.
“How are you?” you ask. You look great, like you’re happy and satisfied and excited about something, and I want to give you a rundown of how things have more or less worked out okay for me—how I am doing well at my job, taking my Masters, thinking of putting up a food business, trying to go running at least twice a month, spending time with my family on weekends, and catching up with old friends one at a time when we do clear up our schedules. How I am, despite your absence, not entirely miserable. But I don’t want you to think that I am just doing this to prove a point, so I reply with the standard, “I’m good, thanks. How are you?”
“I’m great,” you tell me. “Except for one thing, which I finally have the courage to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
You tuck your hair behind one ear nervously, take a deep breath, and say, “I made a mistake. With an ex. I took him for granted, and I let something very special go. I want him back. I need him back.” Your eyes plead with me, and your voice is laced with something that sounds like regret.
I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you. I waited for you for months, and now that you are here, pouring your heart out to me, I don’t know what to tell you. There could be too much damage between us, and it could be too late. And this is what I want to know: I was there for you, always, for every single minute of every single day of those four months. And at the end of it all, the only thing you could tell me was, “I’m sorry it meant something to you.” Why couldn’t you have wanted and needed me then? Why couldn’t you have wanted and needed me, period, instead of wanting and needing me back now, when I am already more than willing to move on?
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