Page 50 of Never Been Matched
“She tried,” I say finally. “The single women she set me up with inevitably found their perfect match immediately after we went on our date.”
She chuckles. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I think she was just using me to make the real match jealous.” Actually, I’m sure of it. “First, there was Eliza Draper. She was only here for the summer. Beverly sat me next to her during a showing of The Philadelphia Story. Now she’s back in Minnesota, with Pete, who used to own the sandwich shop down on the corner.” I wave a hand in the general direction.
“Oh, yeah, the grinder shop. I remember. They had good Italian subs.” She sets her fork down.
I shift my empty plate to the side. “They did. I’m still pissed he closed the shop and moved away. Then there was Betsy Collins. I’ve known her since we were six, and I knew it wouldn’t go anywhere, because she’s more like a sister than anything else. But Beverly insisted, so we go for coffee one day. Now she’s married and their son turned one last month.”
Her brows lift. “Beverly was truly a mastermind. I hope they at least broke it to you easy.”
I lean back in my seat. “Oh yeah. The breakups were extremely mutual. Much easier than my last long-term relationship. She ended our three-year relationship via text.”
“Ouch.”
“Don’t worry, she also cc’d the message to my personal email, professional email, and sent it through the contact page on the website.”
“What did you do, cheat on her with her best friend? Leave her at the altar?”
“Nothing so dramatic. She wanted to stay in Boston. I had to be here for my parents. I couldn’t move back. It was nonnegotiable. We thought we could do long distance, but it just didn’t work out. She said I was too difficult to reach.”
Her head tilts. “Hence the messaging overkill?”
“She thought I still wouldn’t see it or respond for a while.” I rub my chin. “To be fair, I was going through it with my parents, and I tend to close off instead of reaching out. I should have been more open with her. We stayed together for about nine months after I moved back, doing the long-distance thing. But it was hard to manage a relationship while helping my parents. Mom was sick. Dad was exhausted. I helped them and helped my dad run the business. I didn’t have bandwidth for anything else. Then Mom died. Patricia broke up with me a few months after that.”
Her mouth pops open. “Right after your mother died?”
I nod. “I’m making it sound worse than it was. I don’t blame her. I was a terrible communicator, and she couldn’t move here. There were zero opportunities for her in Surrender.” She never would have been satisfied doing the type of work I’ve been doing. She loved the hustle and high stakes.
“What did she do?”
“We both worked for a corporate estate firm. It was so different from what I do now. I used to negotiate contracts worth more than this whole town. She wanted to be a partner. We both did, once upon a time, but my goals shifted when I moved here.”
“You like working here better than at a big fancy firm in Boston?”
“Actually, I do. It feels like it matters more. People need me.”
“What about you? What do you need?”
I blow out a breath. “I’m not sure anymore. After my parents and then the breakup, any time someone else needed something, I just found myself stepping in. I was already used to being busy, working sixty-plus hours a week. It was like if I ever stopped to do something just for myself, I might fall apart. Being useful kept me glued together. I couldn’t fall apart if people relied on me.”
She sets her fork down on her empty plate. “I get that. I’ve had my own struggles trying to . . . I don’t know, stop letting other people dictate the terms of my life. Figuring out where agency starts and obligation ends. But you are worthy, whether you do all these things for other people or you don’t.”
I stare at her, struck by her words.
What happened to keeping this conversation light? How did we get here?
She’s right though. She has the same struggle, but in an entirely different context. You can’t build your life while disappearing, like she did, or by carrying everyone else’s problems, like I do. She went into isolation, I went into busy-do-everything mode.
But she’s reclaiming her life, fixing the theater, putting herself out there, and taking a chance by going through all of Beverly’s final wishes.
What am I doing? How can I choose myself, even if it disappoints others? I shake the thoughts away.
“Okay.” I point at her. I need to steer the topic off myself. “Your turn to share a relationship horror story.”
Her brows shoot up. “My turn?”
“Oh.” Realization smacks me upside the head. This is different for her, being in the limelight all the time. “I’m sorry.” Warmth fills my face. “You don’t have to tell me anything, I wasn’t thinking?—”
