After saying goodbye to Teddy I head straight up to my room.
I sit at my desk and lay my phone flat on it. I really wish my leg would stop bouncing around. It’s not exactly comforting when I don’t really want to make this phone call in the first place.
I need to sit still.
A fresh wave of nausea floods my body. I have no idea if it’s because of my hangover or the lingering loss of my Dumper Virginity. (That’s not as dirty as it sounds.)
I pace around my room for nearly an hour trying to work up the nerve to call Dylan. But the longer you put these things off, the heavier they become, until they eventually crush your cognitive capabilities and you can think of nothing else.
I’m being stupid. This is the right thing to do. It’s not fair on Dylan to keep this up. I just have to do it. Get it over and done with.
But instead, I ring Elliot. It’s funny how easily I can dial his number.
‘Have you called him yet?’
‘No.’
‘How come?’
‘I don’t know … It’s scary. And you’re not supposed to break up over the phone, right?’ I’m no expert but doing it over the phone seems cowardly and unfair. And the whole point of doing this is to be fair. But doing it in person is really daunting. I want it done, I just don’t want to actually do it.
‘Why don’t you ring him now and ask to meet him in person?’ Elliot says. ‘Or text him and ask to meet, if you want. You can do it! I believe in you!’
My lips stretch into a small smile. ‘You’re an idiot.’
‘I know. But seriously, you’ll be fine. I promise.’
As soon as I hang up the phone I call Dylan, before I lose my nerve. My heartbeat is probably audible from Aaron’s room. Maybe even Elliot’s.
Air seeps through my lips as I hold the phone to my ear. Maybe he won’t answer … but I guess that in the end that’s not an ideal solution.
‘Hey babe.’
Oh no. ‘Hi. Listen, can we talk?’ I don’t know how my voice manages to escape my throat; rubbing two planks of wood together would be smoother than my throat right now.
‘Sure, what’s up?’
‘No, I mean in person. Can we meet somewhere?’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Uh … I have work all afternoon. Does tomorrow work? How about Andrea’s at ten?’
‘Yeah, see you then.’
‘Is everything okay?’ His voice has a little edge in it, something I’ve never heard before. Maybe this is a bad idea.
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Okay …’
‘Bye.’ I hang up the phone.
I take a few minutes to breathe. I’m not going to think about it for the rest of the night. If I do, I’ll just end up planning out an entire script and running through the scenario in my head. And then I’ll just get really stressed if it doesn’t go the way I imagine.
I open my laptop and watch some YouTube videos for a while, until there’s a knock at my door.
‘Jen?’
It’s Aaron.
‘Yeah?’ I say, opening the door. He shifts uncomfortably, with a battered copy of Romeo and Juliet in his hands.
‘Um, do you think, maybe, I mean –’
‘Come on, boy, spit it out,’ I tease.
‘Would you help me with my holiday homework? I have to do act summaries for English and I don’t really get it.’ He speaks quickly, as though he needs the words out of his system.
‘Of course.’ I smile at him.
Aaron has fallen victim to my mother’s idea that help is for the weak. I don’t think it’s healthy to teach kids that they shouldn’t ask for help, because asking is how you learn. But my mother believes that if it’s easy for her then it should be easy for everyone else. Hence Aaron’s reluctance to ask her for help with his schoolwork: he’s afraid his questions would be ‘too easy’. It’s sad.
I grab the chair from my desk and follow Aaron down the upstairs hallway and into his bedroom, where his desk is cluttered with English notes, maths equations, highlighters and workbooks. It gives off the impression of an exceptionally organised clutter that nobody else could make sense of.
‘I just don’t understand it,’ he says, sitting in his chair. ‘Studying Shakespeare is stupid – nobody talks like that anymore.’
‘I know how you feel,’ I say. I place my chair next to his and sit. ‘Elliot thinks like you so I gave him the complete works for his birthday last year to help change his mind. Actually, most people think like that. It does take some getting used to, but Shakespeare was a genius. There’s a lot to learn from his work.’
‘But it’s so confusing.’
‘You’ll get there,’ I said. ‘Who’s your English teacher this year?’
‘Mr Hardy.’
‘I never had him but I heard he’s good. He likes to answer questions, so make sure you ask plenty. He doesn’t believe in stupid questions.’ He breathes more deeply and the tension in his forehead fades. ‘Okay, how much have you done?’
He points to a book open on his desk, which has a handwritten heading: Romeo and Juliet – Act One.
‘Ah.’
‘Come on, I only just got home – I was out with my friends all day.’
‘Okay, fair enough,’ I say. ‘Have you read the play?’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t really get it. Even in the first scene – why does that guy bite his thumb?’
‘It’s the equivalent of flipping somebody off. Think of it as Sampson flipping them off but pretending he just happened to be waving his middle finger around for no reason.’
‘Right,’ he says slowly. ‘Also, the whole “Wherefore art thou Romeo” thing – I know it’s important because everyone quotes it but I don’t really understand why. He’s right below her window, isn’t he?’
I nod. ‘He is. But “wherefore” means “why”, not “where”.’
‘Oh … So it’s “Why are you Romeo?” ’ he says. ‘But what does that mean?’
‘Basically the only issue in their relationship – aside from the fact that they’ve known each other for about three minutes and Romeo was crazy in love with Rosaline an hour earlier – is the feud between the Capulets and the Montagues. She’s complaining about his name because that’s the main problem in their relationship.’
‘ “That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet”, ’ he quotes. ‘That’s the same idea, isn’t it? Because a rose is still a rose even if it’s called something else. So Romeo’s Romeoness has nothing to do with him being a Montague.’
I nod. ‘Eloquently put. If you really want to impress your teacher, you could talk about iambic pentameter as well. Each line of verse in the play is written so that every second syllable is stressed and so that there are five cycles per line. But Romeo’s name disrupts the flow. If he weren’t named “Romeo Montague”, there would be no issues with the relationship or the line.’
‘ “Deny thy father and refuse thy name”, ’ he reads. ‘Far out, you’re good at this stuff.’
I beam. ‘Put your glasses on and we’ll go through it together.’
‘But glasses suck.’
‘You’ll do more damage if you don’t wear them.’
He gives the loudest sigh I’ve ever heard but picks his glasses up from the floor and shoves them on his face.
For the next few hours, pausing only for dinner, we dissect the entire play and Aaron completes summaries for all five acts. In the margins of the play he scribbles notes to himself. I really enjoy myself; it warms me to see his face light up when he understands something, particularly if he finds it on his own.
‘Thanks, Jen,’ he says. ‘I really mean it. You’re pretty great. But please don’t get me the complete works for my birthday.’
‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ I say. I reach out to ruffle his hair but he knocks my arm away.
‘Don’t push it.’
I don’t get much sleep that night, mostly because of Dylan but also because my room is about six hundred degrees warmer than I would like.
The next morning I take a million deep breaths and walk to Andrea’s. It’s this small coffee shop on the main street and it’s usually pretty busy – which is good, in the sense that it’s likely people will be around; hopefully we won’t make a scene.
I arrive five minutes early and find only three other customers. I’m not sure if that helps my cause or not. I sit at a table and stare at the door.
There’s only one waiter, a grey-haired man in his fifties who asks me twice if I want to order anything. Both times I tell him I’m waiting for someone.
Dylan is fifteen minutes late. When he finally arrives, he kisses my cheek and orders a coffee. No apology or anything.
‘So, what did you want to talk about?’
It’s time but I still have no idea how to do this. ‘Look, Dylan … You know … actually you probably don’t … I mean … How do I say this … um …’ I’m off to a flying start. ‘I think … maybe … it would be better if we … you know … stopped seeing each other?’
His face is blank. I want to disappear.
‘What?’ The blankness turns to disbelief. ‘You’re breaking up with me?’
I nod slowly. ‘I’m sorry. I just –’
‘No, of course, it makes sense. Why would you want to be with a guy who treats you like a queen? Do you know how rare it is to find a guy who will wait for four months? I never got anything more than a kiss. Everything was about you.’
‘Are you serious right now?’ The skin around my eyes tightens as my eyebrows slide up my forehead. My mouth hangs half open. He actually thinks he was doing me a huge favour by waiting – that sure makes me feel like a worthwhile person.
‘I stuck around because I thought you were different,’ he says. ‘I thought the wait would be worth it. I thought maybe you’d appreciate me always being there for you.’
‘You weren’t there for me on New Year’s Eve. You didn’t even want to be with me.’
‘Don’t throw that in my face,’ he scoffs and throws his head back as though the mention of it is ludicrous.
‘Dylan, I just don’t think we work. You’ll find someone who you’ll work with –’
‘I can’t believe I wasted four months of my life on you! I could have hooked up with so many other girls but I stuck by you. And now you’re just throwing it away …’ His eyes narrow and he angles his head down slightly, keeping eye contact. ‘Are you fucking Elliot?’ he says with vicious spite. ‘Is that what this is about?’
‘What? No, of course not.’ Tears well in my eyes; his words are a kick to the kidneys.
‘Then what is it?’
‘I don’t know … I just don’t feel the same things I used to. I think this is for the best.’
‘For the best?’ he says, much too loudly.
‘Is there an issue, here?’ It’s the grey-haired waiter, who has arrived with Dylan’s coffee.
‘Aside from this bitch, no,’ snaps Dylan.
‘Okay, you can leave, thank you, sir. You don’t speak to anybody like that in my cafe.’
‘Seriously? You’re kicking me out? We’re in the middle of a –’
‘Now.’ The waiter keeps firm eye contact until Dylan sighs, stands and heads for the door.
‘Are you okay?’ the waiter asks.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say, wiping my tears. ‘Didn’t take the break-up well, I guess.’ I try to force a smile.
‘Here, you can have his coffee,’ he says warmly. ‘Free of charge. And I’ll bring you a slice of cake, too.’
‘Oh no, you don’t –’
‘I insist. You could use some cheering up.’ He bustles off to bring me the cake. ‘Sweetie, oh my God.’
I turn my head. It takes me a while to recognise who it is, because her face isn’t one I expect to see just now.
‘Soph,’ I say, shocked. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Came for coffee with Mum,’ she says, taking Dylan’s seat opposite me. ‘You must have got here while I was in the bathroom.’
I look across the room and realise one of the customers I spotted earlier was Sophie’s mum. I guess there’s nothing particularly recognisable about the back of her head. Luke bounces on her lap.
‘That was brutal,’ she says.
‘I guess it could’ve gone better.’
‘No, I mean seriously – that was intense.’
‘Was I out of line?’ I ask. My cake arrives: a chocolate cake with creamy icing swirled on top. I earnestly thank the waiter, who smiles as he sets it in front of me.
‘Not even a little bit,’ she says. ‘I thought you were perfectly reasonable. I’m surprised it took you so long to end things, to be honest. You clearly weren’t happy.’
I shove some cake into my mouth. ‘Now I get to tell my mum, which will be fun.’ A few crumbs fall out of my mouth as I speak.
‘If she doesn’t understand, punch her in the eye.’
I laugh. ‘Because that will solve all of my problems.’
Mrs Anderson and Luke come over perhaps ten minutes later. She rests a hand on my shoulder.
‘Are you okay, Jen?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, Mrs Anderson. Just glad it’s over.’
Sophie smiles at Luke. ‘Are you right to take him home, Mum? I’ll stay with Jen for a bit.’
‘Oh you don’t have to –’ I begin.
‘Sh,’ Sophie says, dismissing me with a wave of her arm. ‘Mum?’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Anderson pats my shoulder with her hand and pushes Luke’s pram out of the cafe.
Sophie walks me home and asks me if I’m sure I’m okay at least five times.
‘Seriously, I’m fine,’ I say. I mean, I’m slightly worried about breaking the news to Mum but I don’t want to think about that.
‘I’d better go,’ says Sophie as we reach my house. ‘I don’t want to leave Mum stuck with Luke for too long.’
‘Sure. Thanks for … everything,’ I say.
Thankfully, Mum isn’t home. She might have gone into work but I’m not entirely sure. Dad sits at his desk in the study looking over some paperwork, presumably for an upcoming trial.
‘Hey Princess,’ he says upon my entry, looking at me over his reading glasses, which sit halfway down his nose.
‘What’re you working on?’ I ask, falling back into the armchair. ‘Lawyer stuff?’
‘Yeah, a negligence case. The trial begins in a few days. Pain in the arse, being so close to the New Year.’
‘Prosecution or defence?’
He laughs. ‘Neither. That’s a criminal trial you’re thinking of. In a civil suit, it’s the plaintiff and the defendant.’
‘Oh.’ I always mess that up. ‘Which one are you?’
‘I’m the plaintiff’s lawyer,’ he says.
‘Are you going to win?’ He’s worked on some high-profile cases in the past – been on the news and everything – which I guess means he’s good.
‘I sure hope so.’
He tells me about the case. He’s not really supposed to because it’s all confidential, but he does leave out all the identifying details so I figure it’s okay. Apparently his client used to work for this huge company, which renovated one of their buildings to modernise it. Unfortunately for Dad’s client, the renovation was not a complete success on account of the construction team taking a few shortcuts in the support structures so that they could save a few dollars. The second floor of the building collapsed under the dodgy supports.
The building came down over a weekend so there weren’t many people inside at the time, but Dad’s client was one of them. His left leg was crushed underneath the downpour of building pieces.
The idea of his bone literally being squished made me uncomfortably aware of my own legs. The guy’s injuries were so bad that his leg had to be amputated just above the knee because of something called Crush syndrome, which is where stuff from the injury gets into your blood and affects the kidneys. I’m sure Mum could tell me more but I have no plans to ask.
The guy is suing the construction company for a quarter of a million dollars to cover his medical bills, rehabilitation and stuff like that.
‘Only a quarter of a mill?’ I ask. ‘Surely he’d be entitled to more than that.’
‘It’s possible,’ says my dad, ‘but he just wants to get his life back on track. He doesn’t think it’s fair to seek any pain and suffering compensation.’
Some people really are remarkable. Imagine worrying about fairness when you just lost your leg because of somebody else’s incompetence. I’d be too busy being furious.
‘The poor bastard’s wife miscarried around the same time.’
‘Oh that’s awful,’ I say. And the mention of a wife brings my mind back to Dylan and the things he said to me. I’m still in a mild state of shock – I didn’t even for a moment expect Dylan to accuse me of sleeping with Elliot … I guess my discomfort shows on my face, because Dad asks me if everything’s okay.
‘What? Oh yeah, I’m fine.’
He puts down his pen and peers at me over his glasses. ‘You know, as a trained lawyer I’m quite skilled at detecting untruths. Especially one as thinly veiled as that.’
I love it when he calls a false statement an ‘untruth’. It seems less harsh than ‘lie’.
I exhale. ‘I broke up with Dylan.’
He holds my gaze, his face soft and warm. ‘I’m sorry, Jen. Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. I mean, he was kind of a jerk to me.’
‘Why? What did he do?’
I’m not sure if I should tell him or not, but I do. I tell him about how I wasn’t happy in the relationship, about how I felt unappreciated. I tell him about how Dylan accused me of cheating. I tell him pretty much everything, right down to the faded feeling of butterflies. Serving the sole purpose of making me feel even more stupid, I cry the whole time.
Rising to his feet, Dad opens his arms and I stand and glide into his embrace. He kisses me on the forehead and strokes the back of my head.
‘You did the right thing. Other boys will come along; boys more deserving of my favourite daughter, by the sound of things.’
I smile and pull away from the hug. Dad offers me a tissue to wipe my eyes.
‘God, I’m being so stupid. And it’s only going to get worse.’ I sink back into the chair.
‘What do you mean?’
I look at him, trying to work out if the question is rhetorical or not. I decide it isn’t. ‘Well, I’m sure Mum won’t approve.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Nothing I do is ever good enough for her. The only thing I’ve ever done that she approved of was dating Dylan. Now I’ve gone and thrown that away, it’s just another reason for her to resent me.’
‘Your mother doesn’t resent you.’
‘Come on, Dad, you know what she’s like.’
‘I won’t deny she can be a bit full-on at times,’ he says, nodding, ‘but she does have your best interests at heart.’
‘I know that, but still …’
‘In the last five minutes, I’ve learned more about this Dylan chap than I did in the whole time you dated him. Your mum wouldn’t encourage you to remain in an unhealthy relationship, of that I’m sure.’
‘I’m still not convinced …’
‘Tell you what,’ he says. ‘I’ll talk to her and let her know what’s going on. You go on up to your room, read a book, relax, have some Jen time. I promise you she’ll be okay with it.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say as he kisses my forehead again. ‘I love you.’
‘And I you, Princess.’
True to his word, Dad is the one to tell Mum. I don’t hear any breaking plates or glasses or anything so either a) she’s saving her rage for me or b) Dad was right.
In my ‘Jen time’, I call Elliot to get him up to speed and then text Teddy, simply saying, ‘All sorted with Dylan.’ He replies with a smiley face. Then I read for a while, until Aaron calls me for dinner. We have pasta bake and neither of my parents mention the break-up, which I guess is a good sign.
I offer to do the washing up and then go back to my bedroom.
I consider having a shower but then my mother knocks on my door and fear floods me. ‘I heard about you and Dylan,’ she says, closing the door behind her and destroying the eye line of any potential witnesses. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I really am sorry.’
I’m stunned. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. I won’t lie: when your father told me the news, I was a little disappointed. I did think he was a good match for you but perhaps I misperceived him.’
‘Perhaps you did,’ I say curtly.
‘Do you need to talk about it?’
‘No, thank you.’
She looks slightly dejected, so I quickly add, ‘I already talked it through with Dad and Elliot –’ and Sophie ‘– but thanks anyway.’
‘Well, if you do need to talk, you know where to find me.’
‘I … Thank you.’
She bows her head and leaves my room.
I hadn’t expected that. She did admit she was disappointed but she also said she was wrong about him. That’s a first, right?
My gut straightens itself out. It’s all over. I’m officially single and Mum was surprisingly nice about it all.
Maybe I should’ve done this weeks ago.