Haze (12 page)

"Nothing," I said. "Just something stupid."

"Please, tell me. You look like someone just sent you a picture of a car accident. That's not what it is, is it?"

I didn't want to tell him, but the very thought of keeping the secret made me even more uncomfortable than the alternative. Jack was my essentially my new boyfriend, right? Why wou
ld he want to hear about my immature ex?

No, I wouldn't be like that. Hiding information was really close to dishonesty. "It's Timothy. He says he's in the city and he wants to meet up."

His eyebrow shot up. "The ex from the story, huh? Are you gonna go see him?"

"Why should I? I don't need to feel obligated just because he showed up
without warning."

"True," Jack said. "So just meet him for coffee or something. He probably doesn't know anyone here and just wants to say hi. It's no big deal, trust me. Just be nice. It doesn't have to mean anything."

I thought about how Timothy had taken my options away and thrown a fit when I requested some independence. Just because I had dated him didn't mean that talking with him in person meant anything. And on top of that, there was no harm in being reasonable. "Yeah, you're right. He came a long way to get here."

Jack was being so reasonable about this. Most guys wanted to avoid exes like the plague. Here Jack was, encouraging me to be as diplomatic as possible. It felt like the right thing to do. Something that would have ordinarily put me in the dumps didn't seem like such a big deal. Perspective could make such a huge difference.

Honestly, I had tried to keep Timothy as buried as possible in my mind, worried that it was going to bring back those emotions that just weren't
me
anymore. But
this
? This was okay. This seemed like
growth
.

I ended up having a bacon-wrapped salmon drenched in an incredible béarnaise sauce while Jack went with the classic filet mignon. Everything was absolutely delicious, impeccably placed upon the platters like culinary art. We shared a chocolate soufflé for dessert, the whole thing topped with vanilla
ice cream. I was learning French quickly, mostly out of necessity because I figured I was going to have more meals like this in my immediate future.

Percy took us to the theater after we finished dinner,
and our seats were every bit as crazy-good as Jack promised. We were dead center in the orchestra section, the place the show
was meant to be seen from
, per Jack's words. He was on cloud nine the whole show.

I loved every part of it, and based on Jack's never-ending smile, he did too. I felt somewhat jealous, however, wishing I were a musician like Jack. Watching the couple interact on stage made me wish so desperately that Jack and I could craft beautiful songs together, living our lives in a constant state of musical bliss. I hoped we would have a different ending than the couple in the play, but who really knew anything?

There was nothing but time ahead of us and plenty of room for
improvisation
, both musical and otherwise.

After the show, Jack introduced me to a few famous musician friends—including the director of the play—and then we were on our way home.

That night we made love three times, each subsequent time more intense than the one came before it. The only thing that prevented us from doing it more was the fact that I passed out in the middle of the third orgasm, a reasonably good problem to have to deal with.

***

The next day, per Jack's suggestion, I was going to meet Timothy at an indie coffee shop Jack was familiar with. I wanted to get this over as soon as possible. I hoped Tim had someone else in his life, and I hoped sincerely he was doing well. He had seemed thrilled when I made the suggestion, responding to my response within a minute.

I wasn't sure if that was a good or bad sign...

I kissed Jack goodbye and headed on my way, empowered by the positivity of his input. Yeah, I would do my best to remain positive.

Jack's suggested meeting point was a big place, one where plenty of people were frantically typing away on laptops whilst sipping
sugary lattes. There was some room for privacy without having to be inches from the counter and people ordering drinks.

Timothy was already there waiting for me in the back corner. He looked tired and frazzled, his blue shirt one that he had worn many times before. It was suitable for the heat of the summer, but not original or surprising. He looked sharply handsome as always, his black hair freshly trimmed short to match the baby-smooth skin of his cheeks. Timothy was one to maintain his appearance, spending far too much time in the mirror for what I always thought was such a negligible
improvement.

There were two cups in front of him.

"Effie!" he said excitedly. We hugged in the most platonic way possible and then sat down.

"Hey, Tim. How are
ya?"

"I'm great. Learning to get around. I got you an Americano."

"Oh?" I asked. That whole
learning to get around
bit seemed like somewhat of a red flag, but I did my best to not make any assumptions. "Thanks," I said. I took a sip and then set the cup back down.

"It's such a big place. I'm just not used to it. How is your job?"

"It's fine." I wanted to say more, but I also didn't want to give him the opportunity to get re-attached. It seemed like my omission of further details seemed to rub him the wrong way.

"Listen, Effie," he said. Yep, I was right.

Oh, God. Here it comes
.

"Yeah?"

"I want to try again." He looked so enthusiastic, so full of hope. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

"Tim, I don't know if that's—"

"I'm living here now, Effie! I took a job here for
you
!" His enthusiasm reached a peak; I almost fainted.

Chapter 6

I never believed in happy endings. No, it wasn't a lack of optimism or an excess of negativity that had found a home inside my body. Neither, really. The world seemed too complex for anything to be broken down into such simple terms as
happy
or
sad
. Everyone wanted happy and no one wanted sad.

Was there something in between?

Could anyone have a journey that went on for years that was perfect every single morning? Perfect mornings that led into perfect afternoons and then concluded with perfect evenings? Top it off with perfect nights and you've got more
perfect
than you know what to do with.

Can so much
perfect
actually be perfect?

Okay, so maybe that meant you needed some blemishes to really appreciate what you had. Imperfections, trials and tribulations. It would bring people closer together, uniting them through their shared challenges. I had not stumbled upon some magical wisdom or anything else—this was
life
.

People tried to get along.

I agreed with that notion. Did that mean that many people out there
weren't
actually happy with each other? Yeah, sure. Probably most people I knew fell into that category. My parents were the same way—happy until the real world made very clear
what it
was
and what it was
about to do to them
. They got along and were close, but I didn't feel like much magic remained, if any.

When I was young, I imagined myself with some magical prince, a man that would provide for me and take care of me while I did stuff around the house for him. Quite the sexist fantasy for a prepubescent gal. I didn't have any ambitions then, no desire to pursue a career or anything else. I was also about
seven
, so upon reflection, it wasn't such a big deal.

Timothy was the traditionalist in my world. He had been the heavy weight that brought me down, leaving me stranded and confused. Family this, family that. It's
gotta be this way because it always has been. The dreaded
fallacy of tradition
. I ran away from him because he wasn't healthy for me. He needed a woman like my former, emotionally under-developed, seven-year-old self. Notice the use of the word
former
—that just wasn't me anymore.

"I can't be that for you," I said for the second time. Timothy's fingers wouldn't stop moving, a sign that he was very nervous. I kept trying to ignore it, trying to ignore that telltale sign that things were going to get messy.

"Effie, I came here for you. I gave up the other job, the one that was close to my family. I moved away because I wanted
you
, not them." His tone was centimeters away from
harsh
.

"I didn't ask for it." I took a sip of my Americano and slammed the cup down on the table louder than I had intended, most likely sending the wrong signal. Thankfully, the cup didn't break. "It's not my responsibility anymore."

"My family
hates
me right now. They wanted me there. I left them for you!" His voice raised in volume, but remained a few steps below
yelling
. No one seemed to have noticed us yet; that was good.

Timothy wanted me to move in with him and allow him to take care of me. He didn't want me to work, just live with him as his
woman
. Everything he said was so patronizing, even though he was just speaking through the various
flavors
of his emotions. As difficult as it was, I kept myself under control while he waxed poetic about his idyllic bullshit.

The biggest problem was that he didn't realize how sexist he sounded when he was verbally fleshing out his dreams for me. Sure,
his future
was supposed to make life comfortable for me. But what if that wasn't what
I
wanted?

This
was ridiculous. I had been set up in this most basic and harmless of social situations—the coffee shop meet. I hadn't agreed to stay the night with him or go out for a fancy dinner. I hadn't even talked to him since we broke up. I had given him an inch and he was doing his very damndest to take
miles
from me. Jack was going to be in hysterics after I told him how poorly his innocent suggestion had turned out.

No, it wasn't Jack's fault either.

"You can't just move here and expect me to get back with you." My coffee was almost gone and that just served to frustrate me even more. "And don't blame the tension with your family on
me
. That's for y
ou
to sort out on your own."

He blinked in slow motion, as if he were doing it for the very first time ever. "Effie, why are you doing this to me? Things were so good before."

Ugh, he reminded me of the fact that things
hadn't
been good before. Leading up to the breakup, I could barely even think of him as a boyfriend. We lived together and slept in the same bed. We occasionally had sex—it was adequate; I wouldn't lie about that even if I was pissed—and shared meals. These were the motions of our lives, carried out day after day ad infinitum.

Certainly not
happily ever after
sort of material.

No, we hadn't had fun together in ages. Part of it was probably due to school, but it was clear to me that we couldn't survive. You know, plus the whole job in New York City thing for me. The fact that I actually wanted to work was a problem for Timothy as well.

"It was just fun for
you
. Tim, I came here to be polite, not give into all of your demands. This isn't a
negotiation.
My mind is made up already
.
" I unconsciously shifted in my chair after completing the sentence.

His brow furrowed as he suddenly grew quieter, sullen. I saw a spark inside of him, one that was as far from
positive
as possible. "Are you seeing someone else?"

"It's none of your business, Timothy." I realized that saying those words in particular would set him off, but I had no other way to properly describe the situation and how I was feeling. I felt a tiny pang of guilt as I watched the horror creeping across his face as if he'd just witnessed a murder. It had only been about two months since we had officially separated—and he didn't like this.

I wasn't about to let him hand-deliver me a toxic guilt-trip.
It hadn't felt like anything for almost a year!
I couldn't get down on myself for wanting to move on. I knew he hated vague answers, but I wasn't about to tell him about how infatuated I was with Jack—and how he had
fucked my brains out
like Timothy never could have. Oh yeah,
that
would go over really well.

"You've already slept with him." Timothy stared into the empty bottom of his cup like it was a black hole. His simplicity showed no limits.

"I didn't say
anything
, Timothy, except that I wasn't comfortable discussing the subject with you."