Only I broke things off with him, and the agitation’s only growing.”
“Okay, wait a minute. So you think it’s a sign when you get anxious in a relationship, and it means you need to break it off?”
“Yeah. Like it’s my gut telling me things aren’t going to work, and I should stop before things get too deep.”
“Wait, wait, wait. That’s why you never date anyone for more than a couple months?”
“Yes, but the thing is, this time it didn’t work. I’m still anxious. And now I’m totally confused.”
“Story, did you ever stop to consider that anxiety isn’t instinct, it’s fear?”
That lands like a missile between my eyes.
I can’t even answer.
“What if the anxiety is because you’re afraid to get too close to someone not an intuition that it’s not going to work out?”
Huh. My tears stop falling. That feels right.
Like it could be true.
“So you pushed this guy away, and now you’re scared because you think you lost him.”
“I don’t know…”
“Maybe you do know.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “You think you’re so wise just because you’re the only one in the family who’s kept a relationship more than three years.”
“Well, Mom and Dad did. But they did it so badly it made all the rest of us think relationships are impossible.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s because I had Joe.”
“Yep. Joe’s the best,” I agree, my heart suddenly aching with longing for Oleg.
Oleg is a hundred times better than Joe, in my opinion. Oleg is the perfect man.
What if I am anxious because I lost him not because I was supposed to leave him?
What if he’s my Joe? The one.
My forever-after?
I pull up in front of my mom’s apartment and park. She’s waiting on the front step, despite the cold.
“Hey, Mom.” I pull her into a hug.
“I kicked him out,” she says, bursting into tears. “And now… I think I want him back.”
I cry with her. “I did the same thing, Mom. And I think it was a mistake.”
Oleg
Saturday night, I shower and put on a clean shirt and jeans. I shave my face and use some of Maxim’s aftershave, and then I drive to Rue’s.
Wednesday I mailed a hand-written letter to Story. It took me forever because I typed into the iPad first to make sure I spelled the English right, but I wanted it to be hand-written not printed or emailed. It said,
STORY,
My beautiful lastochka.
I failed you. I thought I was doing the right thing by leaving for your safety, but I realize now that you never wanted to be safe. You wanted to be able to depend on me. And by abandoning you, I proved myself undependable.
I want you to know I respect your wish to end our relationship, but you are my life’s purpose.
Being your rock.
Keeping you safe.
Watching you perform.
These are the things I live and breathe for.
So I’m not going to stop coming to your shows. I won’t stop ensuring you get home safely. I’ll be there for you in any way you want me. To catch you when you dive off the stage or to carry in your equipment or just to sit in the corner and never make contact again.
You can depend on me.
I fucked up, but I won’t do it again. Not ever.
I’m your rock. You can rely on me.
I promise.
Ya lyublyu tebya. I love you.
Oleg
She didn’t call or text after getting it. Hell, I don’t know if she even read it. Maybe she just threw the thing in the trash. Not because she despises me-I don’t think that’s the case. But because it was too painful for her.
She’s trying to make a clean break.
That’s the biggest weight that hangs over my head as I park in the lot behind Rue’s Lounge. I didn’t come early enough to get my table because I didn’t want to piss Story off. I didn’t want to fluster her before her performance or make her think she had to talk to me.
I slip in now after she’s started her first set. The place is hopping. The Storytellers are rocking the Jane’s Addiction song, “Jane Says.” Story’s hair is back to platinum blonde, and she’s wearing a dark shade of lipstick that makes her eyes pop.
I slip in and stand against the back wall. I hope when she sees me, she doesn’t ask me to leave. I pray she’s read the letter and understands that I have to be here. I have to prove to her I am the man she believed me to be.
Annie, one of the cocktail waitresses, brings me a beer without my asking.
Story slips into one of her original songs and then another. Their performance is flawless, and yet I see the wear of the week on her. She doesn’t smile or bounce as much. She’s just smooth and professional.
And then she sees me. Her gaze lands on me and sticks, but she doesn’t falter singing the words or strumming her chords.
She expected me.
So she read my letter.
She finishes her song and paces the front of the stage. “Hey. I’ve been working on a new song, do you want to hear it?”
I clap my hands as the crowd cheers.
“It’s about this guy. You probably know him. He usually sits right there.” She points at my table where some other assholes are sitting tonight.
I go still.
“I let him into my life recently, and it was good. Really good. But sometimes we run from things in our life that are good. Because having them would give us something worth losing, you know?”
She shoots a pained look my way, and people turn to see who she’s looking at.
There he is. That’s the guy she climbs, I hear the regulars saying.