SECOND ENDING

The hardest part about breaking up with Jeffrey was not the actual break-up. It was four days later, when I noticed his toothbrush.

I’m not sure how I missed it, but today, I stepped out the shower and there it was. This might sound stupid, but I always liked seeing our toothbrushes leaning together in the highball glass, next to the sink. His toothbrush was certainly not the first to share occupancy with mine, but this particular union charmed me — maybe because they were both hot pink.

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Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was released last week. I figured I’d grab a pair of tickets to the earliest screening on opening night, and then have dinner at Chipotle. Jeffery’s a picky eater, but he loves Chipotle. So I texted him and asked if he wanted to go. He responded immediately, “I think we need to talk tonight.” Without panicking, I suggested we meet at my apartment around eight, to which he agreed. Then, I spent the afternoon compulsively checking my phone and sitting with my face in my hands.

On the drive home, I changed my mind and asked him to call me, two hours and thirty-nine minutes before he was supposed to show up. “Let’s just chat now,” I said. Chat, I thought to myself. Like we’re going to enjoy this.

The chat lasted 14 minutes and was, all things considered, pleasant. We spoke in level voices and shared supportive sentiments and related to one another. At the end, I asked if there was anything else he’d like to say before we hung up. “I love you,” he said. “Always will.” And then I hung up and hurried out the door to make my yoga class on time.

I didn’t think about it much the next day — except for the occasional phantom impulse to text him. Waiting in line at Subway, I typed, “Getting lunch. What are you eating?” before realizing I didn’t have to do that anymore.

After work, I got a haircut from Paul, my barber. I stared blankly at my reflection and asked, “Do people sometimes cry in your chair?”
“Sometimes,” he said. Sure.”
I nodded. “Do guys cry in your chair?”
His eyes met mine in the mirror. “Do you need to cry, man? Go ahead. It’s all good.”
I blew a freshly cut curl off my forehead. “No,” I lied. “I’m okay.”

A break-up happens and you want to be angry about everything you wasted: the time, the money, the headspace. All those songs you memorized because they reminded you of him. All the effort you spent learning the names of his siblings and their kids and how the nuances of his family factor into his personality. All the social media real estate you share. So many pictures together. All those nights you stayed home with him when you could’ve been out there in the world, living life. All the times you conceded an argument [when you were absolutely right], because it was easier to say “You’re right. I’m sorry.” You hate yourself for compromising so much. You hate yourself for not standing on your principles. Now, you’re standing in a ruin with nothing but a body you’re unhappy with and prospect of dating new people looming in the distance.

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This morning, when I saw his toothbrush, I tossed it into the trash and placed the highball glass in the dishwasher. I laid my own toothbrush on the edge of the sink because I thought it would look sad standing upright, alone in another glass.

I’m bound to find more little relics of our relationship here and there; gym shorts and handwritten cards and memories that I’ll romanticize with filters and soundtracks. But right now, I won’t go looking for them.

Instead, I’ll wait for them to find me again. And there, I’ll savor the opportunity to be angry, resigned, and close to him for just a moment.