The Break(80)

FORTY-SIX


June. Three days ago. Tuesday, November 8th.


An hour after I see Rowan (and thirty minutes after I finally convince Sean I’m fine on my own) I’m sitting on the stone steps of the New York Public Library waiting for Harrison. The sculpted lions, Patience and Fortitude, tower above me, their stoic grandeur frozen in time. I know what I need to do today, and maybe my timing’s off, and maybe it’s the wrong day for it. But I’m already a wreck, so why not?

I scan New Yorkers wrapped in scarves and holding coffees, on their phones, listening to music, talking to each other. I don’t see Harrison yet. There’s a hot dog stand on the corner, but I still don’t think I can stomach anything, and anyway I have my muffin from Rowan tucked in a crinkled paper bag. I’m trying to put her from my mind, to focus on this conversation I need to have with Harrison, but it’s hard: Rowan’s blue eyes feel like they’re still pleading with me to understand and forgive her. But there’s never been anything to forgive.

I take out my phone and turn the camera on myself to use it like a mirror. I try to swipe away the mascara beneath my eyes. Harrison has never seen me like this, not once since we’ve started dating, and I don’t really know what he’s going to say when he gets here and sees me smeared with mascara and snot. I still call it dating because that’s mostly what we do: we go out. We sleep together but mostly we go on dates and flirt and talk about life and about the industry. He knows almost everything about me, and in some ways, it’s one of the most refreshing relationships I’ve ever had. In other ways, I know I need to end it, because he likes me more than I like him, and that suddenly feels unfair. He’s looking for a wife, and I’m not her. I have a feeling he thinks if we take it slow enough that I’ll come around, that I’ll fall deeply and realize I’m ready to make a commitment. But when I think about any of that I just feel stifled. Yesterday I shot out of WTA like a cannonball after I told Louisa I needed time off, and Harrison was pissed that he heard about that through Louisa and not me. And then he was rude, and we got into an argument, and he seemed to feel the need to apologize profusely, even though it wasn’t that bad. I purposely left my cell at home so I could just go out and not feel bad screening his calls, and then he got worried when he couldn’t reach me. We worked it out last night when I got back home and called him, and he mostly just seemed relieved I was fine.

I take off my earmuffs and throw them in my bag. The winter sun is warming me up anyway. I’m still in the camera fixing my makeup when I hear someone say:

“Selfie mode. Can’t make Instagram wait.”

I look up to see Harrison, his smile wide.

“Hey,” I say, and then he gets a closer look at me.

“June?” he asks, face falling with concern. “What happened?”

“Sit,” I say, patting the steps next to me. He does. I start to cry, and maybe if I was by myself someone would stop to help me, but I’ve got Harrison here rubbing my back just like I like, because he’s actually paid attention during the past few months and knows exactly how to take care of me.

“I saw Rowan,” I say when I can catch my breath.

“And?” he asks gently.



“I’m just so sad for her,” I say. “I’ve never been this sad for anyone, ever.”

“She’s going to remember what happened to Gray,” Harrison says, his voice so sure, just like it is at work when something terrible has happened and he has to calm one of his writers.

“When?” I ask, already too shrill. “When will she remember?”

“Eventually,” he says. His eyes darken; sometimes I think he’s just as worried about Rowan as Gabe is. All any of us want is for her to be okay.

“That’s not good enough,” I say. “And I think Louisa agrees with me,” I add, because I feel like I need her backup. I feel like no one will listen to me, because I’m only twenty-two and to be fair: I’m not a mental health professional. “This is all too strange,” I say. “Pretending like this.”

“Gabe mentioned some therapy for PTSD that Sylvie told him she could try with Rowan,” Harrison says, looking down to the shiny black buttons on his overcoat. “It’s supposed to work. I googled the crap out of it.”

We’ve all become amateur psychologists these past few weeks. I guess Rowan is lucky to have this many people who love her. Gabe’s been keeping her friends updated, but most of them haven’t come. Maybe they’re scared, or maybe they don’t know what to say. Instead it’s just me, Gabe, Rowan, and Elena all the time, and it’s so obvious Elena doesn’t like me. Rowan once told me Gabe’s dad had an affair with the nanny, so Elena considers all young women to be potential disasters.

“Harrison,” I start, scared to do what I’m about to. “I’ve been thinking lately that we should take time off from . . .” I gesture between us, unsure of what to call it because we haven’t exactly labeled ourselves the past few months. “From this,” I finally say.

His eyes widen, and in that quick flash I can see how taken aback he is. My heart pounds because I understand why he’s surprised: everything between us has been so good, and he had no idea I didn’t think it was good enough, and the longer he stares at me the more I start to doubt myself. Am I really going to throw away the first guy who’s truly cared about me in a long time?