JUNE 27 Dear Mr. Knightley,
Josh and I broke up tonight—at his office, of all places. It was humiliatingly awful. I went to grab him for dinner after work and found him collecting storyboards in a conference room.
Prior to walking into that room, I thought we were fine. I’d say we had fun this spring. Sure, he’s been busy and we haven’t spent much time together, but when we did go out, it was lighter and nicer. And it was a lie.
He’s been seeing someone at work. I mean “seeing” someone—for months. I feel so stupid.
I opened the conversation with Alex. Nothing is going on, but I figured if I’m going to be friends with Alex, Josh should know. After all, I received another text two days ago.
Lunch Thursday? Spiaggia on Michigan Ave. 1 pm?
My immediate reply was:
See you then.
So if there will be lunch, there will be honesty. Turns out I haven’t been able to keep my adoration of Cole Barker and Alex’s writing much of a secret. Josh pounced.
“What? Cole Barker’s here and you’re having lunch with him?”
“You do know Cole Barker is fictional.”
“Cole Barker is your perfect man, Sam, just like that Darcy or Wentworth. You don’t think I’m going to be furious?”
“You know Darcy and Wentworth? How much Austen have you read?”
“None, Sam. But no one can spend two minutes with you without being bludgeoned with every ridiculous detail. And now you’re hanging with one of your heroes?” He crossed the room to loom over me. “Don’t tell me you’re not intrigued. Will he compare? Can he live up to your impossible ideals? He can’t, Sam. The writer is flesh and blood and probably an arrogant jerk, not some figment of your great imagination, not some perfect hero who will sweep you off your feet or wait around while you dally in Fantasyland!”
Speechless—that was me. I sputtered a bit while Josh collected himself. “How often do you see him?”
“Not much. Only one dinner and a lunch . . . Oh, and another lunch Thursday. We’re friends, Josh. Can’t I be friends with the man?”
“Sure you can—with the man. But nothing’s ever simple with you.” He paused. “Look, I need someone else. We’ve had fun, but I need more.”
That’s when I knew this was bigger than Alex. My stomach clenched. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been seeing Lucy.”
“Logan’s girlfriend? Who comes out with us all the time?”
“She’s not Logan’s. She’s mine.” He let his tone linger . . . and suddenly I understood all Logan’s looks, his tittering at dinner, the meaning behind his innuendo, his grabbing Lucy and squeezing her tight.
Logan wanted me to know. He wanted fireworks. He wanted to humiliate me.
“Eww . . . that’s so . . . You all must have had a good laugh.” I looked around the glass conference room. It felt like a fishbowl with everyone staring in and laughing at me, though in reality no one else was around.
But I knew they’d all been talking. Logan must have loved it. And Josh. One look in his eyes and I knew he loved it too: the secrets, the attention, and the game—all at my expense.
“Why didn’t you dump me? Why keep me around?” My fingers, of their own accord, fiddled with the star pendant around my neck.
“There was always the chance—”
“Don’t say another word.”
“Sam . . .” He reached for my arm.
“Don’t touch me.” I got up and realized what I was doing. The pendant felt dirty and I recalled, with perfect clarity, Isabella’s observation: “Josh likes the way things look.” Then his own comment, “They thought you were smart and pretty before, but now you’ve got grit,” pounded in my brain. I was no more than Logan’s ostentatious gold and silver watch, a trinket to see and be seen.
I pulled the necklace, breaking the chain and leaving a thin, red cut on the back of my neck. “I’m so blind. How could I not see? You’re a Willoughby.” I shook my head. “No, at least he loved Marianne. You’re worse. I don’t know who you are.”
“What? I’m who?”
“Never mind. Good-bye, Josh.” I threw the necklace across the table and walked out of there with my head high and my back straight. All Edmond Dantes. And I kept the tears at bay—until I hit the sidewalk.
How could I not have seen? Had I wanted normal that badly?
I went home and called Ashley, watched two Austen films, ate a whole pizza and an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s—and it still hurts.
In my books everything turns out well in the end. Lizzy and Emma and Elinor all had men who were worthy and loved them. Really loved them. Me, I picked a Willoughby and I’m rightfully alone.
For months I convinced myself that Josh’s paltry version of love was all I could expect—I wasn’t worth something better. But I know there’s more. I want the real thing. I can have that, can’t I?
Because I know it exists—in books and in real life. The Muirs have it. I’m continually struck by the ways they care for each other and for me. And Hannah—I hear it when she talks about Matt. Love spills out of these people. That’s what I want. Settling for anything less is a lie.
Josh was a lie.
Do you have it, Mr. Knightley? The real thing? Don’t let it go if you do. That’s all. I’m off to find more tissues and another pint of Chunky Monkey.
Wallowing,
Sam