The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky

by Summer Heacock

  “We kept watching out of loyalty, you know? It made us so happy once, so we kept going, thinking maybe it would get awesome again, the way it was during those first few seasons. But it never did. And one day, when that stupid, judgmental Netflix question popped up—‘Are you still watching?’—we couldn’t bring ourselves to click Yes.

  “But we didn’t have the stones to click No, either. We just let that question sit on our screen, because we knew the next season would suck the life out of us, but we felt too guilty, too loyal to something that once brought us so much happiness to just walk away.”

  He looks sad as he flattens out the edges of the napkin under his glass against the table. “So you’re saying our show is over?”

  My stomach is in knots hearing him say that. But I know it’s because I can’t bear to see him hurt, not because I’m sad to see us end.

  “I’m saying that I’m afraid if we don’t hit No now, and we try to keep watching, we’re going to end up hating the show, resenting every part of it for dragging things on and ruining the memories we have of when it was wonderful and we loved every part of it.

  “Because I do love you, Ryan,” I say, truly meaning it. “But I’m already starting to resent you.”

  Slumping back in his seat, he sighs. “I think I already resent you, too.”

  I relax a little, almost happy he’s starting to read the page we’re on. “I don’t blame you at all. I’ve been a thoughtless jerk. I’m dead inside. I’m emotionally distant. And not just to you. And you’ve never once called me on it. You deserve to tell me the wrong things I’ve done, because I know I’ve done a lot of them. And quite frankly, I need to hear them.”

  He’s gaping at me, and the look in his eyes is a slot machine of emotions, spinning through anger and fear and confusion and pain and shock. I want to leap across the table and hug the hell out of him.

  “You seriously want to hear this stuff?”

  “Desperately.”

  He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. You’ve always been emotionally distant.”

  “Really? How so?” I lean forward, rapt attention given.

  His brow furrows a bit, but there’s a hint of a smile as he takes a drink. I’m still pressed against the table, secretly wishing I had a straw to plop in my wineglass so I could work on getting good and drunk without having to move.

  “Well, like the clock on the stove,” he begins, and it takes me a moment to follow his line of thinking. “Every time the power goes out, the clock resets, and I have to fix it because you don’t know how. I love doing that. It’s one of the few things you let me help you with. I love how independent you are, but at the same time, it never really feels like we’re partners. You do your thing, I do mine, but there isn’t anything you ever need from me. I guess I kind of sometimes feel like you keep me around for show, or because you don’t want to be alone.”

  It is definitely my nature to want to slam my hands on the table and argue the shit against what he’s just said, but I don’t. I take a long, slow breath and say, “I’m sorry I ever let you feel that way. But this is good. What else?”

  “Honestly,” he continues, “I still can’t believe you told me to go sleep with other people.”

  “Wait, really? I thought that was, like, being the best girlfriend ever. Just because I couldn’t have sex didn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

  He shakes his head, and a wave of freshly realized frustration wafts over him. “I didn’t acknowledge it or anything, but it kind of hurt me. I wasn’t having sex with you just because I wanted to have sex and you were the closest chick. We’re a couple. I wanted to sleep with you.

  “I admit I didn’t go too crazy insisting you let me help out with all that couples therapy stuff your doctor gave you. That’s definitely something I put in the ‘Kat’s got this’ category. But at the same time, it kind of sucked that you cut me out of the process entirely after that. You wouldn’t even talk to me about it.”

  I’m stunned. My face is set in an unflattering trout-like expression, and I can’t seem to form words anymore.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he says, tilting his beer on the table. “But you asked, and it’s how I feel.”

  A manic, hysterical noise tears out of my throat, and I pick up my wineglass, draining every last drop of pinot noir in three giant gulps.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, appropriately terrified.

  “I am so, so sorry I ever made you feel like that,” I insist, wiping a drop of wine off my chin with my wrist. “I’m a monster.”

  “You’re not—”

  “But I am!” I interrupt. “Jesus, I had no idea I was acting like this. Like that.” I shake my head as the haze of wine settles in. “When I suggested you sleep with other people, I think a big part of me was a lot less concerned with your sexual needs being met than with wanting to not have to think about them. To not constantly worry about how my action, or inability to get action, was affecting you.

  “But the rest of me felt so goddamn guilty about not being able to fix things immediately, and I was feeling so pressured to get it right. I mean, if we’re laying it all out here, I’ve been bitter as hell with you for that. It was crazy hard for me to ask you to do that couples therapy with me, and when you blew it all off, I felt so stupid for letting myself rely on someone else for a minute. I knew I wasn’t going to just magically be able to have sex again, but you didn’t seem to have any motivation to fix us, and I felt like I was drowning in responsibilities. But you never said anything about feeling hurt when I suggested the break!” I slump in my chair, feeling a bit defeated and a little tipsy, not at all related to the wine. “I’m such an asshole.”

  “I’m an asshole, too,” he says with an exaggerated wink. “I should never have made you feel bad for asking for help. I should have stepped up. I thought it was all weird, but I never stopped to put myself in your shoes and get over myself enough to help out.” I almost want to smile at hearing the thing I’ve suspected for two years confirmed, but it’s all too depressing. “I guess it’s good we figured all this out, right? I actually feel a lot better right now.” He reaches across the table and taps my hand, grinning. “I’m sad that we aren’t ‘us’ anymore, but it’s not like we hate each other, and we both made it out alive.”

  I look up at him and feel a horrible pinch in my stomach. Part of that is chugged wine on an empty stomach, but mostly, it’s guilt. So much bitter, choking guilt. I’ve learned nothing. I’m doing to Ben exactly what I did to Ryan.

  I’m on a history-repeating loop, and all it’s getting me is a trail of hurt feelings and perpetually broken nethers.

  I’m stuck in a circle of selfishness and denial.

  Ryan’s expression is kind. He’s not holding on to his pain, and bless him for that. I hate myself so hard for ever having given him pain to let go.

  I’m almost thirty. How do I have exactly no self-awareness of how I make other people feel?

  “So,” I say, using everything I’ve got to push a genuine smile onto my face. “Tell me about Alice?”

  43

  Ryan and I talk for another forty-five minutes about life and letting go. I tell him all about Ben and what had happened with the therapy sex, and my own stupidity. Ryan is amazingly understanding about everything, and impressively happy that I’ve managed to break the sexless streak, even if it was without him. He tells me about Alice and how he doesn’t know where their relationship is going, but he really does enjoy being with her.

  He even admits near the end that he does feel a spark with her that he hasn’t felt with us in ages, but has been ignoring due to feeling like the worst kind of human.

  I assure him I am beyond familiar with that feeling.

  I think his good thing with Alice definitely contributes to his understanding of Ben.

  Or
it’s just the final confirmation that Ryan and I were done a hell of a long time ago without either of us acknowledging it.

  By the time we’ve finished our official parting of ways and our second round of drinks, he seems like he is in a really good place. And while hearing the reality of my behavior stings in a way I didn’t know souls could be wounded, I’m grateful to have the pain as a reminder to do better.

  I leave the bar and walk through the city. And keep walking.

  I walk and walk until my feet hurt, my brain swirling with the events of the last month. The last two years. The last decade or so.

  Somehow, as though my body is magnetized to the North Star that is Cup My Cakes, I find myself standing in the kitchen, all dark and quiet and locked down for the night. Cakes for tomorrow’s orders lie on the racks, waiting to be festooned with delicious decorations.

  I want to make something better. I want to make an improvement somewhere. Giving the kitchen a deep cleaning seems like a good place to start, but even after grabbing a roll of paper towels and spray cleaner, I can’t find anything that isn’t already pristine.

  We run a tight and notably hygienic ship here.

  I sit down at the desk, and when I set the cleaner bottle down, my elbow bumps into the laptop, jostling it out of sleep mode.

  I’m suddenly struck by inspiration, and before I even realize what I’m doing, the printer is screeching out an invoice. I grab it, the paper still warm, and race back outside, arms flailing to hail a cab.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m not entirely sure I have the right apartment, but I knock anyway. I listen carefully and hear padding footsteps. A moment later, the door opens and a visibly surprised Ben stands on the other side.

  “Kat? Wh-what are you doing here?”

  I shift my weight awkwardly. “Are you still too angry to talk?”

  “I...no,” he stammers. “No, come in.” He moves out of the way, and I walk in past him. “Um, how did you know where I live?”

  My eyes go a bit shifty. “Um, you put your address on your cupcake orders. I kind of hoped that wasn’t creepy to do, since you’ve been to my place a few times.”

  He looks amused, so I let out a relieved breath. “I admire the detective skills.”

  “I like your place,” I say, and I mean it. It’s got a geeky man cave vibe to it. It’s small but comfortable. The far wall is a giant window that overlooks the city. It’s a hell of a view. His living room is divided into two sections. One half has a small couch aimed at a wall-mounted television, the other half a desk with three computer monitors set up on it. There’s a small fish tank on a bookshelf by the desk, which I find tremendously charming. The adjacent wall has framed posters. A pop art Iron Man, and the “I want to believe” poster famous from The X-Files, but with a TARDIS flying in the background instead of a UFO. I smile.

  He looks a little embarrassed. “I, uh, well. Thanks.”

  “You’re not wearing a suit,” I point out. He is, in fact, wearing a T-shirt with what appears to be his hospital’s logo on it, a pair of jeans and no shoes.

  “I’m at home. No suits at home.”

  This is impossibly awkward. He seems just as aware of it as I am.

  “We got your flowers at the shop,” I say. “They were lovely, thank you. And everyone else says thanks, too.”

  He shifts his weight from foot to foot and looks down at the floor. “You’re welcome.”

  My goal to move things away from awkward isn’t working, so I go with it. “Why did you send flowers if you’re mad at me?”

  He looks confused. “I can be mad at you and still care about you.”

  “So you are still mad at me?”

  He sighs. “A bit.”

  “You should be,” I admit.

  His head tilts uncomfortably. “Again, thank you for your permission.”

  Resisting the instinct to bristle, I say, “I broke up with Ryan. Officially this time.”

  Ben looks torn about his response. Shifting slightly on his feet, he finally says, “Oh. I’m sorry about that.”

  I shrug. “I’m not. I’m sorry I let it drag on so long that people got hurt, but I’m not sorry we both finally realized we weren’t the right fit.”

  He nods—it looks almost involuntary—and offers, “Well, then I’m happy for you.”

  “Butter yelled at me,” I divulge.

  “You’re really making the rounds. Why’d she yell at you?”

  “She said I’ve been treating you like a sex doll.”

  His expression freezes for a moment, and he blinks a few times. “That’s...that’s not quite how I would have put it, but she’s got a point.”

  A nervous gust of air whooshes out of me. “Ben, I’m sorry. Truly, genuinely sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’m so unbelievably horrified that I did. I’ve been selfish and awful, and I regret every part of it.

  “This whole thing was my fault. From staying in a dying relationship for four years without stopping to ask why it was dying, to pretending like that hasn’t been completely messing with me this entire time—I did all this to myself. And I tried to ignore the stupid disorder, and then it came up and punched me in the face, and now here I am. All of this could have been avoided. Literally, years of emotional bullshit could have been avoided by me just accepting that I don’t have all the answers. But nope. I made rules. I thought they’d protect me from my own stupidity.

  “But I’m broken. A big part of me is broken, and that terrifies me—and I don’t just mean my vagina, by the way. I’ve known it for two years and have been doing everything I could to just avoid it. I’m sorry it felt like I was using you, because that’s absolutely not what I intended to do. There were so many times when I was with you and wanted to be with you—like, really be with you—and feeling that way scared me to death. And yes, it’s stupid, I get that. And yes, I understand now that I’ve been self-sabotaging this entire time because I’ve got no clue what I’m doing, but I’m a big ol’ control freak, and this was easier than admitting that.

  “I swear, you’re not just a dick to me, Ben. And if I’ve ever made you feel like that, I am so, so sorry.” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “And now I’m crying, god. I don’t cry. And yet this is twice now. I’m not a crier, Ben.”

  He moves a little closer to me and quietly asks, “Can I hug you?” I sniffle and nod, feeling just about as low as I’ve ever felt. I could be standing here naked and I don’t think I’d feel this exposed. He very carefully wraps his arms around me and pulls me in close.

  “Is this a hug because I’m crying and you feel uncomfortable and don’t know what else to do, or because you’re maybe forgiving me a little?”

  He rests his chin in my hair. “Probably a bit of both.”

  My fingers pull on his shirt. “I appreciate the honesty.”

  He sighs. “I knew all of that stuff, Kat. Believe it or not, I’ve been paying attention. And I didn’t always agree with your methods, but I understood. You were dealing with things in your own way.”

  I pull away and stare at him. “So I didn’t have to spill all that out and turn into a blubbering mess?”

  He’s still got his arms around my shoulders when he says, “Actually, it’s nice to see you open up.”

  “If you knew all of that, then why are you angry with me?”

  His arms drop, and he sighs again. It bothers me how cold and lonely my shoulders feel without his arms there. “Because I’ve spent the last month paying attention and you haven’t. And I get it—you’ve had a hell of a lot going on. But like I said the other night, at some point, Kat, I kind of feel like you should have picked up on who I am, too.”

  “But I did!” I argue, feeling tears well up again. I angrily brush them away. “I did, okay? I absolutely saw who you are the entire time! I’ve spent t
he last few weeks falling ass over ankles for you, and the whole time I’ve told myself that I couldn’t, that I wasn’t supposed to, because it was against the rules, or I wasn’t ready. Or at least, I thought I wasn’t ready.” A frustrated sound escapes me. “I was afraid to be ready. Whatever. But I was paying attention, too, Ben. I might not have let either of us know that, but I was.”

  His hand jumps to his stomach where his tie should be and comes up empty. He tugs at his shirt instead. “And now?”

  I swallow hard. “Now I’m ready. I’m ready to try, anyway.”

  Shaking his head, he steps back and says, “No, that’s not what I want, Kat. I don’t want you to think you have to push yourself into something because I got angry with you.”

  “Ugh,” I growl. “You’re not listening to me! I’m not pushing myself into anything, Ben. I’ve been pulling myself back for weeks, and I’m tired of that. After our night together, I tried to tell myself it was time to go to Ryan, and I actually went over there the next day. But you know what? Instead of being excited that I was done with the deadline crap and about to start fresh with him, all I could think about was you, and how it all meant I wouldn’t get to see you or be with you the same way, and I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to do it. All I was thinking about when I was there was how I wanted to see you and apologize and fix things. And maybe that makes me a horrible person for even going over there in the first place, but I think we’ve established I’m not exactly in line for sainthood.

  “And when I say ‘be with you,’ I’m not just talking about sex. I’m not saying I want to run and go get it on. I’m saying I want to try being with you. Whatever that entails.” My eyes burn, and I close them for a moment. “Look, this is all really difficult for me, okay? I know I come off all sassy and like I’m not invested in things, but this is all manner of scary. This is me realizing that I’ve been willing to trust you this entire time with my physical well-being, which was this huge deal to begin with, and now I’m trusting you with my stupid emotions. That’s something I haven’t done with anyone since—well, maybe forever. I’m feeling vulnerable as fuck here, Ben. It’s a big moment, personal growth–wise.” I stand up straight, realizing how much I’ve just laid out there. “I don’t want you to feel pressured by all of that, either. I understand I’ve made a pretty solid mess of things, but I wanted to be honest with you. I should have been more open with you and everyone, including myself, from the start.