like that again are minuscule. Don’t be silly.” I smiled gamely, agreed that he was right, told myself not to be such a Betty Boop. On the flight back, he worked on his laptop. That was okay. We were busy. I pretended to work, too, even though I kept listening for engine failure. I tried to embrace Michelle Obama, the practical and intelligent side of myself. Tried to ignore my clattering heart.
For the next five weeks, I tried to feel happy. I had Mark … sort of. He loved me … or so I thought. For five weeks, I ignored the signs. Pretended that the increasing distance between us didn’t exist, tried harder than ever to be perfect, adorable, fun. Forgave him his ever-shorter answers. Until night #38 of our relationship, when he invited me over.
When I first walked in from the cold autumn air, I was pleasantly surprised. The table was set, he’d cooked dinner, there were candles. A fire snapped and hissed in the fireplace. Huh, I thought. I guess he just needed to adjust to things. Clearly, he wants to be with me, or else why would he go to all this fuss? Maybe he’s got something special planned! Like an engagement ring! For the first time since Santa Fe, I relaxed. Of course Mark loved me. Of course he did.
Mark poured some wine, offered Brie and crackers and then broke up with me.
It was the timing, see. Things were really crackling at the company, and a serious relationship … not the right time. He was sure I understood and indeed, felt the same way.
“Oh,” I said faintly. “Right.” I paused. “So … I guess we should take things slow, huh?”
Mark looked at me with those liquid, dark eyes of his, a searching, soulful look. “Callie, you’re so … um, amazing. But I’m not really at a point in my life where I can invest what you deserve. And you deserve it all. It’s not that the feelings aren’t there … of course you’re special to me. You know that, right?”
“Sure,” I whispered, my eyes stinging. “So … we’ll just play it by ear and reevaluate in, what … six months?”
The fire popped. Mark looked down at his plate and began breaking a cracker into pieces. “To be honest, I can’t even look that far ahead. I really wish I could, but … well, I can’t ask you to wait around until I can make a commitment.”
“No, no! I don’t mind waiting!” Oh, the humanity! Mrs. Obama said. “I mean … Mark, this whole time in Santa Fe, it was …” My voice broke a little. “It was so … special.”
“It really was,” he acknowledged, then added in a terrible Bogart impression, “We’ll always have Santa Fe.”
Oh, God. That sounded horribly final! Desperate, I stammered and blathered, hoping to change his mind. “I—I just feel like we have … something … we have this incredible bond, and I …”
All of a sudden, I understood the phrase hopelessly in love. Michelle’s voice was kind in my head. You’re not supposed to have to convince him, hon. I ignored her. “I just don’t think we should … I don’t think we should throw away what we feel for each other, Mark.”
How I hated saying those words … and yet, I had to. I had to beg, even as I detested myself for being so … weak. So helpless. So willing to throw out dignity, so ready to trade that for whatever scraps Mark could give me. But dignity was thrown out just the same. “Please, Mark.”
“Uh … well,” Mark said slowly, crushing his cracker fragments into crumbs. “Callie, you’re just fantastic, and I really wish I was in a different place in my life right now. But I’m not.” He gave me a James Dean sort of look, lowered head and sheepish grin. “We’ll be okay, right? We’re friends still, I hope. I mean, I hope you’ll stay for dinner. I cooked for you.”
Don’t stay. Have some self-respect and walk out of here.
I swallowed. “No, of course we’re still friends, Mark,” I said. “Of course!”
“Great,” Mark said, setting aside his plate of crackers and cheese. “I knew you’d understand, Callie. Thank God you’re not one of those hysterical women who can’t handle being alone, right?” He grinned. “I’m starving. Wanna eat?”
“You bet,” I said. I found myself standing and following him to the dining room table. For the next hour, Mark chatted about his parents and their cruise to Norway, a couple of clients, the unfairness of the Yankees winning yet another World Series. The entire time, I murmured and nodded and even ate my damn dinner as my mind whirled. How the hell … Did I just … agree? Somehow, I’d just signed on the dotted line to accept this situation … this un-situation, more like it. Mark had cleverly orchestrated this so there was no scene, no real breakup, no crying … nope, we just sat down and ate, back to colleagues and coworkers. He handled it well, I had to admit.
By the time I got home that night, I’d convinced myself that Mark had been sincere. Timing … a perfectly acceptable answer! Everything he said … true! Mark was right! I did deserve it all! For the next little while, Betty Boop and I held out hope. Tried to be perky and waited for Mark to notice me again and be ready and in a place in his life where he could give me what I deserved. But the days slid past, and my lifelong optimism eroded bit by bit, until even I couldn’t deny the truth. He didn’t want me.
I should’ve hated him, but that was impossible. First of all, I loved him (the devil’s in the details, right?). He was funny and talented and a great boss, loved his work and valued his employees. He’d send me goofy e-mails or links to odd news stories, sometimes texted me during a meeting with a comment about a client, called me at home if something occurred to him. When he complimented me on my work, I’d feel such a rush of pride and joy … joy that faded to a chalky residue moments after he left.
Those three days in Santa Fe had been so perfect that I just couldn’t get past them. I should’ve called Annie, gotten drunk on chocolate liqueur candies, made lists of why I hated Mark. But I didn’t. I was my father’s girl, and if I could’ve gone back in time, I would’ve endured that flight all over again, just to have those happiest moments back again, when I’d had all I ever wanted.
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