The universe is sick and twisted.
It's the only explanation, really. How else do you explain it?
I mean, she broke my heart. Like, in a million pieces. I didn't think I was the heartbreaking type, really, it sort of snuck up on me I guess. One day we were just hanging out on the weekends, texting each other at 11PM like "hey, are you busy" and falling into bed together, sharing a bowl, whatever. Making breakfast. And the next I'm thinking about her a lot. I start to not really want to call other girls, the hot chick in my Econ lecture isn't turning my head anymore when she wears those sprayed-on leggings. And all of a sudden I'm doing weird things, like ordering from that Chinese place she likes before she comes over. And putting her birthday in my phone so I don't forget.
Not like I'd never been in a relationship before, there was Laura in high school. She was my first, whatever, everything. But she wasn't anything like Emily. I mean, what I felt for her didn't even come close to the way Emily just moved into my heart and lived there, even though I never asked her to.
It's not the sex that still gets me, even though I definitely miss it like crazy. It was hot, it was always hot. But what still makes me feel sort of wrecked and numb all at once is remembering things like . . . like how she used to lean against me at parties. How she used to sigh when I hugged her, or wake me up in the middle of the night because she just needed to be closer to me. When I think about that, when I remember that, my whole chest aches.
It was a week before college graduation. Well, my college graduation. She still had another year, but I was gonna stay in town, keep hanging around with her after summer was over. And then she just showed up one day and started saying stuff like "I can't handle this," and "Everything's moving so fast," but also, "I need more." I mean, we'd basically been exclusive since September, what more could there be?
I asked her.
I asked her, "Do you want to move in together or something?" And then she looked around the house I shared with my three roommates, at all the empty beer bottles we'd lined up on the shelves where most people keep, I don't know, pasta, and she just shook her head.
"You want to get married, what?" I asked. And I remember thinking, like, maybe I would. Not get married right away, but maybe like engaged or something. I don't know, that sounds crazy. Looking back it feels nuts. But at the time it felt like . . . I'd do anything to keep her around.
But she said, "No," in this really low voice. And she wouldn't look at me. And then she said, "I think I'm just done."
And what could I do? She was done. So I said, "Okay," and walked her out.
You know something? After she left, I actually cried. Like, real tears. I didn't know guys cried over women when they were sober. I'd never cried over Laura, that was for sure.
Then I moved out here, to this tiny North Carolina beach town and got my real estate license, because what else was I gonna do? Stick around and watch her start falling in love with some other guy? No thanks.
I've thought about that a lot. I've thought about how maybe I should have said something else then, or stuck around and tried to make it right with her. Maybe she was just freaked out because she was feeling things, and she wasn't sure if I was too.
But it also seemed like maybe it was just the universe's way of reminding me that most people don't meet their soulmate when they're twenty-two. If most people get engaged to someone in college, they're probably also headed for divorce.
And then, five years later, the universe showed up to remind me that as much as I think I know, I'm just like everybody else. An idiot.
The first thing I noticed when she walked into the office was that her hair was brown. And longer. When I knew her before, it was always a different color, pink, blue, purple, just barely touching her shoulders. Now it was halfway down her back in these thick, brown waves. And her face had gotten a little more angular, a little harder. Her little chin jutted out just the same, that determined look I'd seen on her face a hundred times.
I couldn't help but look at her body. It looked exactly the same to me, somehow. Maybe a little softer here or there, but damn, she looked good. I felt something between my legs stir a little at the memory of how her skin used to feel under my hands, and swallowed. For a minute, I wished I could see what was hidden behind the front desk. Whether my favorite part of her, that perky, impossibly round ass, was still the same, too.
"I'm looking for an investment property," she told the receptionist, Liz, without any "Hey, how are ya?" No introduction. No chance to see if maybe her name changed. (I don't do all that Facebook stuff-though maybe I'd looked once or twice, and it looked like she didn't either, so I had no idea. She could have been married for all I knew. Part of me hoped she wasn't, part of me prayed she was.)
"Sure," Liz said, "Just have a seat. I'll see who's available to help you out. Can I grab you a water or anything, sugar?"
"No thanks." She sat down and pulled out an honest-to-god book. In 2019. With a bookmark and everything.
I could see that asshole, Alan, already getting up out of his chair out of the corner of my eye. I was really, sorely tempted to let him take over and just get out of there. Take a personal day, make up some excuse. But I knew that as bad as I'd feel if I went up to her and found out she's looking for a place for her husband and a minivan full of kids, or that she didn't want anything to do with me, I'd feel even worse if she started going out with Alan.
So I muttered, "She's a friend," and he rolled his eyes and sat back down.
"Sure," he said, "like you've got any friends."
I let it slide, because I'm not the type to rise to bait. But I filed it away in my mental "Alan the Asshole" catalogue. I don't know how I'll use it, yet, but I just know that one day it'll come in handy.
Before I knew it, I was standing next to Liz, leaning on her desk. She gave me a look like, "Well?" and I didn't know what to say so I just cleared my throat. Emily didn't move,
totally absorbed in some book called "The Goldfinch." Liz looked at me again and raised her eyebrows.
"Hey, Emily," I managed in a low voice.
That's when her head snapped up. Like she'd been hit by an arrow or something, I mean, her eyes were wide open.
To her credit, she recovered really quickly. She put her book on the chair next to her, stood up, and said, "Hey, Noah," right as she leaned over the desk to give me an awkward hug.
I could smell her soap, just like when we were in college. Something like flowers and vanilla. I could feel the soft, cottony texture of her dress. I couldn't help but close my eyes. My brain flipped through all the lazy, casual sex we'd had when we were young and stupid, and I was thankful for the desk between us, because God help me if I wasn't already halfway hard. Luckily Liz remained completely oblivious, already absorbed in her phone.
We pulled back from each other and I asked her what she was looking for, careful to keep things professional. And she started telling me about her budget, what she wanted to use the place for. Not how she'd come into the money or where she lived or whether she was entangled somehow. When I managed to glance at her hand I just about died of relief when I didn't see a ring.
And I was preparing just to write it all up and file it away, maybe offer to take her to lunch sometime next week to talk possibilities (so that I could figure out my feelings alone on the beach with a six pack of beer before I saw her again), when Liz decided to look up from her phone and ruin my life.
"Sounds like the Hargraves' place would be perfect," she said. "You could even show her now."
The Hargraves were an old couple with a sweet granddaughter who were listing their vacation home so that they could buy a condo in Florida, where the weather was better for their "old bones." Really, I thought, to be closer to the granddaughter in Atlanta.
But whatever. It was true, the house was exactly what Emily was looking for-three bedrooms, on the beach, maybe a little outdated but easy to renovate, even expand.
