The Ex by Freida McFadden(2)

Joel took it really hard. He went into our bedroom, lay down on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling without speaking for several hours. I couldn’t get him to eat dinner, even though I made his favorite: spaghetti with homemade marinara sauce and meatballs. It takes me nearly two hours to get that recipe perfect, but it’s Joel’s favorite. How do you get the meatballs to taste so good? (The secret ingredient is buttermilk—a tip from my Italian grandma. I never told him that though.)

I woke up at two in the morning that night, and he wasn’t in bed or even in our apartment. When I frantically called him on his cell, he said he was “taking a walk.” He didn’t return until sunrise—I know because I sat up waiting. It took days for him to start acting normally again. And it was clearly still in the back of his mind at all times.

I didn’t entirely understand it. He’d seen dozens of people die during his career in medicine. Maybe even hundreds. Why did this one death shake him so badly?

“He was a doctor too,” Joel said to me now. “Did I tell you that? He worked as a hospitalist downtown. One of our ER docs went to med school with him.”

“Oh,” I said, because I wasn’t sure what else to say. I didn’t want to talk about death. Not now. It was the least romantic thing I could think of.

He took a swig from his copper-colored drink. I didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t his usual wine or beer. It looked and smelled like… bourbon. I’d never seen him drink hard liquor before. Well, that wasn’t true. But not since he graduated medical school.

It was my second clue something was amiss. Yet I ignored it and plowed forward anyway.

“So,” I said cheerfully, “you said you wanted to talk to me about something? Something important?”

When I relive that night in my memory, it’s at this point that I start to cringe.

“Yeah.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. His eyes were avoiding mine. I looked at the pocket of his scrub top, trying to make out the outline of a ring box. “So here’s the thing…”

Will you marry me?

“I…” He coughed into his hand and took another swig from his drink. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately, you know? After that guy…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Joel.”

“I know, but that’s not the point.” He rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about him. He was… I mean, it’s not like he was a walking coronary. He was healthy. Young… like me. A doctor, like me. And he just… dropped dead. No warning. Just…” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

This didn’t feel like a marriage proposal. If it was, it was a really, really bad one.

“Well,” I said, trying to turn this around. “That sort of thing makes you want to… you know, reevaluate your life. Move forward. Right?”

Buy a house. Have babies. Grow old together. Sit on a porch in matching rocking chairs, holding hands.

Joel’s eyes lit up. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Wonderful!” I reached out across the table for Joel’s hand, but he pulled it away before I could reach him. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“I think it’s for the best.” He picked up his drink and swished the copper liquid around. “You and I—we’re not good together. Not anymore. And it’s better to move on, rather than—”

“What?” My heart skipped in my chest. “Not good together? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about…” He blinked a few times. “Isn’t that what you meant? That we should… go our separate ways? Move on?”

“Not move on!” I practically spit out the words. People had started to turn and stare at us. “I said ‘move forward.’ Like… get married.”

And this is the part where the memory really makes me cringe.

Joel’s mouth fell open. “Get married?”

“Well, why not?” My heart was slamming in my chest. I wondered if Joel would feel bad if he made me drop dead. “We’ve been together forever. We live together. We’re great together. And… I love you.”

This was the part where he was supposed to tell me he loved me too. I sat there, waiting for him to say it. But he didn’t. He just sank down in his seat, staring at his drink.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just… our relationship isn’t working for me anymore.”

Not working for him? What the hell did that mean? I still can’t figure it out. I felt like an employee he’d decided to let go because I’d outlived my usefulness. Or maybe I was too old.

When I later saw the next girl he dated, the latter became a real possibility. And I do mean “girl.”

“Joel, I love you,” I said again. “Please. Don’t do this. You’re my whole life.” My eyes filled with tears. “Please.”

If there’s one thing I wish I could take back about that day, it would be to eliminate the begging. I’d never considered myself a weak woman. Begging a man not to leave me—I still feel the sting of humiliation from that one. But my words were true. Joel was my life. I loved him more than I’d ever imagined loving a man. It was fairy tale love. And fairy tales always have happy endings.