“—and that you could never be with her,” I go on.
“Daphne, that’s what I’m saying,” he counters. “I couldn’t. I can’t.”
“And that you’d never seen her like that,” I finish.
“I hadn’t,” he insists. “Not really. When I said all of that to you, I meant it. Every word. And now I know it’s true. It’s just . . . we were barreling toward our wedding, Daph. And I freaked out. And Petra freaked out too, because she knew the relationship between her and me was probably going to change. We got confused. And I know it makes no sense, because I was ready to marry you, so the time for that kind of confusion should have been way past. You have no idea how sorry I am. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you. Trying to get back to how perfect we were together.”
“Peter, stop,” I say. “We weren’t perfect. Obviously. Or this couldn’t have happened.”
“Fine,” he says. “Maybe we weren’t. But you were. You were perfect for me, and I threw it away. I miss your cute little giggle, and I miss going to visit Cooper and Sadie with you and getting brunch at Hearth, and going to the gym together, and having dinner with my family. God, my family, Daphne. They miss you too.
“I was so deluded, I thought they’d be on board with the whole Petra thing. And her parents were thrilled, but mine . . . they know me better than all this. They knew it was a mistake right away. You’re part of my family, Daphne. You belong with me.”
As he’s saying it, I feel the telltale prickle behind my nose, the heat coursing into my cheeks. Tears are surfacing and I can’t stop them.
Taking this as encouragement, he moves closer. “We can get our life back,” he whispers. “It’s not too late.”
I can’t help but laugh a little as I dab my eyes with the table runner.
It is too late.
The life he’s describing—it isn’t one I want.
It’s right in a general sense, and all wrong in the particulars.
A steady partner. A family. Good friends to take trips and share boozy brunches and throw Halloween parties with. A home.
But I don’t want Peter’s too-big house, whose mortgage doesn’t have my name on it.
And I don’t want Peter’s friends, who don’t care about me.
And as much as I’d dreamed of being a part of Peter’s tight-knit family, I realize now I’d also never cried in front of them, never complained about work or opened up about how hard I found it to trust new people. I’d never even used a curse word in front of them. Their perfection hadn’t drawn me in—it had intimidated me. I spent our whole relationship auditioning, the same way I always feel when I’m with Dad, praying I’m doing enough to make the cut.
And I’m not sure why I wasted all that time and energy, because when I think about family—that thing I’d always longed for—it’s never been a Norman Rockwell painting that I picture.
It’s me and Mom, on the couch, eating microwaved corn dogs while Dial M for Murder plays on TV. It’s running out from the library at night to her car, a greasy box of Little Caesars pizza in the passenger seat, her joking, I thought we’d do Italian.
It’s being pulled away from watching the frost melt on the living room window to make stovetop hot cocoa from a packet, and that last tight hug at the end of the airport security line, and packing up cardboard boxes, knowing I’ll always have what I need, no matter how much I leave behind.
My life, five months ago, was picture perfect, but it wasn’t the picture I wanted.
And I don’t want him.
I’m totally over him.
If any part of me had wondered whether this thing with Miles was just a distraction, a rebound, or an act of vengeance, that part is brutally dispelled.
Because even now, in my misery, no part of me jumps at the chance to go back to how things were before.
“I’m sorry, Peter,” I say. “I don’t want that.”
His voice wobbles. “You can’t mean that, Daph.”
“I do,” I whisper.
The corners of his mouth twitch downward. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am, that these are ironic last words for our relationship.
It takes him several seconds, several nods and throat-clears to regain control.
Then he starts toward the door. My hosting gene kicks in and I follow, walk him out of my home and life.
He opens the door and steps into the hallway, but he doesn’t leave. Instead he stands there, maybe considering a Hail Mary, or maybe a fuck you.
Finally, he faces me. “If you need someplace to stay, you can come home while you’re looking. I’ll take the couch.”
He reads the blank expression on my face, and I see a flicker of something like smugness in his not-quite-smile.
“They’ll get back together,” he says. “You know that, right?”
I stare at him, determined not to say anything, even as a sinkhole opens in my low belly, everything collapsing as it falls through.
“He already spent all day helping her move her shit out,” he says.
“What?” I don’t mean to give him the satisfaction; it just slips out. And he pounces on it, almost smiling.
“Yesterday,” he says. “Like five minutes after we ended things, he’s there, moving her out. You honestly think they’re done with each other, Daphne?”
I tuck my elbows against my sides to keep from shaking.
