As it happened, faking a blackout over coffee and Cheerios wasn't necessary. They didn't even see each other the next day. He worked a double. She slept in, and since the time off had already been approved, spent the first day of her 'honeymoon' moping about in her pyjamas, indulging in junk food and Lifetime television. Nothing patched a broken heart, she hoped, like an old-fashioned post-break-up wallow. Focusing all her doom and gloom on her failed relationship was also a useful distraction from her new problem, the one that probably wouldn't be fixed by a good cry, a bad movie, and a pint of Cherry Garcia.
Abby called around sundown. "How are you doing?"
"I don't know. How long did it take you to get over Carter when he broke off your engagement?"
"Holy shit, I was engaged to Carter? What, like a million years ago?"
"Give or take. So you're saying..."
"It takes as long as it takes. That's all the wisdom I've got. Unless you want me to start throwing recovery slogans at you. One day at a time. Fake it 'til you make it. Let go and let--"
"All right, all right."
As she went back to tearily packing up bundles of letters and photos, she wondered what it meant that she'd almost married someone whose entire relationship with her could fit into a shoebox. Ankle boots, yes, but still a shoebox. It hurt, but there was no point in leaving obvious reminders around. She wasn't quite ready to put the box up on the highest closet shelf, but she might be able to slide it under the bed in a few days. She also wondered what it meant that she'd moved so quickly from denial (nine a.m.--I should call him) to acceptance (eleven p.m.--It's probably for the best). She'd fallen in love with him because he loved her, and because he was wonderful, and those things were still true, but something about the look of disappointment on his face yesterday--not anger, not betrayal, just an awful disappointment...
Well. It was probably for the best.
The strange part was that for all her heartache, the only practical thing she'd lost was the idea of them, the notion that someday they'd be a real couple, in a real relationship, the kind where they did things together, and saw each other every day. Then again, maybe that's what had scared her off. Maybe she was more comfortable with the concept than the reality.
Maybe I just suck at love, she thought. And I'll die an old maid. With a small dog. Or a budgie. Itwas after midnight, and she was holed up in her room with her laptop, playing four suit Spider Solitaire and ignoring backissues of JAMA, when she finally heard Ray come in. She tensed, waiting for him to call out a greeting, hoping he wouldn't, yet oddly dispirited when none came.
She heard the tv go on, heard him moving things around in the kitchen. Once she thought she saw his shadow pass by her slightly open door. She considered venturing out under some pretense, to retrieve a book or a glass of water, just to test the atmosphere, but she wasn't that brave. It wasn't that she was afraid she couldn't control herself, but that she couldn't control her thoughts. What if she said 'hello' or 'how was your day?' but all she could think was that twenty-four hours ago she'd been quite eager to let him put his tongue in her mouth? And...other places. What if he said 'fine' or 'did you get the mail today?', but her brain got stuck on how she'd been exhilarated, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, by the visual contrast of his pale fingers stroking her--
She snapped the laptop shut. She stared at the shoebox sitting at the foot of her bed. She recited mnemonics for all the unsexiest parts of the anatomy.
She had to use the bathroom, but that could wait until he went to bed. To sleep. That could wait until he went to sleep.
The next few days passed in much the same way. During the day she went to movies and museums. At night he went out, doing whatever it was that he did. Or whoever, she thought sourly once, before reminding herself that she wasn't supposed to care. When she went back to work on Monday she found that he'd gone out of his way to trade shifts with people, rearranging his schedule to avoid her. It was a relief, but it also stung a little. And it was another reminder, as if she needed one amongst all the whispers and sidelong looks, that nearly everyone else she worked with had known and liked Michael before they'd ever met her. Ray should've been an ally. Instead, when they did work together they were almost like strangers. Their interaction was professional, and courteous, and weird, and she hated it.
Even Abby wasn't too wrapped up in her own personal drama to notice something was off.
"What's up with you and Ray?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're being all polite to each other. It's creeping me out. Did you have a fight or something?"
"...Something."
"What, did you sleep together?" Abby joked.
Neela squinted at her patient's chest film. "Does this look like an effusion to you? I think I need an MRI."
"Oh my God, did you sleep together?!"
"Shhh! No! Of course not."
"But you did 'something.'"
"The air quotes really aren't necessary."
"When did this happen?"
"After the wedding. The non-wedding. Can we discuss this later?"
"You bet your ass we will. Dinner break?"
Several hours later, over a plate of cheese fries at Ike's, she found herself saying, "...and then somehow we ended up in my room. And things...escalated."
"Escalated. But you didn't have sex?"
"No."
"Didn't have sex like Bill and Monica didn't have sex, or actually didn't have sex?"
"Nice reference. Very topical. And everyone's pants stayed on at all times, if that's what you're asking."
"That was it, yeah."
Neela slumped in her seat. "God, what a disaster."
"Was it that bad?"
"Bad? No, it was..." She looked to the side, pretending to try and spot their waitress. "No."
"Huh."
Neela turned back to see Abby scrutinzing her. "What? What does 'huh' mean?"
"Nothing. I just didn't think he was your type, that's all."
"Yes, that's been established, thanks."
"No need to get cranky, it was just an observation."
"I wish this had never happened. I don't know what to do. Everything's weird."
Abby nodded knowingly. "Oh, because he likes you."
She dropped a cheese fry onto her plate. "He what?"
"Do they not have that expression in England?"
"You're crazy. That's crazy."
"It was just a hunch." She shrugged. "I could be wrong."
"What would make you say that?"
"Just little things. The way he was hanging around that night."
"You're wrong."
"I'm probably wrong."
"Except..."
"Except?"
"I don't know. There was a moment--or moments, I guess--when it seemed like maybe..." She trailed off, frowning, and plucked listlessly at her fries.
"Huh."
"Stop saying 'huh.'"
"Sorry. So what are you going to do now?"
"I don't know. I don't want to move," she said. Her whinging tone was annoying even to her own ears, but she couldn't help herself. It was so good to finally talk about it.
"Moving is a pain in the ass."
"It's not just that. I like it there, and...well, I suppose things could go back to normal eventually. That's possible, right? If I just gave it some time?"
"Anything's possible."
"It's so awful right now, though. We try to ignore each other, and when we can't it's so tense and awkward. I--this is so embarrassing--I can't stop staring at his hands. He has these callouses?" She held up her left hand and waggled her fingers to illustrate. "You know, from fingering?"
Abby sputtered, and Neela wished she could crawl under the table as she watched her friend bent over, turning red from laughter. "The guitar! From playing the guitar!"
"Uh huh," said Abby, wiping her eye with a napkin.
"You're never going to stop mocking me for this, are you?" She decided to skip telling her about the dream she had where she was standing at the kitchen sink--in her scrubs, for some reason--and he came up behind her and-- "What do I do?" she asked plaintively.
"Okay, number one, are you asking me for advice on your love life? Because the coat says 'Lockhart', not 'Dear Abby.' Number two, you're asking me for advice on your love life? Seriously?"
"I'm desperate. And it's not my 'love life,'" she corrected. "It's Ray."
"Well," Abby said, "the way I see it, there's only one way to resolve this."
"What's that? Move? Get a new job? Fake my death and leave the country?" She stirred her drink with the straw a little before raising it to her lips.
"I think maybe you have to sleep with him."
And then Neela aspirated Diet Coke with lemon. "You're right," she said, coughing through her napkin. "You give terrible advice."
