I waited for a response, but none came.
James: Sawyer, please.
Nothing.
James: Please. Just talk to me. Please.
Numb, I stared at my phone until the screen went dark. Belatedly, I realized that none of my last three texts had gone through. He’d blocked me. He didn’t want to hear from me.
There was a low wall edging the sidewalk, and I sank onto it. The sound of the city—the party, the street, the cars—receded until it was all just white noise. I shoved a hand into my hair, grabbing hold and tugging, wanting to feel something. But everything was numb—my thoughts, my heart, the blood pumping through my veins.
I didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense. He’d come to the city to be with me; he’d wanted to share a life together. We’d told each other our true feelings. He’d seemed excited about moving in together and starting a new future.
And then he’d just… left.
The thought caused my heart to squeeze so tight I let out a gasp of air. I pressed a fist to my chest, hoping to ease the pain, but nothing helped. Had he not meant what he’d said? But if so… why had he come? Or had the gala itself truly done that much damage in so little time? Had someone said something to him?
Still in shock, I hailed a cab, not wanting to go through the effort of calling back the town car. When we pulled onto my street, I felt a spark of hope that maybe Sawyer might be there waiting for me, like he had earlier today. He would tell me that it had just been a misunderstanding—a brief bout of doubt because everything seemed to be changing so quickly. But when we reached my brownstone, the stoop was empty, the windows dark.
I was alone. Again.
I paid the driver and trudged inside, my legs feeling as if they weighed a thousand pounds each. Once inside, I paused. Like I’d told Sawyer, Richard had been the one to decorate the brownstone when we’d decided we’d move in together, and I’d never bothered to redecorate after he’d left. His influence was everywhere: walls, floors, furniture, art. It was all edgy modern, cold and sharp. I hated it.
Sawyer had been right to ask why I had this whole place if I only ever really spent time in one room. It was like a stark tribute to bullshit social veneer. The mask I’d always wanted to wear, but that I now found painful and binding.
The center of the marble-tiled entryway was dominated by a glass table topped with a sculptured steel vase containing a bouquet of metal stems. When he’d brought it home, Richard had claimed it was meant to be a statement on the industrialization of the American heartland. When I suggested he take it with him when he’d moved out, he’d shrugged and said he was over it.
Even after he’d left I’d never made an effort to get rid of the thing. By that point, I’d grown so accustomed to it that it had essentially become invisible. It was just habit and routine, something that I’d come to accept because it had always been there. Despite the fact that I hated it.
I realized, in that moment, that my entire life had become that way. I’d worked hard to reach where I was, always going above and beyond and keeping my eye on the prize. At first that prize had been admission to a top law school, then landing an impressive clerkship, then an offer at a top-tier firm, then income partner and eventually equity partner.
Now here I was. And for what? What had it all gotten me? An empty brownstone devoid of life, and am empty life devoid of love.
Before I even realized what I was doing, I’d crossed the entryway to the table and grabbed the steel vase. With all my might, I hurled it against the concrete staircase that circled up through the center of the house. The vase struck the edge of a step with a metal clang, sending bent silvered stems scattering across the floor. I kicked at the vase for good measure, sending it careening toward the door.
Then I stalked down the hall toward my study, the one room in the house I hadn’t allowed Richard to touch. I went straight for a bottle of scotch I kept stashed in my desk drawer, pouring myself a healthy splash before collapsing in one of the leather chairs by the empty fireplace. The house settled around me, cold and quiet.
I scanned the shelves of my study, eyes lingering on a few of my favorite titles. Every surface was stuffed with books or board games or photographs or tchotchkes or memories of some form or another. There was a picture of me and my friend Conor from Comic-Con several years back. I sighed. When was the last time I’d taken vacation days to go to a gaming convention? Three years ago? Four? Something always seemed to come up, usually having to do with work. I’d been supposed to go with him to ICECon earlier this year but had to cancel because Richard had booked us on a trip to Hawaii to chase down some harebrained investment opportunity that he’d lost interest in soon after.
So many things that used to fill my life, and I’d let them all go without even realizing it. I let out a sigh, sinking deeper into the chair. The truth was, I was unhappy, and it was more than just being heartbroken over Sawyer leaving. I didn’t like my job, which was perhaps a good thing given that I was likely about to lose it. I didn’t like my house. I didn’t like the routine my life had fallen into.
It felt like it had all just happened somehow, like I’d gone to sleep and woken up years later, and now here I was and I didn’t want it anymore.
What was it that had woken me up?
Sawyer.
Except he was gone and I didn’t know what to do with myself.
Just then my phone buzzed with a text, and I practically leaped out of the chair fumbling for it. My first thought was of Sawyer—that he’d changed his mind and was coming back. Or was at least willing to talk. But when I looked at the screen, it wasn’t Sawyer’s adorable face smiling back at me, it was Oscar’s.
Oscar: I knew you’d be able to make it work! Do I give good advice or do I give good advice? You’re welcome to thank me any way that you like (I encourage creativity!)
James: ??
Oscar: The guy you were texting me about earlier, when you were out at the Cape! I heard you’re together now. Should I be congratulating you or should you be consoling my broken heart that I’ve once again missed my opportunity to woo you?
James: You heard wrong.
Oscar: Oh, I’m quite confident in my sources. Was that not you this evening at the Guggenheim making heart shaped eyes at a certain handsome young man? And I do mean young — you certainly have a type, don’t you?
James: It’s over between us.
Oscar: Oh. Well shit. I think you may have broken even my record for how quickly a relationship can turn south. What happened?
James: I don’t know.
Oscar: Yes you do.
James: I don’t! If I did I’d be fixing it instead of talking to you!
Oscar: Do you want to talk about it?
I started to type the word no, but reconsidered.
James: Have you ever been in love?
Oscar: Only every time I look in the mirror.