Also, I have always hated it when she called me her dumpling baby. Mostly because we both know it’s a reference to how fat I was as a child; I looked like an overstuffed dumpling.
By the time her message is over and I’m done texting her back (So excited to see you! Will meet you at the airport. Just tell me which one), I’m at the subway station.
I could easily make the argument to myself that I should listen to David’s voice mail when I get to Brooklyn. And I almost do. I very nearly do. But instead, I stand outside the stairwell and hit play.
“Hey,” he says, his gravelly voice so familiar. “I texted you. But I didn’t hear back. I . . . I’m in New York. I’m home. I mean, I’m here at the apartment. Our apartment. Or . . . your apartment. Whatever. I’m here. Waiting for you. I know it’s short notice. But don’t you think we should talk about things? Don’t you think there’s more to say? I’m just rambling now, so I’m going to go. But hopefully I’ll see you soon.”
When the message is over, I run down the stairs, swipe my card, and slip onto the train just as it’s leaving. I pack myself into the crowded car and try to calm down as we roar through each stop.
What the hell is he doing home?
I get off the train and make my way to the street. I put my coat on when I hit the fresh air. Brooklyn feels colder than Manhattan tonight.
I try not to run to my apartment. I try to remain calm, to remain composed. There is no need for you to rush, I tell myself. Besides, I don’t want to show up out of breath, and I really don’t want to ruin my hair.
I head through the front entrance and up the stairs to my apartment.
I slip my key into my door.
And there he is.
David.
In my kitchen, cleaning dishes as if he lives here.
“Hi,” I say, staring at him.
He looks exactly the same. Blue eyes, thick lashes, cropped hair. He is wearing a maroon heathered T-shirt and dark gray jeans.
When I met him, as we fell in love, I remember thinking that the fact that he was white made things easier because I knew he would never tell me I wasn’t black enough. I think of Evelyn the first time she heard her maid speaking Spanish.
I remember thinking that the fact that he wasn’t that well read meant he would never think I was a bad writer. I think of Celia telling Evelyn she wasn’t a good actress.
I remember thinking that the fact that I was clearly the more attractive one made me feel better, because I thought that meant he’d never leave. I think of how Don treated Evelyn despite her being, arguably, the most beautiful woman in the world.
Evelyn rose to those challenges.
But looking at David right now, I can see that I have hidden from them.
Perhaps my entire life.
“Hi,” he says.
I can’t help but vomit the words out of my mouth. I do not have the time or energy or restraint to curate them well or deliver them mildly. “What are you doing here?” I say.
David puts the bowl in his hand into the cupboard and then turns back to me. “I came back to iron out a few things,” he says.
“And I am something to iron out?” I ask.
I put my bag down in the corner. I kick off my shoes.
“You’re something I need to set right,” he says. “I made a mistake. I think we both did.”
Why, until this moment, did I not realize that the issue is my own confidence? That the root of most of my problems is that I need to be secure enough in who I am to tell anyone who doesn’t like it to go fuck themselves? Why have I spent so long settling for less when I know damn well the world expects more?
“I didn’t make a mistake,” I say. And it surprises me just as much as, if not more than, it surprises him.
“Monique, we were both acting rash. I was upset that you wouldn’t move to San Francisco. Because I felt like I had earned the right to ask you to sacrifice for me, for my career.”
I start formulating a response, but David keeps talking.
“And you were upset that I would ask that of you in the first place, because I know how important your life is here. But . . . there are other ways to handle this. We can do long-distance for a little while. And eventually I can move back here, or you can move to San Francisco down the line. We have options. That’s all I’m saying. We don’t have to get a divorce. We don’t have to give up on this.”
I sit down on the couch, fiddling with my hands as I think. Now that he says it, I realize what has made me so sad these past few weeks, what has plagued me and made me feel so terrible about myself.
It isn’t rejection.
And it isn’t heartbreak.
It is defeat.
I wasn’t heartbroken when Don left me. I simply felt like my marriage had failed. And those are very different things.