“Hallie, you’re great.” He gave me a condescending smile and a pat on my hand. “You’re cute, and you’re fun, and the sex is definitely in my top three, but you’re like the kind of girl I enjoyed dating in college, you know. You get into hilarious situations that make us all laugh, and you’re always up for a party.”
I was?
I couldn’t remember the last time I partied.
College, I think.
“But I’m thirty this year and . . . uh . . . well . . . I work for very important clients, and I have to attend a lot of serious, sophisticated events, and, uh . . . well, that’s not really your thing.”
I gaped at him, stunned. “Not my thing? I organize those events.”
“Exactly!” He grinned as if pleased I understood.
Understood what?
I understood crap!
“You plan parties for a living. Who does that? And you can’t tell people what you’re really thinking because you want everyone to love you. You eat things you hate eating to please people who actually couldn’t give a fuck if you eat their awful canapés, and you end up in these mortifying situations because you can’t say no. Yes, it’s funny, but it’s also embarrassing for me. I need a wife who is serious. A wife with a backbone. A wife with an impressive high-powered job who gets what that’s like and understands the seriousness of my work, you know. And, um, I think we’ve lasted this long because you are very giving in the bedroom . . . but I can’t keep following my dick. It’s time to grow up.”
Did he just say what I think he said?
I sprang to my feet, so outraged I felt like I was choking. I could feel my face darkening with furious, fiery blood and a lack of oxygen.
I was fun and cute and giving in the bedroom?
I embarrassed him?
He’d dated me this long only because I was giving in the bedroom?
For a start, three months wasn’t that long, and we’d barely seen each other for one month. Oh, and my people-pleasing bothered him? Really? What the hell did he think drove me to give in the bedroom when he never ever gave back?
No, sirree, he did not.
I’d wasted my best stuff on him.
Only for the condescending asshole to tell me I wasn’t good enough to be his girlfriend?
You are a pompous . . . selfish . . . mundane . . . “Little man!” I yelled the last part of my thoughts out loud.
George blinked up at me in shock. “I’m six four,” he replied inanely.
I raised an eyebrow and crooked my pinkie finger at him. “Yes, and in proportion you are not.”
He gaped, his voice high-pitched as he threw back, “Uh! That was hurtful, unnecessary, and just confirms I’m right to break up with you.”
I had been hurtful? “You just told me I had no backbone, that I embarrass you, and that the only reason you dated me was for sex.”
“That last one is a compliment!”
My head exploded. “I have to leave.” I spun around, tripping over the corner of the damn sectional as I tried to make my escape.
“I think that’s best. You really are too sensitive, Hallie.”
Choking back the words I wanted to say because I knew he’d just turn them around on me, I slammed out of his apartment. My fury kept me warm as I marched through the chilly spring evening to the subway. I got off at Church Avenue, and it wasn’t until I was safe inside my apartment that I announced in a strong, forthright manner to the empty room, “George, you are a patronizing, derogatory, condescending, toxic man-child. And you’re bad in bed!”
Wishing I’d had the guts to just say it, no matter his reaction, I promptly burst into tears.
The tears weren’t for George. I could never miss someone who had spoken to me like that. No, the tears were pure frustration. With myself.
“At least you said the thing about his penis,” I muttered as I switched on the coffee machine and ordered Chinese takeout on my phone. But I even felt bad about that. What if I gave him a complex about the size of his penis? Honestly, it wasn’t even small . . . it just wasn’t in proportion to his height.
I called Althea and told her what happened, needing reassurance I wasn’t a horrible person.
“And why the hell are you worried about giving him a complex? Girl, he basically told you that you weren’t good enough for him.” My friend snapped angrily. “I hope that comment about his penis haunts him every time he whips it out.”
I burst into laughter, feeling tears of amusement prick my eyes instead. “Oh God, I love you.”
“I love you too. And whatever you do next . . . do not call one of your college friends to tell them about this, okay?”
I frowned because I had been planning on calling Gabby next. Gabby was not only my college roommate but also my best friend from high school. She worked and lived in Newark, so I didn’t get to see her often, but we talked every week. Still . . . maybe Althea was right.
Let’s just say George wasn’t the only one who had pinned me with a rep I didn’t deserve.
Later, I sat down on my couch, laptop on lap, take-out carton in hand, and proceeded to watch the rest of the videos Christopher had sent Darcy. My phone buzzed and binged, but seeing it was missed calls from both my parents, for once I put myself first and ignored them. I’d pay for it in the morning when I contacted them.
By the time I’d watched all the videos of Christopher, I wasn’t even thinking about George, which just said it all.
Instead I googled every little bit of information I could find on Christopher Ortiz, looked at a ton of his Instagram posts, and rewatched his talk show interviews.
It wasn’t until I thought about the last video letter, the one that had been his most personal yet, that the remorse kicked in big-time.
I’d watched video letters that weren’t meant for my eyes and ears. This man, this super intelligent, charismatic man who exuded joy and kindness, had sent these private videos to his girlfriend and did not know a perfect stranger had watched them all.
And intended to watch them all again.
He deserved to know.
And I should apologize.
George was wrong. I had a backbone. I should send a video letter apology to Christopher, a stranger I had a crush on, even though he’d probably hate me after, because it was the right thing to do.
FOUR
Chris
PRESENT DAY
Standing in the prewar apartment Mom left me, I gazed out the large window at the city before me. Most New Yorkers would kill for this apartment. I loved it. Not just for its view or the fact that it was eleven hundred square feet of space in Midtown East, but because it was a piece of my mother.