When Girlfriends Break Hearts

by Savannah Page

  I stood up and started emptying a dresser drawer full of my socks and undergarments into an empty Louis Vuitton valise, a high school graduation present from my grandparents.

  “All of a sudden you decide you don’t want to do this anymore!” I said. “It’s normal that couples have tiffs. Whatever is going on at work, we can deal with that. I can be there for you, but clearly you don’t want that.” I slammed the dresser drawer shut and opened its neighbor.

  “Sophie…” He came up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged it off. His touch was as unwelcome as I was in his life. He tried again, and I spun, fixing him with a deathly glare.

  “Sophie,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. But this is something I have to do.” His eyes were empty. His touch was cold. And his words were meaningless.

  “We’re not right for each other anymore. We’ve changed. Our lives and situations have changed,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “What in God’s name has changed?”

  “Stuff.” He removed his hand from my shoulder and shrugged. “Just stuff. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I don’t need a reason. It’s a feeling thing.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “It’s been fun,” he said. “But let’s face it. These past few weeks have been…well…different. And I’m not happy. You don’t seem happy. Maybe you are…but I’m not.”

  “You selfish bastard.” I slammed the second dresser drawer (apparently I’d already cleared it by throwing its contents around the room sometime earlier). “I don’t know how you can live with yourself doing this. Saying this.” The tears kept streaming down my face. “I mean,” I stammered. “How can you just not love someone, and quit, and not really give a reason?”

  “My reason is I don’t love you anymore. And I don’t want to be with you. We aren’t supposed to be together.”

  “Well then,” I said, wiping the tears from my flushed cheeks. “I’ll be out of here soon. I’ll gather the rest of my things. Anything I can’t fit in the car, I’ll come by and get during the week sometime.” I was leaving room for an objection. Maybe he would realize that this whole ordeal was ridiculous. That he did love me and the thought of seeing me drive off, leaving his apartment, our apartment, for good would make him see that he was being a complete fool.

  But I sadly received no objection.

  “That will be fine,” was his response. “If you need help taking some of your furniture I can haul it over for you this week.”

  An insignificant sentence, but one that hit with brutal reality. Making the arrangements for my sofa, of all things, to be taken—no, hauled—from the apartment was the final sign: our relationship was dead. I had been reduced to the inconvenient woman in Brandon’s life who had a sofa that needed removal from his now-Bachelor-pad. Pathetic.

  Later that afternoon, once the last bag had been packed and the last kitchen appliance crammed into the lone remaining crevice of my cerulean Prius, I turned to look up at the brownstone apartment that had been home for the past three years. The rain that often plagued Seattle, especially in the early spring, had become nothing but a depressing drizzle. Under it I stood, without an umbrella, soaked through by tears and the dreary downpour. It was as clichéd a moment you could imagine.

  Almost everything that I owned had been packed into my tiny economical car. I never really had much large-scale stuff anyhow. Once Brandon and I moved in together I had sold or donated most all of the furniture that I owned from when my best friend, Claire Linley, and I had lived together in our college campus apartment. The large items that stuck through the relationship were my sofa, a full length mirror we had propped in the corner of our bedroom, and my small, albeit useful, wine cooler. Had I had a larger car I would have grabbed that baby, too, as I put that wine cooler up at the top of my “must have list” right with my one pair of Jimmy Choos, my favorite Coach bag, my nonstick cookware, and a pair of knockoff designer jeans that I pretend are authentic and treat as if they are “the real deal.” But my tree-hugging self wouldn’t trade in my Prius for any of those favorites. Alright, maybe if the wine cooler came fully stocked with hard-to-find vintages.

  I looked up at Brandon, who was standing on the brick steps that led up to the apartment that would no longer be my home. Apartment 3B, Sycamore Way would be no more. Brandon would be no more. There would be no more “us.”

  He walked down the three large front steps and approached me. Even at my rather tall height of five foot nine, Brandon still towered over me, standing at a strong and virile six foot five. I sucked in a breath of air. My tears had stopped a few armloads ago; I didn’t want them to resume. At least not until I was already in my car with my past a few blocks behind me.

  He leaned in and gently kissed me on the cheek. “Goodbye, Soph.”

  I took another sharp breath in, really choking back the tears, but inhaling his beautiful scent. He always smelled so good. I wished at that very moment he would wrap me in his arms, hold me tight, and tell me that he was sorry and didn’t mean anything he had said. He would tell me that he did love me and wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. That there was no doubt in his mind that I was the woman for him.

  But that never happened.

  “I won’t be coming to pick up the rest of my stuff,” I told him coldly. “I’ll have a friend come by. No need for you to bring it to me.” I looked away, feeling tears about to surface yet again and not wanting to do anything to encourage them, like looking into Brandon’s deep brown eyes, however lifeless they may have become. They were still the eyes to the soul that I had fallen in love with.

  “I understand,” he said. “You take care of yourself.”

  I rolled my eyes. Take care of myself? That’s the best you can come up with? I walked around to the driver’s side of the car and opened my door.

  “Bye, Brandon. I can’t believe this is happening, but apparently this is what you want. So…have a nice life.”

  With nothing more to say, and with an onrush of tears just waiting to pour forth, I got into my car and drove off, out of Brandon’s life…forever.

  Chapter Two

  Alright, so forever isn’t exactly true. I knew that my controlling self would manage some way to see Brandon again. Whether to say my final piece after I had had enough time grieving over the loss, or to come running back into his arms once he came to his senses and realized that life without me was as pointless as low fat, low carb anything. I know myself well enough to know that Brandon and I would cross paths yet again—most likely because I refused to put the issue to bed.

  Dear Brandon, I typed.

  I sat at my old, white MacBook I had used throughout college, the last of its kind in the new aluminum age of Apple, and began to compose the email to Brandon that I had been hemming and hawing over for the past three weeks. I had had some time to cool off after that horrible day he decided to call quits on our relationship, and with as much rationale as I could conjure and as much courage as I could muster, I decided that now was the time to ask those unanswered questions. Brandon’s reasoning couldn’t be all there was to it; there had to be more to the story. Or if the story remained that he simply didn’t love me anymore, then at least I needed closure. I needed that moment where I could go to Brandon and tell him, face-to-face, my personal thoughts, share my feelings, and somehow accept the fate of our relationship

  I started typing again.

  I don’t know where to begin, but I’ve got to start somewhere. I have so many questions and I fear you have little or no answers, but I want to try.

  I pulled my fingers away from the keys. I knew that I probably should have heeded Claire’s advice, whose house I now called home. I had run by her the idea of sending Brandon an email, and Claire, in all of her kindness and wisdom, told me that that was right up there with one of my worst ideas ever. “That’s as bad an idea as when you wanted to go to Arkansas for spring break to visit historical bath houses,” she told me.

  Dee
p down I knew she was right. I mean, this girl has been with the same amazing boyfriend, Conner Whitley, since our freshman year of college. She knows a thing or two about good and lasting relationships, so I was pretty sure she knew what was no bueno. But love knows no boundaries…or a controlling personality knows no boundaries. Not really sure which is more true. So I resumed my typing.

  But I have to know why this happened. Did I do something to make you fall out of love with me? What did I do to hurt you? Is this my fault? I need to know, Brandon. I hurt so much and even if there’s no hope or chance of us getting back together, I want to know why it all happened. Don’t you think you owe me at least an explanation?

  “Hey, Sophie,” Claire said as she came into my bedroom, making me jump up out of my folding desk chair. “Sorry for scaring you.”

  I turned towards her, pulling my computer screen closed a bit, trying to keep Claire from seeing the no-no I was composing; I was not in the mood for a lecture, however kind or brief (which were often the type of lectures Claire would give).

  “What are you doing?” she asked, popping a Baked Cheeto into her mouth, her thumb and index finger stained a bright, artificial orange. “Looking at porn?” She smiled, holding her snack-size pack of Cheetos out to me. I shook my head.

  “Emails,” I said nonchalantly.

  “Uh huh.” Her tone was exaggerated and she popped another cheesy snack into her mouth. “You wouldn’t happen to be emailing Brandon, would you?”

  Claire knew me like I knew myself—maybe better. We had clicked perfectly during freshman orientation, and we had roomed together throughout our college careers since the second semester. Both of us decided to rush for a sorority during that first month of college and both of us undeniably agreed that the “sisterhood” wasn’t for us. Instead we formed a sisterhood of our own, and by next term we changed dorms and became the best live-ins.

  Sophomore year we moved from the all-female dormitories to the co-ed halls, remaining double-room roommates, and junior year we got on the on-campus apartment list and found ourselves to be even better apartment roommates. Our third floor, two-bed, two-bath apartment was our home for the remainder of our undergraduate studies at the University of Washington (U Dub). Without a bicker, we shared the cleaning responsibilities, and the cost of everything from the electric bill to the delivered half-Hawaiian, half-extra cheese pizzas during The Office nights. And of course if it wasn’t an Office night then reruns with TV-on-DVD were always an answer. And failing that, there was always Sex and the City.

  As often as we were connected at the hip, we also respected each other’s personal space and privacy, especially when I had a new love interest over for a “study date,” or her boyfriend, Conner, would come over for some “time alone.” Our dorm was tight but our friendship even tighter. Those bonds only solidified when we moved into the apartment together.

  Conner was over so often it was as if he was a third roommate, but it never bothered me. He made Claire happy and he treated her like a princess, and I considered him to be one of my best guy friends. Sometimes it was like he was “one of the girls.”

  I loved the time that Claire and I got to spend together as roommates at college, but when it was time to move on and take off the graduation caps, pack up the text books, sign on the dotted job line, and lug out the last cardboard box from our college apartment, I understood that Claire and Conner wanted to take the next step in their four-year-long relationship. They found an adorable three-bedroom house for rent in a genteel neighborhood of Madison Park, just a quick and convenient district away from Claire’s and Conner’s offices.

  As for my living arrangements after college, I had found a simple one-bedroom apartment for rent, but once Brandon and I became serious I did away with that gig. When Brandon decided to call halt on that, Claire (and Conner) came to my rescue. They invited me to move in to their third bedroom, Claire baked me a welcome cake, and Conner picked up my sofa, mirror and wine cooler. I think Claire was keen to have me move in with her because she missed facial and back rub nights that we’d do in the company of the latest Hugh Grant or Johnny Depp film. I think Conner had his eye on the wine cooler.

  My new living arrangement was warm and inviting and probably the only thing going right in my life at this point. Three years out of college and no boyfriend. I had a great job working for a catering and bakery outfit, but it was the same place I’d been employed when I was a student. Enjoyable enough, but I wanted to run my own bakery and café—even if it was just a dream.

  At least I had my best friend at my side, and now just one bedroom door away. Like old times.

  The bummer with that, though, was that she’d catch me doing things I knew I shouldn’t be doing, like writing desperate and pathetic emails to ex-boyfriends.

  “Sophie,” Claire said in a motherly tone. She tossed the bag of Cheetos on the desk. “I told you that’s a bad idea.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I need closure. This is the only way I know how to get it. I figure I can send him an email, and if he responds then maybe I’ll get my closure. If he doesn’t, then—”

  “Then what?” she interrupted. “Then you’ll email again? And again? Visit him? Try to get back together with him? Do something you shouldn’t do?”

  “Look,” I said, opening my computer back up. “I just want to try this. If I don’t hear from him in a few days then I’ll think about what to do next. But for now I just want to do this.”

  She looked at me with that adoring look Claire often has when she’s sympathetic.

  “If you need to do this for you, then okay,” she said. “But don’t do any of this hoping to get back with him. Don’t hurt yourself. He’s done enough of that for you. I say just accept what happened and move on. Let go and move on. He’s not worth your time.”

  She was right. That was the worst part. I knew she was right and I was going against her well-advised words. I was writing Brandon because I couldn’t let go and I couldn’t move on. And I didn’t want to. But if I had to move on then I wanted closure…on my terms. I had to be in control of my life again, and the only way to do that was by seeing Brandon again and trying to find out why things had happened the way they had.

  “Claire, I know what I’m doing,” I said. I smiled weakly. “I just have to do this.” I turned back toward my computer, ready to finish what I had started.

  She snagged her bag of artificial flavors and headed towards my door, her bouncy, curly golden locks swaying as she jumped up.

  “I love you, Sophie,” she said. “You deserve a man to love you, but the right man. Don’t waste your time with less than what you deserve.” With that she closed my door behind her, leaving me, however much she may have objected, to finish the email that we both knew I should not have sent.

  ***

  “Did you send it?” Claire asked, moving her plastic yellow car piece across the Life game board.

  It was Friday night, which most likely meant we’d be calling some pizza or Chinese delivery chain to bring us a sodium-packed and greasy dinner. Which also meant we’d soon be surfing through the Netflix list of documentaries available to watch on the instant streaming queue. The three of us were dorks like that. There wasn’t a Michael Moore or Ken Burns film we weren’t ga-ga over.

  “Yup,” I said, walking into the kitchen to grab a crisp bottle of Perrier from the fridge. “Feels good.”

  “Well, if you needed to do that, then good for you, Sophie. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Give me a little blue person,” Conner said, holding his palm out to Claire. “I got a boy.”

  Claire and Conner were official board game enthusiasts, and now and again they’d sucker me into playing with them.

  “If he doesn’t answer you you’re not going to go all crazy, are you?” Claire asked. She spun the dial and advanced her car. “I mean, we’ve established that he’s a jackass. He didn’t talk to Conner at all when he went to pick up your stuff. I mea
n, I’m not surprised since it’s all awkward and everything…Conner being friends with you…and you living here…and he’s my boyfriend and I’m your best friend. But Conner did tell him that what he did was pretty low and all that jerk had to say was, ‘That’s life.’ I mean, Sophie, that’s pretty crappy. He’s seriously not worth any more of your time or thoughts.”

  “Claire,” I started, “I know all of this, but the point is that I need closure. I don’t know if he’ll answer, and yeah, I’ll be waiting on pins and needles for that email, but I can’t just not do this. I have to know why he broke up with me.”

  “He’s just a douche,” Conner said in his laid-back-guy sort of way. “Pretty simple.”

  Cocking my head sideways, I gave Conner a “get real” look. “I know he’s a jerk, but there has to be a reason. He owes me something. An explanation of some sort.”

  “I agree with you,” Claire said, “but just don’t expect to get one. If he does email you, great. If he doesn’t, don’t be surprised. He’s not exactly mature, you know?”

  She was right, as usual, but I was prepared, no matter how painful or mentally agonizing, to wait eagerly for my iPhone to vibrate with an indication that I had an email from Brandon.

  “Yeah, and it’s Friday the thirteenth,” Conner added. “You know no good comes from that, right? You couldn’t have picked a worse day to deliver that kind of an email to a douche bag.”

  I pulled my cell phone out from my sweater pocket. “Chinese or pizza?” I asked, opening my address book. “And I’m asking Claire, not you, Conner.” He shot me a puppy dog look of sadness. “It’s Friday the thirteenth,” I added. “And no good comes from that, right? Looks like you’ll be going hungry tonight.” I smiled. Joking around with Conner was pretty much the foundation of our friendship. At least one man in my life wasn’t a total jerk.