What was an honorable man to do?
A man who had been crowned Fairhope’s Most Likely to Become President?
Who couldn’t afford to make a mistake, let alone four mistakes in one night, one of them in a pretty adventurous Kama Sutra position, resulting in a thoroughly compromised young woman?
I’d given my relationship with Gabriella Holland a fair shot.
There was, after all, absolutely nothing wrong with her as far as the eye could see. She was objectively stunning, had graduated from Columbia the previous year, and worked as a blogger and influencer, promoting beauty products and street fashion on social media.
She wanted to be a housewife, to pop out cute, chubby babies, and I supposedly wanted a wife who would do just that.
Our goals, plans, and ideologies were theoretically aligned.
Supposedly being the operative word, because I couldn’t, for the life of me, take any more of her photographing every goddamn thing we ate before consumption, or getting a selfie in every public restroom she visited, citing the great lighting.
“But…but why?” Gabriella sniffed, patting her nose and eyes with a tissue demurely, trembling all over.
I privately disliked all the trembling. She trembled when she ate a chicken salad at Jerry & Sons, when she saw something sad in the news, and when a draft came in through the window.
She was so fragile, so gentle, she belonged in a museum, not a red-blooded man’s bed (although, ironically, it should be said, Gabriella was pretty much game to do anything I wanted to do, just as long as I called the next day).
“Was it something I said? Something I did? I don’t understand. You gave me a necklace the other day!”
She was perched on the edge of my upholstered navy sofa, her big doe eyes shimmering like broken glass.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her the necklace had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.
I prided myself in being the best lover in both Carolinas. I showered my girlfriends with expensive presents, took them anywhere worth going, never missed an important date, and wouldn’t let them leave for home without a complimentary orgasm.
I had high expectations of myself.
I was, after all, Fairhope’s darling.
The idea of letting people down gave me anxiety, no matter how much I liked to pretend otherwise.
“Wait, was it the non-organic burger incident?” She snapped her fingers, having a light bulb moment. “I guess I could’ve been kinder to Messy Nessy. It’s just that I’ve been under so much pressure recently, with Trinity’s wedding, and the bridesmaid fitting…”
“This has nothing to do with Tennessee Turner.” I handed Gabriella another tissue. I could tell as soon as she left here, she was going to start bawling her eyes out. “And nothing to do with you, either. You’re perfect.”
“Then why are you breaking up with me?”
I don’t have the greenest clue, honey. I just know you bore me half to death.
There was something wrong with me, and I needed to figure out what it was.
I knew I wasn’t asexual because sex was the only part I liked about my relationships. It was everything else about them I struggled with.
There had been no pivotal or inciting moment that changed me. No messed-up breakup or sob story to make me disinterested in settling down.
I came from a great home, with two loving parents who adored one another. I’d had girlfriends over the years. Some relationships stuck more than others. Some of the women I cared for deeply, and I definitely respected all of them—but something was missing.
Everything looked normal. Nice. Fine.
It felt fine, too. Not too good. Not too bad. Kind of like your favorite dish at a familiar restaurant. I was never disappointed with the women I was with, but never thrilled by them, either.
And I wanted to be.
Wanted to be driven to do dumb things, to push against my boundaries, to decode that one thing men my age had—a marriage—and I hadn’t.
Ultimately, choosing one woman was pointless when this town was my oyster, and I could have my pick of a wife at any time (save for Tennessee Turner, who frankly, I wouldn’t wish on my greatest enemy if I ever had one).
“I get it.” Gabriella sat up, slapping her thigh.
She was having an entire conversation with herself. Never a good look.
“You do?” I seriously doubted that, but went along with the conversation, anyway.
“You’re just getting cold feet because Wyatt’s getting married and you know you’re expected to be next. I can wait it out, Cruz. There’s no pressure at all.”
None whatsoever, other than the fact she’d already marked engagement rings in bridal magazines and left them where I could find them. Frankly, I thought three months wasn’t long enough to figure out if you wanted to share a Netflix subscription with a person, let alone propose marriage.
“It’s not about that. I need time to straighten my head.”
“Promise me one thing.”
Gabriella was now somehow full-blown sobbing, and I hated myself for ever getting into bed with her. In my defense, I didn’t think I’d have to see her the next day or the three months following.
“Sure.” I let loose a wintry smile, patting her knee. “Anything, honey.”
She squeezed my shoulders, looking me dead in the eye. “You’ll give it some serious thought and let me know when you come back from the cruise. I’ll wait for you.”
“Really, there’s no need.”
I didn’t want her to wait for me.
More importantly, I didn’t want to wait for her.
Cruises could go a few different ways. It was entirely possible I’d find a vacationer to have a brief fling with, and I didn’t want to hold back. Not when I already knew I didn’t want to be with Gabriella for another day.
“You don’t have to wait for me, but I’ll feel better if I wait for you.” She mustered a weak, tired smile.
That sounded like a pretty screwed-up agreement to me, but maybe Gabriella needed a few days to digest this. I’d been trying to break up with her for two hours now, and we kept going back and forth.
If this was what it took to make her leave, I figured I’d take one for the team.
“All right. We’ll talk again when I get back.”
“And try to remember what made us get together in the first place,” she suggested. “Maybe it’ll rekindle something in you.”
I was practically pushing her out of my apartment at this point.
Just when I thought I could close the door behind these hellish few hours and take comfort in the arms of the one love that never failed me—a bottle of beer—a pointy, red heel rammed its way between my door and the frame before I could close it all the way.
I opened it quickly, hoping it wasn’t Tennessee Turner and her Australia-sized attitude.
My mother stood on the other side of my door.
Catherine Costello had the Nancy Pelosi hairdo, an extra-delicate frame, and Jackie Kennedy’s wardrobe. She looked—and I say it with a lot of love—like every rich white woman you’d ever seen in a nineties’ era boss-lady-powersuit wearing television drama.
“Oh, Cruzy. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
I opened the door all the way, knowing there was little point in telling her she was. “Not at all, Mom. Come in.”