Page 53 of That's Not a Thing

“No.” My voice is firm. “Please, don’t cancel your plans. It’ll only make me feel worse.”

Her eyes search my face for a moment before she lets out a heavy breath. “Fine. But you are coming to my office tomorrow to meet me for lunch. Promise.”

“Promise.” I hold out a pinky, and she wraps her own little finger around mine in our age-old deal-sealing move. I give her a quick hug and send her back to whatever night she was meant to have.

When I emerge from her building onto the street, I realize I don’t even know which direction to walk. I wonder who would be waiting if I returned to the apartment in Gramercy Park, the home I have been sharing with Aaron and Wesley. For all I know, those two could be attacking each other at this very moment, although I know better than to think Aaron would ever hurt a man in a Wesley’s physical condition. More likely they are sitting around commiserating about what a selfish bitch I am. And they wouldn’t be wrong, either. I have always, my whole life, struggled against my tendency to focus too much on myself. I consciously work to ensure I think of others, like going out of my way for a sick friend or helping at the soup kitchen. Even choosing my career, I really did mean to find a job where I was engaged in some kind of righteous endeavor. But then I sold out, choosing my own self-interest, cash over caring. Well, until today.

I stagger on the street as I feel another stab of panic about the fact that I have quit my job, that I now have no source of income. But then I remember that I followed my conscience, that I allowed my principles to guide me, and perhaps I should be proud of that. Maybe it’s the one smart move I’ve made this week, this month, this year.

I’ve been absently walking eastward on Eighty-second Street since I exited Lana’s building, taking myself toward East End Avenue, the river, oblivion, but my newfound pride in my professional decision awakens something in me. I decide that I need to go home, to figure out what direction my life is going to take—personally, professionally, everything, everything.

When I return to Gramercy and turn my key in the apartment door, I realize I am holding my breath, nervous about who I am going to find inside. The apartment is dark in the main room, and for one blissful moment, I think that I am home alone, but then I hear music playing from the bedroom area. I recognize “One Tree Hill” by U2, and I know it’s Wesley. He’s always loved that haunting, whimsical melody. If I had to bet money, I’d say he’s got it playing on repeat. As I stand frozen in the dark, listening to the words, Bono singing about a dear friend who died in a tragic motorcycle accident, I’m struck. Suddenly I know exactly what I’m here for, exactly what I need to do.

Chapter Twenty-One

June 2017

Iwalk quietly down the dark hallway, passing Wesley’s closed door and slipping into my bedroom. Flicking the lights on as the door closes behind me, I stare down at the cell phone in my hand. I close my eyes and take a quick breath in, like I’m preparing to jump into a swimming pool, or a lake, or a freezing, swirling abyss, and I dial Aaron’s number.

“Hi,” he says cautiously when he picks up on the second ring.

I hear some sort of announcements in the background. “Are you at work?” I know he wasn’t scheduled to work tonight, despite what I said to Spencer earlier, who probably knew the schedule too.

“Yeah, I crashed in one of the on-call rooms earlier, and then I figured I’d just stick around.” His voice sounds thick, wary.

“I was hoping we could talk.” I lower myself onto the bed, moving gingerly on the down comforter, as though everything in my world is now fragile.

“Where are you?” he asks, and I hear suspicion in the sudden crispness of his words.

“Home.” I ease my feet out of the patent leather ballet flats I chose for work this morning, noticing the red indentations they’ve left on my insteps.

“Is Wesley there?”

“Yeah, he’s in his room. We didn’t see each other. I was at Lana’s all afternoon. His door is closed, and so’s mine. Can you come home?”

“I’m not sure I can be in the same room as you tonight. Or tomorrow. I need some space and time to figure out where we go from here.”

“What are you saying? That you’re thinking about ending things with me over this?” I balk.

“I don’t know,” he snaps. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” he repeats, his voice hard. “What you did was a complete and utter betrayal. I have to figure out how I’m supposed to marry someone I can’t trust.” He sighs heavily into the phone, like he doesn’t want to have said those words, like he’s being forced to behave this way. I listen to the rustling sound of his breath and I feel my eyes pooling with tears, my vision blurring at the damage I have caused.

“But I wanted to tell you that I figured it all out. That it’s going to be clear-cut going forward.”

“What did you figure out?”

I notice the background noise on his end has stilled, and I imagine he’s walked somewhere more private at the hospital to have this conversation, maybe an empty exam room. I picture him in his scrubs, a stethoscope draped around his neck, the phone to his ear.

“I’m not going to look for a job yet. I’m going to spend the next few months, or however long, taking care of Wesley.” I lie back against the bed, staring up at the white ceiling.

“What the fuck, Meredith? This is supposed to make me feel better?” His voice is rising.

“I realized why I kissed him.”

“Kissed?” He repeats, his voice heavy, knowing, like he wants me to get into the dirty details of everything else we did all over again. I can’t undo what happened with Wesley, so instead, I move forward with my original point.

“I was trying to find that light, that brilliant sunshine, that I used to feel when I was with him. I realized tonight that the light never came from him. It came from me, when I was happy with myself, and I haven’t been happy, not with myself. I’ve been so fucking miserable.”

“You’ve been miserable?” Now I hear hurt, anger.