Page 59 of What It's Like in Words
He led me outside. Steph gave his arm a squeeze.
And you can fuck off!I shouted.
Just go home, Enola. He went back inside, shaking his head. Steph stubbed out her cigarette and followed him. I stood on the street, watching through the streaky window as they sat back at the bar and picked up their drinks. Then I turned and left before I could see them laughing.
IARRIVED ATRUTH’Swarehouse with mascara on my cheeks. She gave me a T-shirt to sleep in and hid my phone. I asked her over and over again what I had done wrong.
Why doesn’t he want me?
But she kept changing the question: Why do you wanthim? I couldn’t think of anything specific; it was just an overwhelming desire: I wanted him. I needed him. I would die without him.
That’s what love is, isn’t it?
She shook her head and whispered that love should make you happy. I couldn’t remember the last time that we’d been happy, without the threat of unhappiness following like a shadow. I thought about Amy’s wedding; I had spent the day texting him details to show that I was cool and funny and “not like other girls.” The linen napkins. The foliage. The vows. But there had been a moment, watching Amy and David dance to a song with a key change, happy andunselfconscious, when there was nothing to joke about. I wanted to call and tell him that I missed him. He had told me that he was writing, but I knew that he was out with Steph. And so I didn’t call him because I didn’t want to have the confronting conversation where I either chose not to care and bethatwoman or chose to care and be the other. One I hated and the other he did.
I let Ruth comfort me, and I cried until my stomach ached. As I drifted off, the last thing I heard her say as she stroked my back in warm circles was that she loved my hair. I loved it before, but I love it now. You look beautiful, Laa.
In the morning, I hoped that it had all been a dream, but when Ruth gave me back my phone there was a message asking me to breakfast, and I knew that it was over.
THE COFFEE MACHINE WHIRREDbehind the counter, and a group were laughing down the table. He was calm, like someone had advised him how to handle me. He ordered chorizo and eggs, and I ordered avocado on toast that I felt too sick to eat.
Honey, I’m not saying that we should end things, but judging from last night, I’m not giving you what you feel you deserve.
His tone was sweet and his phrases sloped like mountains. He was breaking up with me but trying to make it sound like a compliment. Ruth had asked if there was a part of me that had gone to the bar to confront him. I wondered whether she was right, because this didn’t feel like a surprise.
I’m really sorry, but when I saw Steph—
He told me that Steph had surprised him, and he thought that he could have a quick drink with her before meeting me. Enola, I can’t have a night like that ever again.
Neither can I, I thought.
That wasn’t how I should have handled it, I said.
It’s okay, he replied, like I was admitting full responsibility. He took a bite of his food and a drop of chorizo oil landed on his chin. He didn’t wipe it away but I was too nervous to tell him that it wasthere. I asked if what he wasreallyasking for was a breakup. He said that he just needed space. I have to focus on my book and I don’t want to resent our relationship, honey.
I’m really sorry that I ruined your birthday, I said.
Don’t be.
He still hadn’t said sorry forhisactions. I thought about my own book. If that was the reason for the break, then shouldn’tIbe the one demanding it? Diana asked for my manuscript weeks ago, and I was ruining the best opportunity of my career. And for what? So that he could feel less like a failure? He would never do that for me. I would never ask him to. But then again, he hadn’t asked me to do it. Or had he? His eyes were bloodshot. Maybe he was hungover, but maybe it was more.If only Mum had been more patient with Dad.
I told him to take all the time he needed, and he told me that he appreciated me understanding. He smiled, and my appetite returned.
He asked how my book was going. I lied and said that I should be able to send it off soon. He told me that he was proud of me. Thank you, I said, that means so much. He told me that he liked my hair. I said that the back looked like the back of a chicken, and he laughed. It was the best conversation we had had in weeks. But then he signaled for the bill because he had to meet a friend. Like breaking up with me was just the first task of the day. I wanted to snap:You’re not going to work on your book, then?But I had to wait until I was home to crack; if I handled the breakup perfectly then he might realize it was a mistake.
We stood outside the café on the pavement, half in and half out of our relationship. I thought about that night when he almost told me that he loved me. I had based so many justifications on the fact that he loved me. Yes, he was difficult, yes, he could be mean, but he loved me. The reality, though, was that neither of us had said those words.
Can I ask you something?
He nodded, so, with his permission, I continued: That night in Kenya, when we had that fight in the bar, you started to say something outside the beach house—what was it?
He blew out air. Fuck knows, Enola. Anyway, we could go over and over this and it won’t do us any good. He leaned down to kiss me, but I stepped back and asked what the rules were.
In what sense?
Can I call or text you?
He told me not to overthink things. We make the rules, Enola.
