The Breakup

Our Last Date

I'd been mulling over my relationship with Greg for weeks.

I thought, It just isn't working. I never should've agreed to go steady with him in the first place.

There was nothing wrong with Greg. He was good-looking, blond crew-cut, always smiling with those rosy cheeks and twinkly blue eyes, and he was so darned sweet. But I just didn't care for him. He was an orphan, new to this small town and living with his childless, and much older brother and sister-in law. I think I said yes because I felt sorry for him and didn't want to hurt his feelings when he’d asked me.

Greg fit in fine with my friends. In the fifties, the most partying we ever did, was to occasionally take turns having maybe ten or twelve friends–––not just couples–––at one of our homes, where parents were often within earshot, and we splurged on buying chips and some bottles of pop.

Though I was not that close to Lou-Anne ––– not even close enough to invite her to our little parties–––I had to have somebody to talk it over with. She was my minister's daughter and I reasoned, If you can't trust a minister's daughter, whom can you trust? The other reason for confiding in her, was because Greg and I double-dated most Saturday nights with her and her boyfriend, Ian. Both boys worked at the same local grocery store every weekend. Many Saturday evenings, Lou-Anne and I would walk together to the nearby coffee shop and wait for Ian and Greg to join us after work. We all usually had either pop, a milkshake or French fries–––all that we could afford back then.

The length of our dates was limited because the coffee shop closed at eleven. We were just high-schoolers and none of us had a car or even the use of one. After the fellows walked us home, there wasn't much time left for messing around. Since TVs were still rare in our town, the most Greg and I ever did was sit together on the chesterfield, hug and neck a bit, then exchange a chaste good-night kiss.

After a recent Saturday night date, Greg's sister-in-law, Rita, phoned our house sometime after one-thirty in the morning–––a time usually only for family life-or-death calls–––mostly death.

The one and only phone in the house being outside my bedroom, I quickly and groggily but with dread, answered it.

Rita, in high, panic pitch, frantically gasped, “Rochelle, is Greg with you? He hasn't come home yet and I don't know what could have happened to him!”

“No, he was here for just a few minutes after the coffee shop, then he left for home.”

“Well, what time was that? He's always home by twelve thirty.”

“He left here by midnight for sure, so I don't know...”

“My husband is out driving all over town looking for him. I just can't imagine where he could possibly be!”

Within an hour our phone shrilled again.

Rita exhaled, “Thank God! My Jim found him. He was just standing and staring at the jewelry store window, on Main Street. Jim said he looked like he was in a trance.”

Uh, oh! Although I was glad Greg had been found safe, I was uncomfortable with this business about him looking so fixedly, at what I already knew, from having checked it out myself, was a display of diamond rings.

My gut nerves twisted and tightened as I paced. What if he's thinking of giving me an engagement ring? I can't get engaged! Not at this point in my life. I've got a whole life to live! Greg’s in the commercial course and he'll graduate this spring and go right to work. But I intend to go to university and become something ––– I don't know what yet, but something. And I still have grade thirteen to do first. I can't get engaged and married just because he’s sweet and I feel sorry for him. I have to do something drastic and soon, before he gets into debt, paying for an engagement ring, on a bag-boy's wages.

I finally figured out how I'd gently explain to him that, although he was a really nice guy, we were going to have to break up, for a very sensible reason.

I'd start off, 'I guess you realize that three of the couples from school who've been going steady, are having to drop out of school to get married because the girl is pregnant. I don't want people to even think that we might be 'doing it', just because we're going steady. So, to save our reputations, I think that we should break up now.'

I'd definitely let him know that there was no one else I was remotely interested in. Then I'd reassure him that I think he's a swell person and that we'd had lots of fun together ––– well, not really that much ––– and wish him all the best as I cut him loose.

I thought, Maybe I'll wait to tell him after this next coffee shop date, when we're alone, back at my house.'

Since he definitely had to be back home in good time, after his recent late-night, window-shopping excursion, he wouldn't have long to protest and beg me to reconsider my decision. Not long enough, I hoped, to persuade me to change my mind and keep going steady with him, let alone get engaged to him.

I decided to forewarn Lou-Anne about my decision, that Saturday afternoon, so it wouldn't come as a shock to her later.

“Lou-Anne, I need to let you know ahead of time, that I'm going to be breaking up with Greg tonight. Even though he's a sweet guy, this going steady just isn't for me.”

“Wow! Is HE ever going to be knocked for a loop!”

Getting ready for the momentous date, I carefully considered what I would wear.

I thought, It needs to be a bit somber. Definitely not my cheery, bright red sweater set. Maybe my Black Watch tartan kilt. That skirt was a black, navy and dark green plaid with an oversized, dressy Scottish kilt-pin, holding the skirt overwrap primly in place. I chose a dark, navy-blue sweater set and added a dainty, white, Peter Pan collar along with my sedate, string of tiny pearls. We girls never wore earrings unless it was a dress-up event or unless from European immigrant background. No question about my footwear. Heels were only for formal, social occasions: thus, no garter belts and nylons with those seams running completely up the back. Just plain, white bobby sox–––the only colour made, and my navy and white saddle oxfords. Before leaving, I carefully combed my blond, shoulder-length, page-boy hairdo.

That evening I walked uptown alone. My whole body quaking nervously, I entered the coffee shop. The jukebox was wailing out Johnny Ray's top hit, 'Cry'.

‘If your sweetheart sends a letter of goodbye,

It’s no secret, you’ll feel better if you cry…’

How ironic! I couldn't have orchestrated more fitting background music myself.

Greg was already in our usual booth, but alone. I smiled weakly as I slid onto the banquette across from him.

Before I could even say a word, he gently leaned toward me, fastened his cherubic blue eyes onto mine and said softly, “I heard that we are breaking up.”