But he panicked and fled when the smallest part of the fantasy he spun for us became real. And the way he did it—so abruptly, with so little regard for how it would upend my life—was, frankly, cruel.
Ishouldhate him.
And yet I still miss him, a little. I miss our Saturdays at the New York Public Library, him scribbling on manuscripts in his glasses with his shirtsleeves rolled up, me toiling over the stories that I finally felt inspired to write. I miss the wine-drenched dinner parties we threw, the dazzling conversations with authors and artists that before I’d only known from the fiction pages of theNew Yorkerand exhibitions at the Guggenheim. I miss his solicitousness, his enthusiasm for introducing me to his friends and family, his intelligence and wit.
I miss believing in the fantasy of that life being my happy ever after.
That, more than anything, is what I’m in mourning for. The version of myself I might have been if the dream had actually come true.
“I’m not sure that’s right,” I say to Lauren, choosing my words carefully. She loathes Gabe, and thinks I should too—unilaterally, viciously, without mercy.
But I’m just not there.
And I’m tired of her lecturing me about it.
“I’m not pining for him anymore, per se. It’s more like without him sugarcoating my life, I feel stuck.”
“We have to get you out of that PR job,” she says, perhaps tacitly agreeing not to dwell on this topic. “It’s not healthy for you to work so hard at something you hate.”
I do not inform her that I’m still being harassed by my boss, and on the hook to send out a press release on vacation. The spike in her blood pressure will undo the spa treatments.
“I know,” I say. “But I’m so tired of bouncing around in entry-level positions trying to find something that sticks. I want to begreatat something, you know?”
“Youaregreat at something,” she says. “You just need to start writing again. It’s what you love. But it won’t happen if you don’t try.”
“I know that,” I say. My tone sounds defensive.
I hate that we’re back in this dynamic. Her wanting more for me. Me falling short.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound all harsh and judgey,” Lauren says. “It’s not like I’m living my dream life either.”
This startles me.
“I thought you were,” I say.
She sighs. “I like the money, obviously. I love being creative. But I’m a little over trotting around being a fake pickup artist, if I’m honest. I know it’s my bread and butter, but I’m ready to meet someone for real.”
It touches me that she’s being vulnerable. Lately, I’ve been so emotionally shaky that she’s acted almost like she’s my mom—like she has to protect me from any of her problems. Sometimes her soft heart gets buried under all that bravado.
“I hope you let yourself,” I say, thinking of the pleasure she took in flirtingwith the Irish guy from yesterday. “It would be so nice to see you in love. And you can always pivot to being a tradwife.”
She snorts. “Honey, I don’t have the birthing hips to make eight babies, and I spent enough time on the farm back in Texas.”
“Well, your following adores you. You could post about your favorite cereal brand and you’d still get ten thousand likes.”
“Actually,” she says. “I might have a new opportunity. I didn’t want to tell you until it was more concrete, but I’m in the running to host the Australian version ofMan of My Dreams.”
“Oh wow,” I say. “That’s fucking amazing. Why didn’t you want to tell me?”
She looks at me out of the corner of her eye, wrinkling her lips. I realize she’s worried about me.
“I’d be in Melbourne for a couple months,” she says. “And if it works out, they’d potentially consider me for the UK version too.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing the implication. “So you’d be gone a long time.”
“Yeah,” she says. “And I’d really miss you.”
It’s sweet that she cares about me so much she doesn’t want to leave me on my own. But I know what it’s like to have a dream you don’t pursue. I don’t want that for her.
