Loving My Best Friend

by Reid, Roxy

  “Well, I was.”

  I reach for her hand again, and again she shakes me off. “Evvie, I’m sorry, you just caught me off guard. I love you. I will absolutely be there for anything. If you want this kid—”

  She shoves back her chair and stands up.

  “Eva, what are you—”

  “I can’t do this right now,” Eva says. “Actually, I don’t know if I can do this at all. I need to think.”

  Everything in me tenses in panic. She can’t. Just this morning, she said …

  She’s already running out the door.

  I throw money blindly on the table and rush after Eva. “Eva, wait! Look, I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “No.” She whirls on me and jabs a finger into my chest. “No, you don’t get to do that.”

  “Do what?” I ask exasperatedly.

  “You don’t get to avoid making a choice! You say you’ll do whatever I want. You’ll give me whatever I want. You say that all the fucking time. I used to think it was sweet, hot, sexy even. This guy I’m head over heels for is telling me he’ll do anything I want. But it’s not about me when you say that. It’s about you. It’s about you being scared to make a decision.”

  I stare at her, aghast. Her chest is rising and falling like she has run a mile.

  I’m not breathing so steadily, either. “You think I’m scared to make decisions.”

  Eva turns away from me and starts walking back to our hotel.

  I groan and catch up, matching my strides to hers. A scooter zips down the narrow street, and I yank Eva to the other side of me, so my body’s between her and traffic. People are going way too fast down this street. She’s pregnant for fuck’s sake.

  “Do you want me to get us a cab back to our hotel? Or pick up a snack in case you get hungry later? I can get you any—”

  “Don’t you fucking say it.”

  I shut my mouth, and we walk the rest of the way back to our hotel in silence.

  We get back to the courtyard, I can’t keep quiet any longer. I stop Eva with a hand on her arm. “You say I’m scared to make decisions. That’s not true. I’m the one who said that I love you.”

  “After eight years! You said you knew you wanted me eight years ago after that stupid kiss, but you waited until yesterday to grow up and admit it. I can’t wait another eight years for you to decide you want this kid.”

  “I don’t need eight years!” I protest. “But could I have eight minutes?”

  Eva crosses her arms and looks away, her jaw set and her face mutinous.

  “I can’t believe you’d be willing to consider ending us because I didn’t say the right thing.”

  That gets her to look back at me. “It’s not because you didn’t say the right thing, Jack. It’s because you don’t want the right thing. I love you. I love you so much I can’t stand it, but there’s no point moving forward in this relationship when we don’t want the same thing on something as big as this.”

  I turn away and run a hand through my hair. I feel hot and cold at the same time. Everything’s happening too soon, too fast. If I say the wrong thing—if I feel the wrong thing—I lose Eva forever.

  I sink down and sit with my back to an orange tree. Eva stays where she is, her arms wrapped around herself. There’s a cool night breeze, and I know she’s cold. She never remembers a jacket. I’d give her mine, but I’m pretty sure that would set her off. She’s always had an independent streak.

  Intellectually, I get what she’s saying about us needing to be on the same page about something this big, but I’m willing to do anything in the whole fucking world to keep her. Why can’t that count as being on the same page?

  I look at her, standing there in the twilight, and consider lying, saying I’m one hundred percent thrilled to be a dad, no reservations whatsoever. Yet, she’s not some woman I’ve known for a month. She’s my best friend, and she’ll know I’m lying.

  “It’s not that I don’t want kids,” I say at last. “It’s not that I don’t want kids with you. You just caught me off guard. I’ll be here for you. I’ll be here for this kid …” I trail off as she sits down next to me.

  For a while, neither of us say anything. She takes my hand, and I look down at our linked fingers.

  “Jack. When I said I was pregnant, you weren’t happy.”

  I can’t deny it.

  “Are you happy about it now?” she presses.

  “Not if it means I lose you,” I say.

  “Jack.”

  I slump back against the orange tree. “Look, I can, and will, do literally anything you want me to here. I’ll take parenting classes, I’ll buy baby shit, I’ll start a trust fund for them. But if you’re asking me if I’m happy that this is happening now? No, I’m not. For one thing, a kid now is going to make whatever you do next in your career twice as hard. I know you’re tough enough to handle that, but I don’t want you to have to handle it in the first place. Plus, I feel like we’re being robbed of all that fun stuff that happens at the start of the relationship. The just-you-and-me stuff. Vacations. Staying up all night, talking. Meeting each other’s families. Our first year in our first place together, just us.”

  “We’ve done a lot of that already,” Eva points out quietly.

  “Yeah, but not as a couple. Your parents haven’t seen me since I was a dumb, spoiled high school kid. I love having you at my place, but you moved in because you had to. We didn’t get to, I don’t know. Paint. Buy furniture. Have our friends help us move.”

  “Do you want to paint?” Eva asks dubiously.

  “No. I want to be able to just do things. In order. Without lying. This morning, we had all the time in the world, and now it feels like we’re out of it.”

  When Eva withdraws her hand from mine, it feels like a punch in the stomach.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she says, standing up and heading toward the building door.

  “Wait, don’t be like that, Evvie,” I say, scrambling to my feet. It’s like I can feel her putting distance between us. I grab her arm. “Give me time. I can get where you need me to—”

  “I don’t want you to be nice to our kid because you’re scared of losing me!” Eva says. “This kid deserves more than that. I deserve more than that.”

  “What if I can get there? What if I just need some time to be excited about—”

  “What if you can’t?” she demands. There’s so much pain in her voice that it stops me short. “What if I spend months hoping you’ll get there, hoping you’ll be as thrilled to meet this kid as I am, and then you never get there? I can’t get over you and raise a kid by myself at the same time. So, if I’m going to get over you, I need to do it now.”

  My throat is tight. I feel like crying and shouting and shaking the trees and punching a wall. I feel like grabbing her and demanding she stay, but I’m already hurting her so much.

  What if she’s right? What if I can’t get there before the baby shows up? What if I’m one of those awful people who can’t look at my kid without also seeing the things I lost to make room for that kid in my world?

  I don’t think I’ll be like that. I don’t want to be like that. Up until an hour ago, I thought I’d be thrilled if the day ever came where Eva looked into my eyes and told me she was pregnant with our kid.

  No. I can do this. I can fight for Eva. I can get my emotional shit together before my kid comes.

  Eva’s walking away. I can’t just let her go. I can’t let her go.

  “Wait, Eva, what if … just give me some time. I’ll do anything you want.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jack! What I want is for you to leave me alone. For good.”

  I stop in my tracks. She can’t mean that. She can’t mean that.

  She’s crying now. She’s actually crying. I step forward, ready to wrap her in my arms and hold her as long she needs, but she raises a hand to halt me. I stop. My arms fall uselessly to my side.

  “I’ve always been the cool girl for you, Jack,” she says.
“The girl who didn’t care when you talked about all the other women you were dating. The girl who was fine just being friends, because that’s what you wanted. The girl who could wait for you to grow up.”

  She swallows. “I’m not trying to say I didn’t get anything out of our friendship. God knows you were always there in a crisis. But this isn’t a crisis. It’s not a grand romantic gesture. It’s going to be dirty diapers and exhaustion.”

  “But—”

  “Jack, your whole thing is going for glamour and magic and adventure. And that’s fun. I love that about you, but when I say I’m pregnant, all you can see is the glamor and magic and adventure you’re giving up.”

  “Eva, I can give that up for you.”

  “Jack, you can’t even give up the ballroom in the upstate hotel because the boring cafes and conference rooms that people actually need there aren’t interesting enough for you.”

  I feel like I can’t breathe. Is that what she thinks of me?

  Is she right?

  Is Eva … God, it hurts to even think it. Is Eva better off without me?

  “You want me to let you go,” I say numbly.

  She hesitates, and for a second, my heart starts beating again, and hope rises in me, shattering my numbness into a thousand pieces. Maybe she doesn’t want me to leave her. Maybe there’s still a chance.

  “Yes. I want you to let me go.”

  My shoulders sag.

  Eva places a hand on the doorframe. Like she needs its support to stay upright right now.

  I know the feeling.

  “I’m not saying you can’t have a relationship with the kid. If you do decide you want that, at any point, I will absolutely work with you to make that happen. But you and I can’t … I can’t keep letting you in and giving you up. So, I need this to be the last time. I need you to let me go.”

  “I understand,” I say. I turn away because I can’t follow upstairs and lie down next to her. I don’t trust myself not to beg.

  I can’t follow her, but I’m not strong enough to watch her walk away either. So, I stand with my back to Eva, eyes pressed shut to keep from breaking down and howling from the pain of it. I try not to listen as I hear her open the door, walk inside, and close it behind her.

  The sound of that door closing is the worst fucking sound in the world.

  This is what Eva wants. This is what she needs.

  “I’ll give you anything you want, Eva,” I say quietly. “Even this.”

  I go to the orange tree in the far corner of the courtyard. I sit down beneath the tree, on the side where no one can see me from the building’s windows. I press my forehead to my knees and try to breathe.

  It’s three hours before I trust myself to go in to Eva.

  Well, I’m not entirely sure I trust myself, but my ass is numb, and I can’t exactly sleep in the courtyard. As I walk into the small lobby area, the B&B owner stops me and hands me a new room key and my suitcase.

  Eva must have requested another room for me. I’m so heartbroken by everything else. I don’t even know how I feel about it. I go upstairs to my room. I lie down on top of the covers without bothering to take my clothes off. Ironically, I fit on this bed. My feet don’t stick off the edge. It’s big enough for me. Big and empty.

  I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, trying not to think about how big and empty my life just became.

  22

  Jack

  Come on, Evvie. Let me in. I’m sorry I made fun of your haircut.

  I have ice cream :)

  —Jack McBride, note slid under Eva Price’s bedroom door, age thirteen

  In the morning, I wake up to a note slid under my door. For a blurry second, as I stare at my name written in Eva’s beautiful, loopy writing, I think I’m dreaming about being a kid again. All those notes we slid under doors to each other when one of us got mad and ran to our room and wouldn’t open the door. When she had chickenpox, and our parents wouldn’t let me play with her. When I had detention, and she’d slide a silly cartoon under the door when the teacher’s back was turned just to make me laugh.

  Then I wake up all the way, and I remember.

  I make myself get up to read the note. I feel so heavy as I walk to the note. Like every inch of my body has been punched.

  I unfold the note and start reading.

  I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to join you at the hotel today. I’m transferring my airplane ticket to today, so I can fly home early. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. Not about the pregnancy or the fake engagement. Or about, well, everything else. I know we can’t exactly call off the engagement without the press asking all the questions we were trying to avoid in the first place, but I don’t know if I can live with you anymore. I’ll take the time you’re in Greece to figure out a solution we can both live with.

  Love,

  Sincerely,

  —Eva

  I sit down heavily on the bed. Of course she’s flying home early. Of course she’s moving out. Of course we have to keep lying to everyone we care about. Of course I have to go to fucking work.

  I crumple up the paper and hurl it across the room.

  I get out of yesterday’s clothes and go to take a shower. I force myself to only think about business and about the things that have to get done today.

  I don’t think about how yesterday morning was the last time she touched me and that I’m scrubbing that touch off me. I don’t think about how damn lonely it makes me that she’s never going to touch me again.

  I can give you what you want, Eva. If this is what you want, I can give you what you want.

  I’m about to head out to my meetings when I see Eva’s note in the corner.

  What if housekeeping throws it out while I’m away? It’s low and pathetic, but I remember the part of the note where she wrote love. Even though she crossed her love out, I still can’t stand the thought of some anonymous cleaner tossing it in the trash can.

  I pick up the note and smooth it out. I tuck it carefully into the bottom of my suitcase.

  I try not to think of it again.

  * * *

  I stay focused through all the meetings I have, but by the end of the day, I’m shaking with the need to move. I think about going back to the B&B, but the last thing I want to do is sit around in the place where Eva told me she loved me and then, twenty-four hours later, broke up with me.

  So, instead of walking back to the B&B, I walk through town, past stone buildings filled with restaurants, convenience stores, and souvenir shops. I pass office workers leaving for the day and teenagers still in their school uniforms, hanging around in clumps before they go home. All around me, life is happening. A see a pregnant woman kiss her partner, and they’re so happy it’s like a stab to the gut.

  I walk faster. Not that it matters. I have nowhere to be tonight and barely anywhere to be tomorrow. It’s not as if I have any meetings tomorrow to prepare for. I’m attending a dinner tomorrow night with a few businesspeople and politicians to talk about Nafplio’s tourism industry. That’s mostly just smiles and handshakes.

  Which leaves me with roughly twenty-four hours alone. Originally, I’d planned to use the day to show Eva some Venetian ruins not too far from here, but now the idea leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

  Don’t wimp out, Mel said. It won’t hurt any less if you don’t tell her how you feel.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket, about to call her and tell her how wrong she was. Then I remember it’s the middle of the day in New York. I can’t pick a fight with her when she’s working. I shouldn’t pick a fight with her, anyway. It’s not her fault that I didn’t use a condom. It’s definitely not her fault that I fucked it up when Eva told me the news.

  I mean, she ordered champagne, for fuck’s sake. Of course she was excited. Of course she wanted me to be excited.

  I need to get drunk. That’s what I need to do.

  I walk until I find a bar overlooking the water. Happy people sit at cafe-style tables o
ut in front of the bar along the sidewalk. More happy people sit inside, gazing blissfully out the windows at the view. It’s enough to make me avoid the place entirely, but when I stick my head inside, I see a collection of morose people sitting at the bar.

  My kind of people.

  I walk in and sit down at the bar one seat down from a white man about my own age with sandy hair, out-of-style glasses, and elbow patches on his jacket. He takes one look at me and slides me the menu.

  I think there are cocktails listed, but since I don’t speak Greek. I order a shot of ouzo. Then I think about it and order another one for my friend, the menu-provider.

  He looks surprised, then mutters, “Efcharistó.” It’s Greek for, “Thank you,” but he says it with such a thick Minnesotan accent I almost don’t recognize the word. I nod, and we drink in silence.

  I’m about to order another round when the other man shakes his head at me. Before I can speak up, he buys the next round for us.

  I blink. I can’t remember the last time someone other than Eva or my family bought a round for me. I’m lucky to have a good group of friends and colleagues who like me for me, not my money, but they worry about having enough money to retire. I don’t. So, I’m happy to pick up the tab when we go out if it means they worry a little less.

  I’m more touched than I should be by this simple kindness from a stranger. The ouzo arrives, and the man and I knock back our shots in unison. The alcohol burns on the way down. It’s beginning to burn through my veins, though not nearly fast enough.

  I nod to the bartender for another round.

  “So, what are you in here for?” my drinking partner asks. He nods to my suit. “Your stock crash?”

  He doesn’t say it meanly, but a part of me wonders, is that what I look like? Like the only thing that could upset me is money?

  “No. At least not that I’m aware of.” The ouzo arrives in front of us. I stare at it. “No, I fucked it up with my best friend.”

  “You too?” The man says.

  We both knock back the shots. I want to order another one, but my friend’s already looking a little bleary, and I don’t want to be a bad influence on a kindly Minnesotan wandering alone in a foreign country, so I order us some calamari instead.