At precisely 7:55, I begin to close up the gallery. For the past eight hours, I have had one customer (an elderly woman asking to use our washroom) and one phone call (wrong number). This has got to be the least successful art gallery in Canada. But why do I even care? Filomena doesn’t need the money, and I get paid regardless of how much she sells. Who knows? Maybe I simply want to see Fil do well.
I lock up the back door, gather my things, and flip the sign from “Open” to “Closed.” My phone buzzes and I get a little excited thinking it’s probably my brother, Wes. But it’s not. It is, in fact, the last person I would have ever expected to hear from—my ex-boyfriend, Mo.
Hey Bean. Miss u. Just letting u know I’m engaged. Talk soon. Mo.
My first thought is that I can’t take any more upsetting news. I can’t. I feel dizzy but refuse to give in to another panic attack. Instead, I bolt outside and lock the door. And standing in the freezing cold, I feel the rise of my pulse threatening to push me over the edge once more. I force myself to breathe deeply and the frigid air stings my nose, throat and lungs.
Mo is engaged. The guy who couldn’t commit, who would blow me off for a football game, who couldn’t look me in the eye for the final two months of our relationship was going to marry someone. The pain of it feels like someone standing on my chest. It was me all along. I was the problem. He just didn’t want me.
And then a memory, an ancient moment in time flashes across my mind: the first time Mo and I were alone together.
He always had a way of letting me know when he wanted me. His stance was closer, warmer somehow and his breathing became faster with a quiet wheeze to it like he wanted me to listen, wanted me to place my ear to his chest to understand.
He walked up to me while I was sitting at the information desk of the museum where we worked. I had just started my shift and he was ending his. We had been friends, he, Christy and I, for about three months at this point and so it wasn’t abnormal for him to approach me and start a conversation, it was actually expected. I pretended I couldn’t see him coming and instead surveyed him out of the corner of my eye. His walk was assured, almost predatory. He had intentions, I just had no idea what they were.
I took a deep breath. Christy knew I had a thing for Mo. She told me it was blatantly obvious. When I asked her if she thought Mo knew, she tossed me a look that said ‘Yeah, dummy.’
“I’ve been thinking,” he said leaning over the desk just out of my field of vision. I turned my head to respond.
“Have you now?” I asked, feigning a confidence I didn’t actually have.
He cleared his throat and shifted closer so that he was standing directly in front of me. His security uniform was navy blue. It smelled like soap and looked freshly pressed. I raised my eyes to him. “Yes,” he said. “I think people should start calling us Mo and Ro. You know, start something new.”
I raised my eyebrow. “But nobody calls me Ro. Not ever. Everyone calls me Bean. You know that.”
He just smiled at that. “Like I said, something new.”
“And besides,” I continued. “What about Christy? Shouldn’t she have a name too?”
“She does. It’s Christy. It doesn’t rhyme with us. This is just about you and me,” he said meaningfully.
“Oh,” I replied quietly.
“What time are you done here?” he asked, leaning into my desk further and further with each sentence he uttered.
“Six,” I said, my voice much higher than usual.
“Okay, I’ll be back here at six. I’ll take you to the Elephant and Castle. Sound good?”
It was our first date, though I would never call it that in front of Mo. He explained his situation to me that day. I think I hid my disappointment from him as well as I could. There was something between us right from the beginning, but he never told me how he felt about me except to say that he thought I was cute and valued our friendship.
We slept together seven times. I hated myself for keeping track, but I did. In my head, I liked to think those times were special, but they weren’t. I know that now.
So this text doesn’t have to feel personal. I don’t have to feel like I’m nothing because we weren’t right for one another. I can breathe, text him back, walk home and move on.
Congrats xo, I type. And with a deep breath, I hit send.
