“No,” she whispers. I notice there are tears in her eyes but as much as I want to, this time I can’t be the one to dry them.
I shake my head. “Damn love.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything would be easier if I hadn’t fallen in love with you. Now I’m getting why all the tragic songs are about how love hurts.”
“Don’t say that, Paul. Love should be beautiful.”
I’m so tense my jaw locks. I’m getting frustrated and mad, which makes me feel stubborn. “It’s not so beautiful right now, is it?”
She casts her gaze downward. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Look, let’s just think about things . . . take some time, okay?”
Her whole face is drawn and her expression forlorn. “And then what?”
“We can agree right here that if one of us has a change of heart about the bigger picture we’ll let the other know.”
I sound more positive than I feel. I’m getting dizzy the longer I sit here and let the magic we had last night be swept aside by today’s new reality.
She lets out a ragged sigh. “It’s not going to happen, Paul. You’re not going to suddenly decide that I’m worth letting go of your big dreams of a together wife who wants a big family.”
“It doesn’t have to be a big family. And I’m not looking for, what did you say once . . . a complacent wifey. I want you but you have to be more than a bestie with benefits. I need a lot more than that.”
She wipes off her tears with her robe sleeve but I can see from her wary look that she isn’t buying it. “I understand that you need more,” she whispers.
“I do,” I say.
“I wish I had it to give. I feel hopeless about that kind of love. And even if I could be that intimate it doesn’t change the facts. This seems to be my history and my destiny. I’ve never gotten what I wanted or needed in a relationship, and it may be because I don’t deserve it. Maybe this is just how it’s going to be for me.”
Why can’t she believe in me and that things could be different with us?
I think what hurts the most is knowing that she actually believes what she just said. Sometimes you have to fight for what you deserve, but what can I do if she doesn’t think she deserves to be loved for who she is? How can I get her to see in herself what I do?
I walk over to her and pull her into my arms. Holding her tight, I kiss the top of her head as I silently hope that she’ll come to believe that she can be loved completely—not in fragments that if pieced together would complete the puzzle that is Elle. She is more, and I’m willing to wait some time for her to realize that we’re worth fighting for. I don’t want to settle for a lesser version of who she can be.
I know in life you have to take a stand for what your true beliefs are, but when I walk out of this house my heart will be blown apart by not holding onto her.
“I’ve got to go,” I whisper.
She nods and steps back, staring at the ground. She doesn’t even look up at me when I move away, and turn to leave. I glance back one last time before I pass through the bedroom door. I see tears and I see her arms wrapped tightly across her chest like she’s holding herself together, but I don’t see my Elle that I held last night. And I know as I walk out that door and get in my car that I never may again.
I’m about two days into this “let’s think about things” break/break-up when I start to wonder if it was all some kind of bullshit drama that people in love do just to keep each other on their toes.
I can’t sleep and I can barely eat, but hot damn, I sure as hell am holding onto my pride like a big man, waiting for my little woman to come to her senses. It’s all starting to feel surreal and ridiculous. I start questioning everything . . . like maybe I’m okay not having a bunch of kids and instead settling for a semi-girlfriend who loves sex as much as I do.
But then I see one of those commercials where the goofy dad is trying to change the baby’s diaper while the mother is trying to wrangle the other kids into the bath, and the dog is barking . . . that family chaos thing that commercials make look better than it ever is in real life.
In the final shot the family is all cuddled together on their couch appearing content, and he and his wife give each other this look. It feels intimate and full of the kind of love I imagine I’d feel with my wife, the mother of my children.
I know my logic of an insurance company commercial affecting my life choices may be misguided but I can’t help it. That final image of the dad surrounded by his children and adoring wife reminds me I’m never going to stop wanting that kind of life.
Wednesday I call my parent’s place to tell them I won’t be over Thursday night. Ma picks up.
“Why aren’t coming for dinner, Paulie? I was going to try Elle’s lasagna recipe you went on about. I was hoping you’d bring her.”
“Well Elle’s kind of the reason.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
This is harder than I thought. I swallow back my frustration. “It’s just that I’m not seeing Elle for a while.”
“Why in the world not? You two are such close friends. You know how much we love her.”
I feel awkward. There’s no easy way to break this to Ma.
“Yeah, about that close friends thing . . . Remember that we were going to her friend’s wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Well it was one of those nights, and one thing led to another . . .”
“Oh my. Frankly I’m not surprised. So how does a couple go from that to not seeing each other anymore?”
“I don’t know, Ma. I’m still kind of baffled myself over it.”
“You were attentive, yes? You better say yes, or I’ll smack you.”
“Of course I was. It wasn’t being intimate—it all went to hell when I told her I was in love with her.”
“What do you mean? That doesn’t make any sense. That should’ve made everything even better.”
“I know. I’m still trying to figure it out. She says it’s not that she doesn’t care about me, she does . . . but she doesn’t think she’s meant to be in a relationship.”
Ma is eerily quiet.
“You still there?”
“I’m here. So that’s what she said?”
“Yes.”
Ma lets out a long sigh. “Poor lass.”
“You feel bad for her?”
“I feel bad for her because she must not value who she is. She was already in a relationship with you . . . a grand one. Anyone could see it. She’s a fool to let that go.”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m so messedup, Ma.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, my boy—very sorry. She isn’t thinking clearly. There must be a way for you two to work this out. Let me pray on it. You should, too.”
Ma thinks prayers cure everything, but at this point what do I have to lose?
“I’ll try, Ma. I promise, I’ll try.”
It’s just past nine o’clock Thursday night when my phone prompts. I’m surprised to see it’s my brother. He must have gotten an earful from the folks about the tragic turn my life has taken.
“Hey, Paul. Ma told us about what happened at dinner tonight. I thought maybe it’d be good for you to get out. Are you free tomorrow night?”
“Would Skye be coming?” I’m not trying to be rude but I can’t take that woman right now.
“No, just us guys.”
I let out a sigh. I’m really not in the mood to go anywhere but it’s a big deal for my brother to put himself out there and offer, so I agree. Besides I’m going nuts after work, during the long empty hours at night.
“Okay. Musso and Frank?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. This notorious restaurant is seeping in Hollywood history and is relatively unchanged over the years. It’s almost a hundred years old, which by L.A. standards pretty much is equivalent to the Ice Age. It’s his favorite place and he insists we go there every year for his birthday instead of getting presents
. I don’t know if it’s the old Hollywood vibe that he likes or what, but the whole place has stopped in time. Far be it from me to crimp his style.
“Seven’s okay?”
“Yeah. See you there.”
Patrick is already in his booth when I arrive. He always asks to be in this section so his favorite waiter, Al—who’s an old, cranky bastard—can wait on us. Apparently they have a special connection that I’ll never figure out. Al always argues with me about what I’m ordering.
“Medium-well,” I answer when he asks how I want my steak.
“Rare. It’s better,” he says as he scribbles in his pad.
Screw you, old man.
We’re halfway through our old-school martinis when it hits me that Patrick ordered a burger.
“Hey, what happened to being vegan?”
He shrugs. “I can’t give up my meat.”
“But what about Skye?”
He starts to turn red as he fidgets with his silverware. “Um, I don’t eat it around her.”
“You dog!” I say with a laugh. “She doesn’t know, does she?”
He shakes his head.
“I tried, I swear I tried,” he insists.
“Hey, I’m not going to give you any shit about it. A man needs his beef, right?”
He nods looking relieved.
“So then what about the rest . . . the meditating and weird clothes?”
“That stuff is all right. I don’t mind the meditating. Actually I kind of like it, but I almost blew it last night when I fell asleep while she was chanting. I don’t think she was amused.”
“But she’s peaceful and all-accepting, right? So I’m sure she was cool with it.”
“Oh, she’s feistier than she looks. I was making fun of the weird art on her vision cards the other day and she got pissed.”
“So what is this then? Is she someone you’re serious about?”
“I don’t know if I’d say serious yet, but she’s pretty great. She’s really sweet to me. Besides, it’s part of my plan to expand my horizons.”
“Like the travel you were telling me about?”
I think about how much Patrick has changed lately and realize it’s good to focus on someone else’s relationship for a change.
“Exactly.”
“Well that’s cool I guess. How about the sex? Is that expanding your horizons too?”
His face turns a brighter shade of red. “Have you ever heard of Tantric sex?” he asks.
“No.”
“Look it up.” He leans forward with an intense expression and lowers his voice. “It will change your life.”
My eyes grow wide. Whoa, Paddy’s got it going on. Good for him. No wonder he’s putting up with the incense and rope belts. I lift my martini glass in a toast.
“Here’s for expanding your horizons.”
Grinning, he lifts his glass to join me. “Here, here.”
Grumpy Al brings out our food and we dig in. I’m almost done with my steak when Patrick brings up my situation.
“So can you tell me about what happened with you and Elle? Ma said something about her telling you she didn’t want to be in a relationship.”
“Yeah, she told me that the first ten minutes after we met, but I kind of forgot that small detail the closer we got.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know, but I better figure something out because I’m missing her so much that it’s making me crazy.”
Patrick finishes off the final bite of his burger, pushes his plate back, then taps his fingers on the table. He squints like he’s deep in thought before looking back up at me.
“I’m going to tell you something, and I’m going to get in trouble for telling you, but I think it’s worth the risk.”
“Is it about Elle?”
He nods. “She called me today to ask about you. I didn’t tell her we were meeting and I agreed not to tell you this, but this is the second woman in a week I’ve lied to so whatever . . . I’m going to hell.”
My stomach starts flip-flopping and my hands are getting clammy. “Is she okay?” I ask.
“No. To be honest she sounds worse than you. She hasn’t been able to work all week.”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. “Damn.” I realize I feel even lower knowing that she’s bad off, rather than being an asshole and relieved that she’s struggling too. If that isn’t love, then I don’t know what the hell is.
“So what did you say to her?” I ask.
“That she should give you guys a chance.”
“How did she react?”
“She was quiet. And then I reminded her that despite the fact that she told me she was falling in love with you months back, you guys never had the chance to be a romantic couple. Because of circumstances you were always just friends.”
“Wait a minute . . . did you just say that she told you she was falling in love with me months ago?”
He nods and gives me a sheepish look. “At the end of that date we had.”
“Why didn’t you say anything? I thought you were talking about the Viking when you talked about her being interested in someone else.”
“I promised her. I swore I wouldn’t say anything.”
I press my hand over my forehead and moan. “I can’t believe it . . . I had no idea. I mean, I knew she wanted to sleep with me, but never anything more than that. Oh man, what a mess.”
“Messes can be cleaned up, you know.”
“So how did you end the conversation?”
“Well she told me she was scared to fail again. I told her that sometimes the only way to deal with an issue is to face your fears head-on. Why not do the work so you can be the best version of yourself?”
“Whoa, Patrick, where did you pick up all this stuff?”
“It’s from a book I read last year about conquering your fears. It inspired me. That’s the reason I’m doing stuff like planning trips, and dating someone like Skye. I’m done with being worried of what people think of me, that I’m not good enough for the things I want.”
My mouth drops open. I knew my brother wasn’t a stud, but I had no idea he used to have that much self-doubt. I’m impressed with this new Patrick. “Never sell yourself short, man. You’re the real deal.”
He sits up straight, pulls his shoulders back and gives me a satisfied smile.
“So I told Elle about the book, and she gave me her email so I could gift it to her for her eReader. She promised to read it.”
“I hope she does.”
“I really want you two to figure this out. You’re great together.”
“We are.” The one thing I know for sure is that it always felt so right to be with her.
I study Patrick as we get up to leave. I’m proud of him, and I really appreciate the advice he gave Elle. Now if she only takes it . . .
That night I lie in bed exhausted but amped up. The idea that Elle had loved me from early on, yet kept it a secret is blowing my mind. With each toss and turn in my bed I relive our various adventures through a different perspective.
I still can’t believe that she insisted I take out Melanie, then showed up on my front porch to hear if my high school dreams had finally come true. I try to imagine the heavy feeling in her heart thinking I could be in bed with this woman who had every potential of blowing Elle and my intense connection apart.
Well, that shit didn’t happen. Melanie couldn’t hold a candle to Elle.
No one can.
I keep replaying my conversation with Patrick in my mind, and I can only conclude other that I can’t force the outcome of this situation. Elle needs to figure out if she can handle me.
I think she can. And I know for sure that I want to handle her.
At eight forty-two Sunday night I get a text and I almost drop my cell phone when I see who it’s from. I press on her name so hard that I’m surprised I don’t shatter the screen. There’s no message, only a picture, and when I open it it’s a photo of the Br
ooklyn Bridge. The memory of Elle lying in my arms while we talked about my bridge photographs, and her gesture of sending this, gives me hope.
I wonder if she knows me well enough now to guess that I love the Brooklyn Bridge. I met up with a college friend in Brooklyn a few years ago. We had pizza at Grimaldi’s and then we walked across the bridge toward the Big Apple—the massive expansiveness of it made me feel like a giddy Munchkin headed to the Emerald City. It was one of those experiences you never forget. I don’t think the world had ever felt as big as it did that day.
I spread the image open larger on my screen and study it, trying to figure out if there is significance to why she sent this particular bridge. Does she know it’s grand but under repairs? I’m clueless and it puts me at a loss with what to say. Finally, I realize she’s probably nervous waiting to see if I’ll respond so I reply.
Nice bridge
She texts back immediately. This bridge looks strong and solid and it made me think of you.
I laugh out loud. That’s not a good sign. Maybe she doesn’t know about the flaws.
It’s impressive but it’s under repair for cracks and holes. Being strong and solid doesn’t mean it doesn’t need work. I’m a good example of that.
But I thought you and the Brooklyn Bridge were perfect.
Nope, not even close. How about we pick a shorter bridge so we can get from one end to the other faster?
Shorter?
I do a Google search and bring up an image of a famous bridge in Venice, Italy. I send it to her.
The Rialto Bridge in Venice . . . it’s stone and has survived for centuries. Plus its shops are enclosed so we can take cover, even in a storm.
That’s a really good one, she replies.
I picture her sitting in her house, biting her lip as she taps her screen and it’s a sharp reminder of how much I miss her.
I take a big breath as my fingers glide over the screen’s keyboard.
I liked being your bridge, you know. I miss you, Elle.
I miss you too.
A minute later a picture pops up that she labels, The Bridge of Sighs. I look it up and see it’s actually the Hertford Bridge that links two buildings at Oxford University but is nicknamed after another famous bridge in Italy.
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