by Phoebe Fox
My mother picked that moment to turn around, mouth open to say something. But whatever she saw in my expression softened her face. “Oh, honey,” she said quietly instead.
From the time Stu and I were little, those words were the most soothing balm for any wound. I hadn’t heard them in years.
My tears spilled over, but before I could reach up to swipe them away, my mother cupped my face in her hands and wiped them with her thumbs. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I said bitterly. “It’s my own fault. I deserve this.”
“How do you deserve this?”
“I cheated on Ben.” It was hard to say the words to her—I couldn’t imagine she’d have much sympathy for her daughter who had done to someone the very thing my father had once done to her. “I broke his heart, and then I cheated on him.”
My mother frowned and dropped her hands from my face. “No, you didn’t.”
That shocked my tears dry. “What?”
She turned back to the tagine. “From what Sasha told me, you and Ben broke up before this other boy. Didn’t you?”
“Well...I don’t know. Technically, I guess. But still, it’s not like we’d been apart for months, or even weeks. Don’t you think it was a little precipitous on my part to jump right from one guy to another?” And by precipitous, I meant slutty.
Mom turned back around. “Brook Lyn, you’re the smartest woman I know. How can you sometimes be so stupid?”
I gaped at her, not sure whether to be flattered at her unprecedented compliment or angry at the insult that followed immediately on its heels. “What do you...I don’t—”
“It’s like you don’t trust that you’re enough.”
Wonder where that came from, I thought wryly.
Luckily Mom couldn’t read my mind and blithely went on. “There was Michael, then Kendall, now this boy—or boys. And even before all that—always someone.” She lifted her eyebrows and pursed her lips in such a caricature of distaste, I had to stifle a snort. “When will you realize you don’t need anyone else’s approval?”
“Including yours?” I said, trying not to let sarcasm drip too heavily from my words.
My mother gave a great sigh and shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The laugh that erupted out of my mouth startled us both. “That was funny, Mom.”
“I’m a very funny person, Brook Lyn. You kids just don’t realize it.”
Was that another joke?
She flipped off the burner. “Get me a bowl for this, please.”
I obeyed, and my mother ladled some of the stew into it and nodded toward my breakfast bar. “Sit. I’ll bring you a spoon.”
I took a seat on one of my cheap wooden bar stools and Mom set the bowl in front of me, whirling away to seek out the silverware drawer, asking where I kept my napkins. As she busied herself, she talked.
“You and this boy—this Ben—you broke up?”
“Yes,” I said to the tagine—which was spicy and hot and delicious.
“And why did you do that?”
I regarded the fresh spoonful I’d just shoveled up, thick with carrot and zucchini and a chunk of lamb. “I don’t know. It was idiotic.”
“You’re not an idiot. So why did you do it?” She’d found a glass in my cupboard and filled it with ice and water, and she plunked it down in front of me.
I sighed, thinking while I chewed and then swallowed. Mom was standing facing me with hands on hips, clearly not budging until she got an answer to her inquisition. “I don’t kn—” She fixed me with a hairy eyeball and I sighed again. “Okay, fine. I guess because I wasn’t brave enough to...to take a chance with him. To, you know, move things to the next level.”
“Well, I had no idea my daughter was such a coward. And so shallow.”
My spine shot straight and every hair on my body bristled. I should have known my mother couldn’t keep up this weirdly sympathetic version of herself. “I’m not a coward,” I fired back angrily. “And I’m not shallow—I really cared about him. I still do. I just wasn’t ready for something more serious yet. There’s no shame in that!”
My mother just looked at me. Then she turned away, crouching to rummage under my kitchen sink. “Well, if you knew that wasn’t what you wanted right now, then that’s all there is to it,” she said mildly. “Nothing anyone can do about their feelings, unless they want to pretend and fake it to someone they really care about. But it seems to me like that’s a much unkinder thing to do.”
I stared dumbfounded at her as she sifted through the cleaning products in my cabinet.
She stood up, holding a can of oven cleaner that she stared at as if wondering how it came to be in her hands. “There was a time when I wasn’t sure what I wanted anymore, Brook Lyn...so I ended up leaving your father.” Her gaze rose up to hold mine. “I came back. But I had to have time on my own before I could know that that was what I wanted.”
I had no idea whether she was talking about when she moved out to live in theater housing full-time last spring—or when he’d cheated on her when we were babies. But Mom didn’t know I knew about that.
And it didn’t matter. I heard what she was saying.
“Thanks, Ma,” I said quietly. She set the saucepan in the sink, running water into it. “Hey, Mom…I’m not the smartest woman you know.”
She glanced up. “What? Who’s...”
I just smiled at her, and my mother rolled her eyes and made a tsk noise, waving me off. “Finish that up,” she said, indicating my tagine. “And don’t leave the dishes in the sink—they draw roaches.”
“Okay, Ma.”
She set the unused oven cleaner on my counter and reached for her purse. “And take a shower tomorrow, and put on real clothes. And for God’s sake, put some lipstick on.”
“I will.”
She stopped on her way out of the kitchen and turned around, not quite looking at me. “Cowgirl up, Brook Lyn.”
“I love you, Mom.”
She left, but not before I saw her smile.
twenty-seven
Early the next morning, as I prepared for my radio appearance, I followed my mother’s instructions: showering, dressing carefully in a plum-colored pencil skirt and a fitted ivory silk blouse with teal heels, doing my makeup and—yes—swiping on lipstick.
She was right: It helped.
She was right about a lot of things, I realized as I’d lain awake late into the night, thinking. Since high school I’d basically had one boyfriend after the next—sure, there was some downtime in between, but it was only transition periods. I’d never truly been on my own. To find out who I really was. To think about what I wanted for myself.
I think some part of me had known that, and that was why, when a man I’d cared about—still did—had offered me all the things I’d ever thought I wanted, I’d balked.
I needed to be by myself for a while.
I hadn’t trusted that feeling, though—which was what had opened the door to an overwhelming physical attraction that had made me overlook every danger sign with Chip. Second-guessing what I’d done with Ben, filled with remorse and shame, it was so easy to bury all that in the arms of someone who demanded nothing of me, because I knew that nothing real could ever build between us.
It was a human mistake. And I had to forgive myself for that.
But I had to also try to accept culpability for hurting Ben, and make amends. The phrase inexorably made me think of Chip and his exes. Who knew if he’d ever actually written the letters I’d suggested. Who knew if any of it was true at all.
Although after seeing Chip in action Sunday, I suspected that some of his breakup horror stories, at least, were dead true.
Ben wouldn’t be back home for another five days, and I knew a phone call wasn’t e
nough, so that evening, after a surprisingly good radio show and a day full of clients, I sat down and labored for hours on a letter to him, trying to get the words right.
Dear Ben,
I’m not writing to try to explain my actions. And I don’t expect your forgiveness—I fully understand that you may never offer it.
I am sorrier for hurting you than I am for anything else I’ve ever done. If nothing else, I want you to know that.
I’ve known three exceptional men in my life: My father. My brother. And you. I told you the other night that I thought I might be falling in love with you, and I know you can’t want to hear that from me, but I meant it.
And yet I hurt you. And I am sorry for that to my soul. I won’t try to explain all the reasons for why you found me the way you did yesterday morning—I know it doesn’t matter to you anymore. But I hope you will believe me despite this painfully clichéd phrase I never thought I would use, especially to you: It’s not you—it’s me.
It turns out that’s not just something people say in a breakup. It’s actually true. You are everything I ever want to have in a partner, Ben. It turns out that I’m just not ready right now to start that partnership—and that made me do something stupid.
If I could change one thing in the world, it would be that, because I know I’ve destroyed any chance for us.
I’d like to try to explain some things, if you’d be generous enough to let me. I will meet you anywhere, at any time. Or we can talk on the phone, or email, or text. If you’re willing to talk, please just tell me when and where.
I am profoundly sorry, Ben. I wish I had not hurt you.
With all my heart,
Brook
I emailed it, followed up with a text asking him to check his email, and waited.
I kept myself busy that week, trying not to put too much hope into Ben’s response, but my heart leaped every time my phone rang or my inbox had mail.
On Tuesday I met my mom at the Neapolitan Theater in Naples for the tour I’d asked for. She truly came alive in the theater, her face animated and glowing as she showed me the set for their production, led me to her dressing room, paraded me through the admin offices, and even climbed with me and the lighting director up a metal ladder to the flies where the lights were hung high over the stage. Mom clearly loved every element of the theater, and my face hurt from smiling at her sheer unfettered joy. “This is my daughter, the therapist,” she introduced me proudly to her cast and crew and every single person we saw.
Ben did not call.
Sasha and Stu and I took my dad to dinner on Wednesday, all of us making plans to go together to my mother’s opening in two weeks, Stu and Dad spinning fish tales of their latest deep-sea excursion, we three kids telling silly family stories and trying hard, as always, to crack one another—and my dad—up.
Still I heard no reply from Ben.
I wrote my column that week about what had happened between us—sort of. I called it “The Reluctant Breakup,” and in it I talked about the times when, despite everything good about a relationship, despite no red flags or deal breakers, despite how much you might care about someone, for whatever reason you aren’t able to be together, at least for the moment. I talked about finding a way to be at peace with that—“choosing happiness,” as my mom had told me, even in the face of sorrow.
I got more reader email than usual on that column—people writing in with heartfelt stories of relationships that had ended for reasons larger than their love for the person. The stories touched me, made me cringe, broke my heart. Pree Chervaar had broken up with a man who made her happier than she’d ever known, because she knew her traditional Indian family would never accept a black, Jewish son-in-law. “Lindy in Lehigh” had ended things with her married “soulmate” because she couldn’t bear to break apart his family. Angie Frost had met an Iraqi man while she was deployed who made her want every domestic, maternal thing she never expected to care about. But since his father had been killed in a bombing attack, his mother was alone, and the man couldn’t bear to leave her on her own when Angie returned home to the States.
As I always was, despite the many varied faces of heartbreak I was struck by its universality. Even this narrow nuance of grief and loss by choice was shared by so many of us.
There was comfort in that.
It wasn’t until Thursday morning, as I was just about to greet my first client of the day, that I opened my inbox and finally saw Ben’s name. I opened the message with a racing heart.
Brook,
Thank you for your letter.
I don’t think there’s anything more to be said.
Ben
That evening I went unannounced to Adelaide’s. Having Jake’s things felt like holding on to some thread of connection. But now that it was clear there wouldn’t be even that, it would be easier to return them now than later, and far easier—on myself, and on Ben too—to take them to her, rather than having to see him.
When she answered the door my heart thunked into my chest. Her long silence and her flat expression told me she knew everything. “Brook.” The usual warmth was stripped from her tone.
I knew that breakups meant not just losing the person you’d been in a relationship with, but those directly connected with them: Friends, family, no matter how close you might have grown to them, were casualties of war. At least in the immediate aftermath.
But it still hurt.
A hundred pounds of streaking white fur distracted me as Jake barreled past Adelaide and greeted me with excited little yips, rising onto his hind legs—taller than I was—and planting his massive paws on my shoulders. I dropped the bag of his things and wrapped my arms around him, letting him lick my face and hoping it would hide the wetness already there. “Jake,” I murmured in a rough voice. “Jakie.”
Some casualties of war are more unbearable than others.
“Jake!” Adelaide commanded. “Get down!”
“It’s okay,” I protested, but he’d already obeyed—Adelaide was always so much better at controlling him than I was.
I braced myself and faced her again. “I brought Jake’s things. I’m sorry for not calling. I...” I couldn’t think what to add.
Adelaide’s expression lost a bit of its cardboard edge, and she opened the door a fraction wider. “Why don’t you come in for a moment, Brook?”
Inside the condo looked exactly as it had every time I’d been here, even though it felt as if so much had changed. I kept my eyes away from the photos lining every wall. I couldn’t bear to see Ben’s smiling face.
I held up the red cotton shopping bag. “His bowls are in here, and the extra leash. He had some, um, linens at my house that he especially liked, so I put them in there in case you want to...to...” I reached in and pulled out the drapes I’d taken off the rod in my bedroom—the ones Jake had chewed into shreds. In my grip the tattered fabric looked ridiculous, pathetic. “I’m sorry,” I said weakly. “Why would you want this awful...How stupid of me. I...” My throat closed up. “I’m sorry,” I pushed out in a choked voice.
I turned to go.
A strong hand on my shoulder stopped me, and when I turned, Adelaide pulled me into her firm embrace.
I cried. A lot.
Finally I pulled away, Adelaide’s shoulder damp with tears and, I feared, a healthy amount of snot.
She stepped to the entry table to fetch a tissue that she handed wordlessly to me.
“Thank you, Adelaide. I’m so sorry. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I care so much about Ben. I really do. I wasn’t just...This was real for me. I want you to know that, at least. I never meant to hurt him like I did.”
She sighed, absently stroking Jake, who was sitting angelically by her side, staring up at me with his panting doggy grin as though he were greatly anticipating some marvelou
s antic from me. “Brook,” she said finally, “my son is a very good man.”
Remorse and pain and regret shot through me. “I know.”
“And he’s also a very smart man. He doesn’t try to rebuild a house while it’s on fire.”
I frowned, confused. Who in the world would do that? “No...”
“But flames die down eventually.”
My breath flew out of me in a rush. “Do you mean that—”
Adelaide held up a hand. “I’m not saying anything—I have no idea what Ben is thinking, and I certainly don’t know what he might want in the future—any more than you apparently do for your own future at the moment.” I nodded, acknowledging the truth of that. “But I do know him. My son is not a man of fickle feeling.”
The warm flame that sprang up in my chest felt a tiny bit like hope.
But Adelaide’s next words sent it sputtering immediately out: “I’m not going to upset him by trying to maintain our friendship.”
“No, ma’am,” I said, chastened. I squatted down to say goodbye to Jake, tears spearing into my eyes.
“But...” Adelaide cleared her throat above me. “From time to time we may need a dog sitter when I’m not available. And I think Ben agrees that we only leave him with people we trust.”
I looked up from where I’d been stroking Jake’s ears, Adelaide slightly blurred around her edges.
There must have been a question on my face, because she gave a slight nod. “We’ll keep you in mind,” she said simply.
And I smiled.
twenty-eight
“So...I kind of met someone. A woman.”
There was no response to Sherman’s announcement—no one interrupted whoever was holding the claw in group session anymore. But smiles broke out around the circle, matching the one spreading across Sherman’s face; Betty beamed at him like a proud mama, Carolyn and Rebecca were nodding, and Antonio was clearly about to bust wide-open with the effort not to blurt out something congratulatory. I even thought I saw the beginnings of a shy smile behind the curtain of hair falling over Sheila’s down-tipped face.