The breakup

Falling out of love and cranberry juice

“I can’t come to Dallas this weekend,” I said over the phone. I remember exactly where I was: standing on the edge of the bar between my kitchen and living room in my “open-floor plan” of a 700-square foot apartment on the river, awkwardly digging my bare toes into the dirty carpet. It was September.

“What? Why not?”

His parents were supposed to be there. His parents who looked down their noses at me, who prayed before eating meals in restaurants, who had two awful schnauzers in their mountain mansion home.

“I think we should break up,” I said after a deep breath. Bracing for what he would say next. But he didn’t say anything, so I went on. “I care too much about you to lead you on when I just know we’re wrong for each other, and it would be unbearable for me to go through this weekend with your parents there acting like nothing’s wrong.”

It was hot and sticky in that silence. 320 miles between him and me, and still too close for comfort.

The conversation was short. But still too long. He asked dumb questions we both knew the answer to: Why am I unhappy? Why are we wrong for each other?

We were best friends once. I started dating him because I didn’t want anybody else to, but I couldn’t stand the idea let alone the action of being touched by him.

I hadn’t thought ahead enough to now: to our relationship, friendship being ruined. The ship torn down, like the one in the Goonies. Unwanted. Undervalued.

He didn’t even like the Goonies! Or going places. Or being outside. Or food without preservatives!

He ended the conversation dejected: “I was just calling to see if you wanted me to pick up some juice…”