Ask Anything

My heart feels like a small earthquake in my chest as I think of what to type. What if my message sends her into one of her downward spirals? I wouldn’t want her to crash out. Besides, her number might not even be the same anymore. Perhaps it’s too late. It’s been two years, after all. I should’ve just answered her calls, opened her texts, clarified what I meant when I said she became too emotional for me.

Anxiety shoots through me in electric waves, penetrating deep into my core. At least this is better than the relentless heartache I’ve merely pacified with alcohol the last few years. And--oh look, the light’s green. I step on the gas slowly and silently berate myself for not sending a message the last four stop lights. What if I reach Vegas before at least warning her I’m on my way?

After tossing a few words around in my head, I singlehandedly type out a message to Mi Amor, still named as such in my phone. Then I hit send.

W: Hey, Love… I know things didn’t end great between us, but I’ve been thinking about you. How are you? I miss you. Can we please talk?

***

I reread the message for the fifth time and chew on my lower lip, a nervous habit he used to tease me about because, “That’s my job, love.” After all these years…would you still do that? Or have you forgotten beneath the plethora of bodies you probably drunkenly replaced me with? I wonder if he even still looks the same: beautiful sea-green eyes, cheeks that flushed pink on exceedingly hot or cold days, shaggy black hair too thick to ever be styled, dimples that never failed to soften the hard exterior he claimed was a family curse.

I close my eyes and a school of memories swim to the surface, flooding my body with bittersweet fondness: our first kiss--sandy and salty--by a pier in California; the body shot we were dared to do at his high school graduation party before we wanted anyone to know we were official; that first reconciliation at a music festival after an argument that almost ended us; the way we celebrated our fourth--and tragically, final--anniversary fighting off the stomach flu and puking side-by-side (ha).

I shake my head of the more intimate memories clawing their way to the surface of my skull. I stored them in the deepest parts of my memory for my own safety; now’s not the time to give them free reign. Should I even entertain this conversation? What will it do to me?

My will to resist topples beneath the Jenga blocks of self-control I’ve built after all these years and once again, I’m a slave to my own desires. A slave to him.

I reread the message one last time. Walls up, heart off, brain on…here goes:

E: “Things didn’t end great between us” -- what an understatement. Why’d you take so long to reach out?

***

W: I dunno…I guess I was just scared. Scared of rejection, scared to send you spiraling, scared to open up, scared you’d shut down. I should’ve reached out sooner. It took me a while to realize that life isn’t better without you in it. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret ending things between us. You were my everything. You were my future. I was immature and stupid.

***

E: Okay…that’s a bit much.

***

W: I’m sorry…do you want me to stop?

***

E: Yes… No… I just… *delete* You really hurt me, Wes. Even now, I don’t feel comfortable telling you just how much because I was never allowed to express my feelings around you. I was too much for you. You gave up. And now you regret ending things with me. Why? What makes me worth loving now?

***

W: Eve, you were always worth loving…I’m so, so sorry I ever made you think that. Me not knowing how to love you is a reflection of my lack, not yours. It’s no excuse, but my dad was non-existent since I was five and my mom was emotionally and verbally abusive--how can role models like that teach anyone to love another person the right way? I became irresponsible with your love and you’re right, I gave up. But only because let’s admit it: you’re different, Eve. I’m not used to dating someone like you. You challenge me. You question my logic. You call my bluff. Your mind computes concepts in a way I still can’t understand. And each time you pointed out my flaws and communicated when I upset you, I only felt more inadequate against you.

It was exhausting. But I was also inexperienced. Isn’t that worth considering?

***

E: I did consider that, Wes. Each time we argued. I pulled you to the couch with me several Fall evenings, made you a cup of coffee the way you liked, and acknowledged that your parents really screwed you and your sisters over--and that I’d stay by your side in support no matter what. I offered a listening ear, put my hand on your knee and said you could vent, cry, yell, scream, spew your most vile, destructive thoughts to me and I’d lock them in the vault of my mind, never to be seen or heard again, if it meant giving you any sort of relief from your pain. I wanted to help you carry it, Wes.

Still. You said nothing. Did nothing. You always just walked away. And the last time you came back, all you said was, ‘I’m packing my shit and heading back to New York--I just can’t love you the way you want me to.’ What does that even mean? I mean, how am I supposed to feel after all this time?

***

W: And for that, I’m so grateful, my love. I was too in my head to notice those smaller gestures. I realize that now. But while you were in a place to receive my baggage, I wasn’t in a place to work through it. Everyone heals in their own time.

The way you feel now is completely valid. Grief is a five-stage process and right now, you sound justifiably angry. If you’d like to stop talking, please let me know.

***

E: Oh please--spare me the whole ‘five-stages-of-grief’ thing--I’ve heard it enough times. I want to know what you meant when you said you didn’t know how to love me the way I wanted you to. What did I expect of you that was so overwhelming that you had to dump me?

***

W: I’m sorry, I can’t answer that.

***

E: *typing…* delete. *typing…* delete.

Okay, you were raised to suppress everything. But I tried showing you what love looked like and led by example in the best way I knew how. Maybe that’s where I fucked up. I’m sorry if I overdid it. All I ever wanted was for us to deepen our emotional intimacy through communication, picking each other’s brains, talking about even the smallest things that bothered us, all the things that make couples stronger. I’m sorry if that scared you…I never meant for that to happen. But I’m not…I’m not a robot. I am real. I’m human, like you. I want us to be human and flawed.

I’ll never understand the distance… I’ve tried to, but I can’t. Why did you move back home and leave me alone in LA?

***

W: You’re right… I should have talked things out with you. I shouldn’t have dodged your conversations. I should have tried.

I moved because I needed to clear my head in a fresh environment. It was easier stepping back so I could see the bigger picture. While I understand you thought you were being helpful and supportive, you were actually triggering some things from childhood; specifically, how my mom repeatedly pointed out my flaws. You didn’t outright do that, but I felt attacked each time I upset you. I never felt that I could do anything right. But yes, that was on me to heal--not you.

I had to figure it out on my own. Unfortunately it took losing you to finally figure it out.

I am so, so sorry.

If it makes any difference, I can prove to you things are different now. Maybe it was just the right person, wrong time kind of thing.

***

Right person, wrong time.

How many times have I simply repeated that phrase in my mind to merely fill the void in my chest? I clutch my gray t-shirt where my heart should be and press hard. I’m okay…I feel nothing…I don’t miss you…I don’t care…I can’t care…

If tears form, then we’ll really have a problem.

I clear my throat, straighten against the wooden chair back, and send my next message:

E: Thank you. I really needed to hear that. You know, that’s all I ever wanted to hear.

***

W: Of course… On that note, I really want to see you so we can talk this over in person. Would you be willing to give this--give us--another chance?

***

I imagine his voice: deep, smooth, unintentionally sultry, as if it was made of leather and wine. God, will I ever hear you again?

E: Yes. One-hundred percent, yes. I’ve never loved someone as much as I love you. I don’t think I’ll ever find love with another person again. You’re all I think about, day and night. When I dream of my future, it’s you, me, and our babies. When I see Maya gushing over her new future-wife, drunkenly tipping over her glass in the hot tub, I imagine the roles are reversed and she’s my maid of honor to OUR wedding, instead. When I fall asleep at night, I feel your strong arms around my waist, clutching me tight, your lips in my ear whispering, ‘I can’t believe I almost lost you.’ When my phone rings and it’s an unknown number, I answer every. Single. Time in the event it’s your voice on the other line, and you’ll say, ‘Hey, I’m outside your hotel--I saw Maya post you girls in Vegas and made the drive to see you.’

I wish you never blocked me. I wish we’d just talked about things. I wish you would’ve allowed yourself to be human, and realized that emotions are what make us human. I wish you actually did reach out. I wish you really were coming to see me. I wish this was actually you.

“Evie, what are--what the hell happened? Oh my god, are you okay?” Jaylen’s concerned voice reaches my ear as her frail, brown arms instantly wrap around me. By now, the lights in the casino morph into one giant glob of gold and red and I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t breathe…

“Breathe, beautiful, breathe.” Jaylen pushes my damp bangs from my cheeks and holds my head up, forcing me to meet her wide blue eyes. Sobs erupt from my body and each hiccup results in an explosion of pain deep in my chest.

After several deep breaths, I say, “I--I miss--I miss him so fucking much.”

Jaylen dabs my eyes with a napkin and looks over at the seemingly unbothered bartender behind the counter. He rubs a glass on his black dress shirt, head shiny with sweat, and pretends to not notice us until Jaylen snaps her fingers and shouts, “HEY! Two tequila shots, please.” She looks back at the counter where my margarita sits in a pool of condensation. “Girl, you barely drank. What the hell are you doing?” Her eyes then drop to the pink phone in my hands. “Is that ChatGPT?”

I sniffle, nod, and reach over the counter for another napkin.

“Maya wants us at MGM’s pool in thirty minutes. You’re in yesterday’s t-shirt and talking to Chat?” Jaylen takes my phone and scrolls through the messages. “This don’t even sound like him.”

“I know. Wes cussed every other word.” I put my cheek in my hand and watch as she scrolls all the way to the top. “Can I just--” I take the phone back when she reaches the top, before the first message. “Can we just pretend? And then…we'll go.”

Jaylen studies my face and purses her maroon lips. She sighs. “Okay. What’d you even type?”

I tilt my phone towards her and she leans over my shoulder, her warm hand on my arm, as I show her what I typed in the ‘Ask Anything’ box:

You are going to act as my ex. Maybe this will help me move on. Maybe after two years, I’ll finally let you go. But first, allow me to give you some context:

My ex was never emotional. He hated talking about issues. Every time I brought up an issue, he blew up and then we didn’t talk for hours, sometimes days. I’d cry myself to sleep those nights or type texts I never sent. Sometimes, I’d write letters to him in my journal and leave it out on the counter in hopes he’d pry into it next time he came over. He never did. But those times we made up, he did apologize and was well-aware of his inability to manage his emotions. He was raised to wear an iron mask. A bunch of fucked up shit happened in his childhood, so I fully understood. It’s not easy having one parent completely non-existent and the other emotionally abusive. It’s not easy being the oldest sibling responsible for raising your four younger sisters.

My ex always said I was too emotional; that I took everything too personally. And then, he dumped me. I still don’t understand it. All I did was love him. I always knew he struggled with expressing himself, but he’s the one who asked me out…how could he say he just didn’t know how to love me? How could his only excuse for dumping me be, ‘I can't love you the way you want me to?’ I don’t think I expected too much…I just wanted his love.

Anyways. You are going to be my ex, but the healed version. The emotional version. You are going to talk to me about the breakup and tell me you made a mistake, that you want to get back together, that you’re sorry and that you’d actually prefer if I was more emotional. And I’m going to do my best to not let my emotions overpower logic here. You will write this from your car as you take a road trip to come surprise me in Vegas while I celebrate my best friend’s bachelorette party.

Now, message me first and be emotional in every response, every way possible, with the intention of getting back together. Describe the scene in your first message.

***

W: Hey, Love… I know things didn’t end great between us, but I’ve been thinking about you. How are you? I miss you. Can we please talk?