But I’m also joyless. Stuck.
I try to shake off my malaise by adopting a dog. She’s a three-year-old Australian shepherd named Priscilla, which I didn’t choose but which suits my family’s penchant for giving their children bad “P” names. She enjoys long runs in the park and long naps at the pubs. I already cherish her.
But she has not solved the problem of my life.
Every day, as I slog through the rigid order of this existence I’m so protective over, I feel bored and unchallenged. I feel exactly what I accused Hope of being.
Hope, who liked me enough to risk asking me to be more to her than a fling. A move that was heartfelt and brave, and that I rejected out of hand. Out of fear.
I told her I needed to be stronger before I’m capable of being someone’s partner. But I feel more like I’m treading water than shoring myself up.
And then, one morning at a coffee shop in Hackney, I run into Annemarie.
I haven’t spoken to her since the day I canceled our wedding, on a phone call from rehab.
Her last words to me were “I hope you fucking die.”
I immediately turn around to avoid her, but it’s too late. She’s spotted me and calls my name. “My God, Fe, it’s been ages.”
“Hi,” I say slowly, because it’s disorienting to be smiled at by someone who welcomed your death.
“I’ve been wanting to get in touch,” she says. “I texted you, but I think you… blocked me?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “For obvious reasons?”
She grimaces. “Yeah. Hey, could we talk about that? Sit down for a sec?”
I look longingly at the door.
“Please?” she asks. “I won’t keep you, I promise.”
“Fine,” I say. “Let me just grab a coffee.”
I go and order a flat white, taking the time to steel myself against whatever she’s going to say.
When I get back she’s biting at a cuticle on her thumb.
She always bit her cuticles when she was nervous. She still has flecks of angry torn skin around the nailbeds of her otherwise beautiful hands.
She straightens up and puts her palms on the table. “Sit down?” she asks.
I sink onto a wooden bench across from her.
“How are you doing?” she asks. “You look great.”
“I’m good,” I say. “And you’re looking well too.”
She is. She’s gained a much-needed bit of weight since I last saw her, and her eyes are bright and clear.
“Yeah, I am well,” she says. “Certainly better than the last time you saw me. I’ve been sober for eleven months as of tomorrow.”
“God, Annemarie. That’s amazing.”
“It is, yeah. I’m really proud of myself. Best decision I ever made. But you know all about that. You’ve been at it how long?”
“Over two years now.”
“That’s so great.”
