“For ending things the way I did. It was . . . I’ve felt bad about that for a long time.”
I’d taken her to Margo’s for dinner. Kelsey hated fanfare and big gestures, so I planned to ask her to marry me in our place—our corner of the world—over chocolate milkshakes, her favorite. I’d practiced everything I would say a hundred times, making sure she knew that our family would have everything we’d both grown up without—affection, security, and consistency. I was certain she would say yes, that she’d stay by my side. The tiny diamond ring was the most expensive item I’d ever purchased, and I’d been saving for a year. But when I reached down to make sure the box was still in my pocket and opened my mouth to say “Let’s splurge on milkshakes,” she spoke instead.
“Wes, I got an offer to work with another app. They have the capital and the investors all lined up, and they want me to lead it. Can you believe it? I’m going to accept the offer.” She arranged her water glass so it touched the top of her knife, eyes not leaving mine. “And I think it’s best if we end things, too.”
Her voice had been so steady, so cool, I was waiting for a punch line. When none came, my hand stilled, fingers around the box. “What? Why?”
“With the two businesses, it would be too complicated, and it’s better if I’m alone. Sometimes it feels like I’m all you have, and that’s too much pressure, Wes. Plus, this is a huge opportunity for me, and I won’t have the time to—”
“We can figure it out, Kels. I don’t understand.” I hated that my voice sounded pleading and small. “We’ve been together for six years. Don’t . . . don’t do this.”
She shook her head. “I can’t be distracted with someone else’s needs. I’m sorry, but you understand, right? It’s not personal . . . it’s just business.”
My voice was deeper than I’d intended when I responded to her apology, the old hurt from earlier slamming into my chest. “It was a long time ago.”
“Have you forgiven me?”
“I don’t think about you anymore, Kels.” Shortly after we broke up, I found out she had started dating some real estate developer. Turned out it wasn’t about being alone; it was about not being with me, and it bugged me that that still stung.
She narrowed her gaze. “You’re lying, but I’d like you to be in my life again. I . . .” She glanced up at the ceiling like she wasn’t sure how to say what she’d come here to. “Can you forgive me?”
I rested my hand over my pocket, remembering the box’s corners cutting into my palm. The memory of the despair and utter disbelief that had raged in me that night felt fresh, but for a moment, her makeup and new hair color fell away, and I saw Kelsey, sitting in our diner, vulnerable. I didn’t want to admit, even to myself, how hearing her words made me feel. To admit how much I wanted them to mean more. Unbidden, my thoughts turned to my client B and what advice she’d give me in this situation. “Yeah, sure.”
15
LIKED BY CAROLYYYYYYN AND 726 OTHERS
A year ago, I thought I had rhythm. I thought I could hold my own on the dance floor. Friends, let me tell you, I had no idea what I was getting into. The women in my hip-hop dance class schooled me. Did I mention I showed up for the 60+ class by accident? They welcomed me anyway, and took pity on me when I messed up the steps, lost the beat, and dropped an f-bomb when I fell on my butt. More than taking pity on me, they cheered me on and invited me to come back. Who is helping you stick to your goals? #SquadGoals #BestLife
* * *
WHEN I FINISHED class, sweat running down every crevice on my body, I collapsed on the bench in the corner of the room. Helen’s new routine had been a tough one. I didn’t expect to have my butt kicked so thoroughly after a year of having taken the class.
Chugging my water, I glanced at the grayed-out mailbox icon—no new messages. Wes hadn’t responded since our exchange about the flowers, and I wondered if asking him where he lived was too personal.
Helen, a petite woman in her seventies, joined me and stretched. Her flexibility was amazing, and she loved to tease me. “You’re getting better.”
I self-consciously started my new stretching routine, trying to remember the video tutorials Wes had encouraged me to emulate. “You think I’m still the weakest link in the class, huh?” I slowed my breath while unsuccessfully swinging my leg up behind me to catch it and stretch my quads.
“Of course, but we’ve all got forty or fifty years on you.”
I watched the woman effortlessly raise her leg. I gave up on my stretch and silently promised Wes I’d do it when I got home.
“You always tell it like it is.”
“No other way to tell it.” She patted my back and finished her stretch. “I’ve got to get ready for my date. Get out of here and go enjoy Valentine’s Day.”
* * *
OUTSIDE, COUPLES HOLDING hands strolled down the sidewalks like it was a lovely May evening and not a frigid February night. They were apparently warmed by their love. Blech. My gym bag slung over my shoulder, I hurried into the cold to catch a bus.
I wondered what Ben was up to. He didn’t like Valentine’s Day, saying it was a Hallmark holiday and people made too big a deal of it. I actually loved the idea of a whole day to celebrate love.
My phone pinged then, and I smiled.
From: FitMiCoachWes1
To: Bmoney34
Sent: February 14, 7:49 p.m.
B,
Just for you, I got fiber-rich, low-sugar, low-fat, low-flavor Mockolate instead.
I’m in Chicago, too. Hi, neighbor! How was your Valentine’s Day? Looks like you got a good workout from what you added on the app.
Wes
From: Bmoney34
To: FitMiCoachWes1
Sent: February 14, 7:51 p.m.
Is Mockolate a real thing? I think I’ve only heard of that from an old episode of Friends.
Good to know you’re close by in case I need to ping you if I break something keeping up with the badass retirees in my hip-hop dance class.
Uneventful V Day, just work and my hot date with these ladies. Jealous?
B
P.S. Your company should get a chat function—would be easier than the email messaging, though you’d get tired of me faster.
After the short ride to my stop, I hustled to my front door to escape the cold and swirling wind. I peeled off my clothes once inside my apartment. Though taking off a sweaty sports bra was the kind of challenge invented by a masochist, I’d earned this state of disgusting. Before I stepped into the hot shower, I glanced at my phone.
From: FitMiCoachWes1
To: Bmoney34
Sent: February 14, 7:53 p.m.
I don’t know if Mockolate is a real thing outside of Friends. Seems like it should be, though. If I find some, I’ll get it for you.
Am I jealous of you bumping and grinding with them? I plead the Fifth.
Good idea on the chat, and I’ll mention it to the tech people. I don’t think I’d ever get sick of messaging you, though. We can use Chat App, if you want. I’m at WesTheBear.
Mockolately yours,
T.S.
Under the stream of hot water, my muscles relaxed. I weighed his suggestion, debating if moving into a messaging conversation was ethical. There was nothing especially unprofessional about it. We’d still be talking about him coaching me. Chatting just seemed more personal. That’s why I’d suggested it—imagining being able to have real-time conversations that felt like conversations versus emailing back and forth. I could keep a conversation on track, and we’d have no reason to veer off into something else. I let the bodywash run into the drain. Unless he kind of likes me . . . I squashed the thought. Chatting was just easier; it wasn’t like we’d be meeting in person, and it might give me good new material for the project.
When I stepped out and pulled on my robe, I typed in his screen name.
Bmoney34: WesTheBear? Are you particularly burly and bearded?
I pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of flannel boxer shorts I’d kept from a boyfriend in college.