The Break(81)

“You mean you want to take time off from us?” he asks, like it physically pains him to say the words.

“Yes. From us,” I say. “I could be making a huge mistake.” My uncertainty seems to soften him a little—for a second his face goes blank, and I start to feel like maybe he’ll be able to take this well, to absorb it calmly and rationally, just like I’ve seen him deal with so many things at work. But I’m wrong. His eyes go red and misty. He’s blinking his dark lashes like he can’t believe what I’m doing, that I’m ruining this very good thing that he wanted to take even further. I remember the first time he mentioned marriage, and how hopeful he looked when he asked me if I believed in it, and how he said he did, even though his parents ruined it for each other. That afternoon I made a point of not encouraging the marriage conversation, and instead I steered the conversation to our flawed sets of parents, which was territory we’d already trod.

“Are you serious, June?” Harrison asks now, his mouth not opening all the way, like it’s not cooperating, like he wants to keep the words all to himself. He looks like he’s going to cry, but no tears come.

“I know it’s out of left field,” I say, tapping my foot hard against the library’s stone stairs, morbidly unsettled, wanting to do this right. “But I know I’m not ready for some big commitment, and I know you are, and I think you deserve someone closer to your age. I mean, oh crap, that’s not actually what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean, June?” he asks. He just looks so sad, and I feel awful; I should have done this weeks ago when I realized where his head was.

“June,” he says, and it reminds me of the way my mom used to say my name sometimes, like the very sound of it hurt her brain. It throws me. I take a second, quiet and waiting, and then Harrison says, “I’m just so confused. I thought, it seemed like you liked what was going on, this thing we were doing, and . . .”

“I did—I do. But you deserve someone more on your page, someone where you are, someone . . .”

“Someone not like you?” he asks. There’s a flush at his hairline, the wind tunnel of New York air mussing up his curls.

“I guess not, I guess,” I start, and I try to keep going, but then he’s standing up.

“I need to go, June, I’m so sorry,” he says.

I stand on shaking legs. “Harrison,” I start, “please stay another minute?”

“I can’t,” he says. “Not right now. I’ll get there, I just . . . I really, really like you,” he says, unable to even look at me. “And I respect that you’re breaking things off. But I don’t get it, and I can’t just sit here and act like it’s okay and that I’m okay. It’s going to take me some time, I . . . I’m sorry, I . . . I should go.” He turns and looks into the crowd gathered in front of the library taking pictures. Tourists. “I have to get back to the office,” he says to no one. He’s still not looking at me. He smooths a hand over his long coat, his face becoming neutral again, preparing himself to go back to WTA, the place where we were an us just hours ago. “This is gonna be bad,” he says softly. And then he turns to me. “I need you to give me space at work. I don’t want to let on to our colleagues how serious I thought we were, and how now it’s just done. Can we just try to slowly separate, I really, it’s kind of . . . well, frankly, it’s embarrassing.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised. I don’t get where he’s coming from on that. We were office gossip at first, but mostly everyone’s moved on. Harrison even stopped coming by my cubicle as much as when we started dating, which thrilled Kai. I have you all to myself, finally, she’d said.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “I don’t think you have anything to be embarrassed about,” I add, because I can’t quite understand the look on his face. He looks practically shameful.



“Ah, you wouldn’t,” he says, and I can see the effort it takes to keep his voice respectful like always. “You’re young. People your age break up and make up all the time. At my age, it’s kind of a bigger deal. At least, it is for me. And before I embarrass myself any more, June, I think I’m going to go.” He tries to smile at me. “It was so good while it lasted,” he says, but it comes off like he’s delivering a tagline he doesn’t really mean, like he’s in a meeting with producers trying to package a creative project he doesn’t actually believe in.

“It was,” I say, no idea where to go from here, knowing it’s done, and knowing deep in my bones that we aren’t going to be able to stay friends. It’ll be stilted at work; familiarity gone, conversations brisk, a cold rock in my hand. It’ll be like Louisa warned me.

“Goodbye, June,” he says, and then he walks toward work. And I just sit there, wondering how much worse this day can possibly get. My phone buzzes with a text from Kai:

Did you end it? Finally? Let me take you out tonight. You name the place.





FORTY-SEVEN


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


That night Kai and I are tucked inside a bar in the West Village right by Gabe and Rowan’s apartment. I’ve had too much to drink, and I’m not a big drinker so I don’t have practice at handling it well. The bartender is young, with curly auburn hair, and for the first time in months I think romantically about someone else. I imagine what it might be like to go out with a guy my own age, how much easier it might be.