When Girlfriends Break Hearts (5 page)

“Oh please,” I said. “You hurt me plenty! Don’t tell me that it hurts you.”

“It does. It hurt me to hurt you. That’s no lie. But it doesn’t excuse me or even answer why I did it. But was there ever any way to
not
hurt you with news like this? News that I want to move on?”

“I guess not.” I was cold. Chilled like ice.

Silence.

Finally I said, “I don’t understand why it suddenly wasn’t working, but I do respect that you wanted to move on. No sense in dragging me through the pain, and no sense in you staying miserable.”

“Exactly. That’s no way to live.”

Silence again.

“But I’m still so attracted to you, Sophie.” His voice was soft and smooth. Too smooth. “And I miss you so much. I really hate that this happened.”

“Then why on Earth did you cut me out of your life? Why did you
make
this happen? It was all your doing! Your choice to break us off. Give me an answer, dammit. Please.”

“Because,” he said, running a hand through his thick and wavy locks. “Because I only see myself hurting you in the future. I don’t see this attraction or this care for you or this…this…missing you going anywhere positively. It’s how I feel now and probably will for awhile, but I won’t feel this way in the future. I won’t feel this way forever. At least those feelings won’t be enough for me to justify staying in a relationship with you…in a relationship that isn’t good enough for either of us. We both deserve to be happy, Sophie, and I don’t think I can do that for you. And you can’t do that for me.

“Besides, eventually all of this missing each other and attraction and wanting what we used to have will fall away and there won’t be that love to hold us together. And we’ll both be miserable, having wasted years of our lives in misery together…never making the most out of life. And you don’t want that. I don’t want that.”

I nodded my head in understanding. Surprisingly, everything said made sense. Obviously I wasn’t in total agreement with him, but I was beginning to see his logic and rationale. Slowly I was beginning to realize that if love dies, what more can a relationship stand on? And if love is one-sided, what kind of relationship is that anyhow? Certainly not one that has a future or one filled with happiness. In time the relationship would hit its expiration date and we’d only end up hating each other all the more.

“I really miss you, Brandon,” I managed to say, biting back tears.
 

He touched my cheek, running his thumb just above my cheekbone.

“I didn’t come here hoping to get back together,” I said, composing myself. It was my turn to get my thoughts out on the table. “Even if you had a change of heart. You’ve done enough damage to me. I couldn’t come back from that and carry on through a sham of a relationship with you. But I obviously can’t turn my heart and feelings off. I’ll probably still love you and miss you for awhile. Probably still grasp at straws to understand
why
you fell out of love with me and even
how
that’s possible. Hell, maybe some day I’ll fall in and out of love with someone. I don’t know. But it’s going to be hard. I just came for some answers. For some closure.”

I took a long sip of wine, finishing the glass. Right now it was so good, so comforting.

“You’ll love again, Sophie. I will too. All in time. We’ll both move along.”

How can you be so rational?

“I know,” I said, although I felt bitter. “I wish we could have made it.”

“I wish we could have, too.” He got up, walked to the kitchen, and returned with the bottle of Riesling.
 

I handed my glass over for a refill, forgetting my responsibility of driving.

“So is it another woman?” I asked.

His eyes widened momentarily. “No.”

I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him, so I asked again.

“No, Soph.” He drank a large gulp of wine. My suspicions were rising. “That’s not it. I’m not seeing anyone right now. I don’t really want to get seriously involved again any time soon.”

There was a long moment of extremely awkward silence fraught with hesitant reflection. Thank God there was wine.
 

At last I said, “Well, then I guess it just is what it is, huh?” My second glass had hit my head, and no wonder; it was almost empty already.

“Want some dinner?” Brandon asked. “To help balance out that wine?”

I laughed and filled up my wine glass, yet again. I knew better than to have more than two glasses of “anything alcohol” in any situation where I had to drive, or be on my best behavior, or appear one hundred percent professional. At a slim weight somewhere slightly south of one-thirty, I was a textbook lightweight. Or, as one of my best girlfriends, Jackie Anderson, would say, “A swizzle stick who can never meet the bottom of the bottle.”

Jackie was just as much a lightweight as I was, appearance-wise, though a good half-foot and then some shorter. But despite her meager weight and her equally meager stature, the girl wasn’t a typical lightweight in the drinking sense. That girl knew how to party, and she loved doing it. I could always count on Jackie if a night of bar-hopping or club-hitting was on the wish list. But I could also count on her when I just wanted to sit at home in my PJs and watch a soap. Sitting there on Brandon’s sofa, I kind of wished I had some of that Jackie alcohol tolerance in me, sans the party girl edge. I was past my two-glass-max and I could feel it. But that didn’t inhibit a hearty third serving.
 

“Dinner is probably a good idea,” I said, bringing the glass to my lips. “I’m already too intoxicated to drive home. And I don’t see myself stopping. This Riesling is too good to let sit unfinished. And definitely too good for an unsophisticated palette like yours to waste on,” I half kidded. Brandon laughed.

“I’ll get our usual,” he said, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket. “
Toni’s Pasta
, their signature lasagna, yeah?”
 

I nodded in agreement before taking another long sip.

The evening was not going as I had planned. I had imagined we’d sit, talk, I’d ask questions, he’d give me answers, and I’d smugly say, again, “Have a nice life,” and leave. Back in control. Ready for the next chapter of my life.

Oh, how wrong I was.

Chapter Five

“I cannot believe you did that!” I shrieked through giggles. “You were so rotten. That was really a rotten schoolboy thing to do.”

Brandon was laughing so hard tears were starting to form at the rim of his eyes. In between laughs and gasps for air he said, “But…it…was…so…funny.” He went through another fit of hard laughter. “She was asking for it, after all.”

“Brandon,” I said, trying to stifle further laughter. “She was humiliated. And she was just jealous that you were with such a beautiful and sweet and irresistible girl like me.” I held my hand out like a debutant.

“Yeah, but the look on her face when I told her off was so worth it.”
 

Brandon got a kick out of reliving a less-than-comfortable situation we, back when Brandon and I were a “we,” had when we ran into one of his ex-lovers in a classy restaurant downtown. She was never more than a rumble through the sheets, but she sent some nasty words my way that night when she noticed that I had stolen the heart of Mr. Brandon Crossley. He said something rather naughty and rude in return and the entire situation became uncomfortable for all involved, but most significantly for the little black book lady-of-the-night. In retrospect, and even at the time, there wasn’t that much humoring about the situation, but when you’ve downed two full bottles of Riesling and are working on a rich Chianti that pairs very well with tiramisu, you find almost anything to be hilarious, and worse, you find reliving the good ‘ol days with your ex actually enjoyable.
 

“That was funny,” Brandon said, his laughter calming. “Good times. Good times.” He stabbed at a small piece of tiramisu and brought the fork to my lips; I stole the bite.

“Mmmm,” I moaned. “I forgot how delicious this stuff is.”

I don’t know how Brandon and I got into this situation—us cracking open a couple of bottles of wine, strolling down memory lane as we ate some of the best “just like home-cooked” Italian, and lying back on the sofa, sharing a blanket, candle light flickering in what I had hoped was an inadvertently romantic way. But I couldn’t fight the enjoyment and the small, albeit present, satisfaction that I got from this rather tie-less situation. We were no longer a couple, yet somehow we were acting like one. And though I didn’t want him back, the moment was too relaxing and congenial to slip out of. (Although that could have been the wine talking; more than likely.) Why ruin a good thing, right? It felt refreshing to know that I could enjoy this moment without scheming or hoping or planning to recreate the relationship we had undoubtedly lost. It all made me feel sort of…in control. It felt good.

“Sophie,” Brandon whispered, leaning in close to me as he wiped a small dollop of cream from the side of my lips. He licked it off his finger. “What do you say to…” He pulled himself closer, inching nearer and nearer to me. Mischief sparkled seductively in his eyes; something he did the very first night we made love. It worked every time. And it was working now, too.

He carefully moved his lips to mine, and before he could steal a kiss I said, “One last time.”
 

Had I surprised myself with my reaction? Suddenly…out of nowhere! Not really. Was I actually consenting to having sex with my ex-boyfriend? Pretty much. Was I hoping he’d take me back after a night of torrid passion? Hell no. I wanted to prove to myself and to Brandon that I had control over the entire wretched ordeal. I wanted to make love to Brandon one last time and awake in the morning not for romantic cuddles or breakfast in bed, but to tell him “thanks and goodbye.” That it was officially over. I wanted to put
my
end to the relationship. And I kind of wanted one more quick fling with the man who had shamelessly stolen my heart…and three years of my life.

 
“For old times’ sake, I guess,” I whispered, my lips barely grazing over his.
 

The wine was really making my head feel loopy. Placing a finger on his lips, I added, “Just know this. I’m feeling kinda drunk. I can’t drive home. And I’m feeling pretty good about not having this go anywhere…serious.
 

“And I think it’s time I let myself have a mindless screw with someone I have no intentions of seeing ever again.” I spoke these words with a mixture of brutality and vindication. I wanted to drive the point home, wanted him to feel it. I wanted to do something stupid, take control, and not look back. Well, I’d look back, but it’d be with a wave goodbye to Brandon and a “thanks for last night, now don’t ever contact me.”

He smiled his signature “I’m a little drunk” smile and put his hands on my waist. He leaned in for a kiss, but before our lips locked he whispered, “You silly girl.” Did he believe I could do it? Did he think I would leave tomorrow morning, unattached, wanting nothing more?

His lips touched mine and immediately I recalled how much I missed his soft lips. His touch and his smell and his presence were overwhelming and absolutely intoxicating. I let myself over to a lust my mother would have scorned me for, a passion the best Hollywood directors strive to capture onscreen, and a feeling that I knew would last only until dawn, when I would gather my belongings and once and for all leave Brandon’s life for good.

Chapter Six

The bright morning light was burning right into my eyelids, beckoning me awake. I carefully squinted into the rays of morning sun that were beginning to peek through the bedroom curtains. I rubbed at my sleep crusted eyes, and as I got up to read the familiar alarm clock on what was once my side of the bed, I felt the sudden onrush of a headache characteristic of too much drinking. I groaned. Today was not going to be a good day.

The alarm clock read
07:32
and I groaned again.
What happened last night?
And then, as I sat up, it hit me. I knew exactly what had happened. There was no remorse; however, suddenly the prospect of an awkward morning-after goodbye and returning to face Claire seemed daunting.
Why did I do this?
Planning under the influence of alcohol was a bad idea. I should have learned that lesson from my college days.

I looked around for my iPhone and spotted it on the nightstand on Brandon’s side of the bed. I wasn’t about to show him any kindness so I crawled over him to snag my phone. As predicted, I had about a dozen missed calls and texts from Claire, one of which said,
Where the HELL ARE YOU?
Reading that one was enough for me to toss the phone onto the comforter and opt to deal with that situation later.

My movements had awoken Brandon and he slowly came to early morning life.
 

“Hey,” he said groggily. He blindly reached his arm out to try to rest a hand on me. I don’t know why.
 

My blood boiled. This was a bad idea. But if the whole point of going through these motions was to try to gain some form of control, I couldn’t lose it. I had to gather my clothes, do what I planned I would do, and say so long to the jackass I foolishly decided to have one last hurrah with.

“Brandon,” I said, getting up, although landing two feet on the ground did not make my hangover feel any better. “I’ve got to go.” I slipped back into my dress that I snagged from the floor, then searched for my favorite pair of shoes.

He sat up, the comforter falling to his waist, exposing his fine chest—not very well defined, but well enough.
GQ
enough. His tousled hair added to the aura of yumminess that I knew I needed to close the book on. For good.

“It was nice last night,” I started, dropping to the floor, searching for my Jimmy Choos underneath the bed. “But it was just one night…” I searched madly, crawling around toward the other side; nothing. “…and we’re officially done.” I found them and stood, then pushed back my tangled hair and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress.