Blake lets out a deep sigh. “I asked you to marry me because I love you and I know you love me too. I don’t understand why we’re fighting when we want the same thing — to be together.”
I’m silent for a moment as I close my eyes, quietly pondering Blake’s words. Do we want the same thing? I think the problem is that we don’t, we really don’t. “Blake I … I don’t want to marry you.” A calm washes over me as it hits me that for the first time, I’m being completely honest with him.
“I don’t understand what that’s supposed to mean, Bridget. I’m not asking you to marry me tomorrow. We can take all the time we need.”
“No, you’re not understanding me. I don’t want to marry you. Not now, not ever.”
Blake is quiet for what seems like an eternity before answering. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think you’re willing to throw away five years over a stupid argument that I’m not even sure why we’re having. You’re upset. I understand that, we don’t have to talk about this now.”
“We do Blake. This is the conversation we’ve avoided since we started dating. You said it yourself; we’re so different. How can this possibly work? You deserve to be with someone who shares your interests, someone … less complicated. Neither one of us should have to apologize for being who we are. I’m tired of feeling guilty, of feeling … unfulfilled.”
“If this is about what I said about Allison, I was angry. I didn’t mean any of it.”
“I promise you it’s not. I’ve had doubts for a while, Blake. I just haven’t voiced them aloud until now.”
“I know, I know,” Blake says sadly.
“You do?” I ask surprised.
“How could I not? You’re cold, Bridget. The distance between us doesn’t go away even when I’m next to you, holding you close; I still feel like you’re thousands of miles away. When I proposed, I hoped you would see how much you mean to me, that I’m here. Where ever you are, I’m always here. I don’t know what else I can do to show you … I don’t want to lose you.”
I can feel myself going numb all over. As though the cold that Blake described is infiltrating my heart, crystallizing it and forming a cage around it. Why is it, that right now, when I should feel so much, I feel nothing at all? “Blake, did you ask me to marry you because you thought you would lose me if you didn’t?”
“Honestly, Bridget, I don't know,” Blake replies, sounding defeated.
“We have to end this Blake. You see that, don’t you? All we’ll do is hurt each other. I don’t want to tarnish the good memories we have together by living a lie. Neither of us deserves that.”
“Bridget, baby, we have so much history. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”
“No, Blake, it’s not,” I say, starting to feel the strain in my voice from having this conversation. I suddenly feel heavy, like I’m carrying a hundred pounds on my shoulders that I need to shake off. I need to be done with this conversation, done with Blake. “Stop fighting for us Blake. There’s nothing to fight for. I won’t wake up tomorrow and change my mind. I won’t regret my decision. I know this sounds cruel, but I need you to understand that this isn’t a phase or a mood. This is the end, the end of us.”
“Then I guess I have nothing left to say,” Blake responds dejectedly.
“I’ll send you the ring in the mail,” I whisper, knowing, but not caring, that I’m driving the final nail in the coffin that holds our relationship.
“Keep it. I don’t want it.” Blake says, before hanging up.
Sitting on the floor, I stare at the ring on my finger. I had just started wearing it full time this week. I thought somehow that wearing the ring meant that I was ready for marriage. With nimble fingers, I slide the ring off and place it on the table next to my futon. It’s getting late. I suppose I should cook something. I haven’t had a thing to eat since this morning.
11
Single and Ready to Mingle
“So let me get this straight, you were engaged to Blake for over two months, and now you’re single? Where was I in all of this?” Susan asks incredulously.
We're having lunch in our usual spot, the lobby restaurant of our work building. The mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread permeates the air around us. With the weather cooling off, hearty soup and sandwiches are just the thing to keep us full and our moods cheerful as the days grow dark and increasingly dreary. It is the Monday after Thanksgiving. I thought about taking more time off, but decided it would be better to immerse myself in work so I won’t have to think about Blake.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to, honestly. I wasn't sure how I felt about our engagement and thought it best to keep it private until I knew we were going through with it.”
Susan casts an accusatory glare. “If you were unsure you wanted to marry him, why did you say yes when he proposed?”
“Oh come on, that’s not a fair question. Why does anyone say yes to a marriage proposal?”
“I’m not posing a philosophical question Bridge,” Susan snickers. “I really want to know.”
“I loved him. Or, I thought I loved him. Why else?” I reply, in an isn’t that so obvious tone. “Besides, it was all so overwhelming, the way he asked. He had the room filled with roses, and his proposal was so sweet. Can you honestly tell me that if you were in the same situation, you'd say no?” I ask defensively, knowing full well that it’s unlikely Susan will sway to my line of reasoning. She’s getting married this spring, any talk of broken engagements or cold feet is far more likely to garner her ire than sympathy.
“Gosh Bridge, this isn’t an interrogation. I get it; if it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. It’s just that, from my perspective, marriage vows are sacred and if you’re not prepared to take them seriously — for better or for worse, through sickness and health — then it’s better you end things before you become too involved. I think you made the right choice. Imagine if you waited until five minutes before you walked down the aisle to admit that you don’t want to marry the guy, now that would be a disaster. As far as I’m concerned, you averted a crisis.”
“Right,” I reply, feeling like a child being reprimanded as I note the reproof in her tone. In other circumstances, I might try to defend myself. With Susan, I simply accept things as they are. There are times I disagree vehemently with her outlook on relationships, but at the end of the day I have to admit, she’s in a happy and healthy relationship, and I’m not. Perhaps I could stand to learn a thing or two from her.
“What about the ring?” Susan asks, perking up at the mere mention of the topic. “How many carats was it? Did you give it back?”
“Of course I gave it back,” I reply with a laugh. “I sent it to him. And it was very nice, not as large as the monstrosity on your finger. I think Blake said it was one and a half carats.”
The truth is that the ring is sitting on a side table in my living room, right where I left it. I have every intention of returning it to Blake. I certainly don’t want it, and it’s not as though Blake’s anticipating its return anytime soon. For now, I need distance from dealing with all Blake related subject matter. I’ll return the ring when I’m ready.
“What, this little old thing?” Susan says, holding out her hand to place her ring on full display.
“Yes, you could do some serious damage with that. Am I mistaken or has it grown in size since I last saw it?”
“You aren’t mistaken, and it has,” Susan replies cheerfully. “The first one was temporary until Greg and I could meet with the ring designer and create something more personal. I would have been perfectly happy with a less flashy design, but Greg insisted that I get a more expensive ring. He wants me to have the best of everything, and a generic engagement ring doesn’t exactly say: you’re the love of my life, at least not when you have Greg’s kind of money.”
If anyone besides Susan were to give such an immodest account of her expensive taste in jewelry, I’d roll my eyes and tune her out. Susan has a talent for making behavio
rs that I typically find tacky and arrogant seem sweet and endearing. It’s not a surprise, from the way Susan describes her circle of friends, I get the distinct impression they value opulent displays of wealth, where I don’t fit the mould at all. I could care less about diamonds or carats. That’s a world that I’ll never understand or be a part of. Besides, Susan’s had months to familiarize herself with my personality. I highly doubt her intention is to elicit a jealous reaction. She’s just telling it like it is: Greg does seem to enjoy spoiling her—he keeps her in head to toe designer. Why should her ring be any different?
“His mother was super pissed that he spent so much on my ring, but there’s nothing she could do about it. She can’t stand that he’s spreading his wings on his own, or that I encourage him to make decisions without her input. You should have seen her face when Greg asked my opinion, instead of hers, for picking out china patterns. She’s been trying to run the show for our wedding this entire time, fighting me at every turn over every little detail. Greg finally started to put his foot down with her. Now she tries to use emotional blackmail. She’ll passive aggressively say things like 'If that’s what you think dear, I’m just your mother who has raised you for 28 years, but what do I know?' But she doesn’t control his money or his heart.”
“But you control both?” I ask playfully.
“I guess so,” Susan answers with a sly flick of her eyebrow as she sips her latte. “But seriously, you might have dodged a bullet with this whole marriage business. It’s certainly not for the faint of heart. I don’t see you as the type that would go out of your way to accommodate Blake’s family, who, from what you’ve told me, are a big part of his life. I can’t imagine you’d be open to letting them play a significant role in yours.”
“You’re probably right," I respond thoughtfully. “I didn’t think that through. I never had a chance to meet his parents; and I, admittedly, was not remotely looking forward to their awkward scrutiny upon introduction. If they are anything like the horror show you’ve described of your future in-laws, I doubt I would have been tolerant of their antics. Not to mention, the whole extravagant wedding concept is a huge turn off for me; but that seems to be what happens when families get involved with major life decisions. If I ever get married, it will be a modest ceremony, without all the bells and whistles — probably at a beach on a tropical island with just me and my groom. That way I’ll avoid the strife that seems inevitable when involving other people in my personal affairs. Though it’s not likely I’ll marry anytime soon. The idea of marriage or weddings leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth.” The horrified look that takes over Susan’s face causes me to burst out laughing. “Except your wedding, which is always a riveting conversation topic.”
“I will choose to ignore your comment. But don’t think for a moment you can use your broken engagement as an excuse to back out of being my bridesmaid,” Susan says, sternly pointing her finger at me.
I reluctantly agreed to be one of Susan’s bride’s maids after one of her cousins got pregnant, making her nearly due at the time of the wedding. Which means Susan only has seven bridesmaids instead of an even eight — a catastrophic disaster in her eyes. She didn’t give me much choice. I could either agree to the task or endure her constant attempts to guilt me into the job, until her wedding day. Susan is the type who, when she sets her mind on something, generally gets what she wants. That’s something I admire about her. If only my track record were as promising.
“I’d probably have to be nine months pregnant to get out of this wedding,” I joke.
“Try severely injured with no chance of recovery,” Susan replies with a playful smile.
“Well that’s morbid, you’re starting to sound like a bridezilla.”
“A bridezilla has nothing on me,” Susan says with an airy laugh.
“Don’t worry, I’m not backing out, I wouldn’t do that. I know how important your wedding is and I want everything to run smoothly.”
“Thanks, sweetie!” Susan says, with a wink. “So, serious talk — now that you’re single and ready to mingle, what do you say I take you out for some cocktails at a charity art auction this Friday? I’ll introduce you to a few, very wealthy and highly eligible bachelor friends of Greg’s. I’m helping a friend put this charity auction together, and I promised a packed house with wealthy participants, which is why I got Greg’s company to sponsor the event. I can think of more than one guy attending who would be very interested in getting to know you.”
“Ugh, Susan I’ve been single for all of a few days, and you’re already setting me up on dates. Don’t I get a mourning period?”
“It sounds to me like you’ve been in mourning for five years. Come on Bridget, you’ve been in a long distance relationship for crying out loud. As far as I’m concerned, that’s just a relationship with your computer and phone. I didn’t want to say this, but long distance relationships are just a ticking time bomb. Eventually, time runs out, and they blow up in your face. You’re too pretty and have far too much to offer to waste any more time pining over a guy thousands of miles away. I want to see you looking like your fabulous self and letting gorgeous men shower you with all the attention and praise that you deserve — and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I guess that sounds okay, minus the cocktail. Remember, I don’t drink.”
“Right, well, we’ll get you a Shirley Temple or something," Susan says with a sly smile.
“I’ve never been to an art auction before. Won’t the primary focus be on bidding? I wouldn’t think picking up women is a priority for most of its male attendees?”
“You'd be surprised. It’s a silent auction, which means you have loads of time to strike up scintillating conversation. Besides, you’ll find most who attend these auctions fit into three groups: the serious art collectors, the impulse buyers and the posers that just want to make an appearance.
“I sincerely hope you don’t intend for me to pay thousands of dollars for a pretentious piece of art. I’ll have buyers remorse for at least a year, and that’s about as long as it would take for me to forgive you.”
“The only thing I expect of you is to be charming and gorgeous — you can proudly call yourself a poser. Do you have anything to wear? It’s black tie, so you’ll want something formal.”
“I have a cocktail dress,” I reply uncertainly, the memory of the last time I wore that dress with Blake popping in my head.
“Hmm, maybe. Or, you can borrow one of my dresses. I’ll do your hair and makeup; I’ll even drive you there. It’ll be fun. And you won’t be able to back out of going at the last minute. I know how you work.”
“I guess I don’t have a choice then,” I laugh.
“Not if I have anything to say!” Susan exclaims. “I think in our grand tradition of making toasts at lunch, we should make a new one right now. To new beginnings and a future filled with exciting new possibilities,”
“Hear, hear!” I say, raising my ice water to Susan’s latte.
12
Minimalism
I made three egregious mistakes tonight. One, I let Susan dress me, two I let Susan drive me and three, the most grievous of all, I let Susan talk me into attending this excruciatingly insipid art auction, to begin with. What was I thinking — that somehow, now that I’m single, my asocial personality would morph into a convivial one, that enjoys spending my Friday evenings around strangers with whom I appear to have nothing in common? A quick scan of the room leaves little doubt that Susan packed the place with mostly young, wealthy men from Greg’s financial circle. She probably sold them on the prospect of a large female turnout. Spanning the room, it's undeniable that Susan delivered on her promise.
All around the drinks are flowing, and men are gawking foolishly at the troves of scantily dressed women adorned in sky high heels and low cut dresses. If the scant cloth covering them can reasonably be referred to as dresses; considering their extreme lack of coverage, they’re really just fabric covering the bare min
imum of skin. I would more appropriately refer to it as lingerie. Almost every dress is either nearly entirely see through, so tight everything is spilling out, pieced together to show more skin than dress, or a combination of all three. No wonder Susan wanted to oversee my getting ready. My little black dress and three-inch stilettos would have appeared positively grandma-ish next to even the most modestly dressed woman in the room — which, by all appearances is still me. With such a display, I can’t help but wonder if the term minimalism hasn’t taken on a whole new meaning.
Susan insisted that I wear a full-length evening gown. “I have one that will look perfect on you, and it’s not too flashy. You’ll love it. Trust me!” she said. When she produced a sleeveless champagne colored gown with a lacy, high neck top and a full, flowing, organza skirt. I was surprised she owned anything so conservative. That is until I tried it on and found the top entirely see through, except where a floral lace pattern strategically covers my breasts and stomach. It’s an open back dress, with a slit on both sides of the skirt, cut all the way up to my waist — so when I walk, its legs, legs and more legs. How is it that I can feel more naked wearing an evening gown than a form-fitting cocktail dress?
Then there were the shoes, which I adamantly protested, though Susan wouldn’t hear any objections. The shoes were essential to the outfit; otherwise, the look wouldn’t be complete. She demanded that I wear her four-inch, open toe, Manolo Blahnik’s that lace up around the ankle. Four inches! Three inches is pushing it for a sensible woman who usually wears flats. I’ve never attempted four inches, and tonight I’m becoming thoroughly acquainted with the reason why — I don’t walk in them, I wobble. With every step, I feel like my ankles are in danger of snapping. But my complaints would surely be met with confused stares and little sympathy in a room of women who wear five-inch platform heels as a matter of habit.
Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1) Page 9