Rebound Renovation

I'm a planner. Always have been, always will be.

And I know a lot of people say that, but I mean it. In the sixth grade, I did this class project where I had to research colleges to apply to in the future. The assignment was to present the college, where it was located, and what degree program I'd enroll in. My presentation included that... and a detailed course list organized by semester, which dorm I'd live in, the clubs I'd join, and the Campus Life events I'd volunteer for.

I... may have gone a bit overboard.

But planning has always been my biggest strength. Shortly after I turned twenty-one, I graduated early from Virginia Tech (yes, the same university from my sixth grade presentation) summa cum laude with my bachelor's degree in Interior Design. I interned with Capital Architecture, Inc.—the top interior design company in Washington, D.C. At twenty-three, I had secured a full-time position as a Senior Design Specialist for government offices and politicians' homes across the city. So yeah, I'd say my planning came in very handy.

Until now.

I stare blankly at Michael, my boyfriend of three years, as static crackles in my mind. He noticeably avoids my gaze. He's overly invested in plucking at a piece of lint on the cream-colored table cloth between us, like resolving this one flaw in this otherwise immaculate Italian restaurant will solve the world's problems. His dark brow is furrowed over the thin rim of his glasses, his mouth drawn into a line of complete concentration. Watching him, I can almost convince myself that he didn't just say what I thought I heard him say. I can almost convince myself that someone else said it at one of the tables close to us, and I mistakenly thought it had been him.

Numbly, I force my mouth to move, to form the question that I hope will confirm that I am mistaken. "I'm sorry—what was that?"

Michael straightens slightly and clears his throat, but his eyes remain fixed on the piece of lint. "I said," he explains, his voice barely above a mumble, "that... we need to break up. I said that I accepted a job in Denver, and I just don't see this working out any more."

The static in my mind grows louder, and I can barely feel my own body. Okay, so I didn't imagine it. Michael really is breaking up with me. Right now. In the middle of Moretti's, our favorite Italian restaurant we had come to at least a hundred times since we moved in together two years ago.

I didn't plan for this.

Clearing my throat, I take a breath. Despite the mental static, I feel strangely calm. A voice in the back of my brain whispers that this is not a good sign, and that I'm in shock. I don't listen to that voice as I purse my lips and furrow my brow.

"I... don't understand," I say flatly. "Why would we need to break up?"

This gets Michael to glance at me, frown deepening as confusion flickers in his dark brown eyes. "Like I said. I accepted a job in Denver. I'll need to move."

A different voice whispers in my mind now, one that a part of me knows is not entirely rational.

Oh, he's just confused. He doesn't know we don't have to break up just because he's moving. Maybe he doesn't know about long-distance relationships.

I attempt a smile, shaking my head slightly. "That's alright! We can still stay together—long-distance doesn't bother me. I can fly out to visit you once a month, and we can do Facetime every day. How long is the contract?"

Michael works in finance and has been a contractor with the government for the four years I've known him. So far, he has managed to secure annual contracts here in D.C.—but I always knew there was a possibility of a contract taking him out-of-state. I had planned for that. The tightness in my stomach starts to ease up...

...until he looks at me again. His expression is drawn, his jaw set. I realize now as I finally meet his eyes for the first time that Michael looks tired. Exhausted, even. His dark brown hair—which is usually a little unkempt already—seems positively disheveled now that I'm studying him more closely. My heart stutters in my chest. This is the look of a man who has already gone through this in his head, probably for several nights in a row this week. My tight smile fades.

"Sydney..." he says levelly. "I'm... not doing long-distance. With you."

I'm not sure why, but the "with you" rings in my head like one of those gongs customers hit on the way out of a small mom-and-pop Chinese restaurant by way of thanking the staff for their service. I wince, the static in my head giving way to gong reverberations. "But... why? Can't we talk about this? Can't you look for other contracts? I'm sure some local ones will come up soon."

Michael is already shaking his head. "The Denver contract goes live in one week. I've made a deposit on an apartment."

A drum beat has joined the gong in my head. I realize distantly that it's the sound of my heart thundering loudly in my chest.

Unaware of the percussion ensemble carrying on inside my brain, Michael drags a weary hand through his hair and looks away from me again. "I... I'm sorry, Syd. Really. I am. But I just can't do this anymore."

I know by "this" he doesn't mean this job. He means this relationship. He means us.

He means me.

"You're... really great," he goes on, and my insides tense up. No. No, he is not about to give me the whole "it's not you, it's me" speech. Not here. Not in the middle of my favorite restaurant. Not after three goddamn years.

"And I know you'll do just fine," Michael continues, his eyes flickering to mine. I don't even know what my face is doing; I can't feel my lips. "We were good together. But... I just need a change."

The percussion in my head gets louder. A strange, almost hysterical giggle comes to my throat. I have to swallow it down. "A change?" I whisper, my voice cracking slightly. "A change is replacing all our pots and pans. A change is redecorating the living room. A change is trading in your Ford F150 for a Tesla."

Michael stiffens, and he glances around the restaurant in discomfort. "Sydney, come on. Don't make a scene."

Indignation flares in my stomach. A scene?

Whatever my face does makes Michael panic slightly. His eyes widen, and he leans across the table so he can whisper, "It doesn't have to be a big thing, you know? We can just enjoy one last nice dinner together and part ways as friends."

My fists clench against my midnight-black pencil skirt. He's trying to control this. He had picked the location. He had picked the time—Friday evening right after work, when the restaurant would be the busiest. And now he's trying to control my reaction to this sudden, world-shattering information.

Michael studies my expression for a long moment, his shoulders slumping in disappointed defeat. I'm not playing my part right. I'm not being the good ex-girlfriend and letting this go without a fuss. Which, in my defense, is absolute bullshit. I have barely fussed. I could do so much more fussing. I open my mouth to tell him exactly that when the waiter approaches our table, polite smile in place and notepad and pen held at the ready.

"Would you like to order?" he asks, glancing between the two of us. If he notices the mid-breakup tension in the air, he doesn't let on.

Michael looks from me to the waiter. Then, in a move that leaves me gaping in mortification, he stands from the table. "Actually, I'm not hungry tonight," he tells the server. He pulls out his wallet and tosses a handful of bills on the table. He doesn't look at me. "Order whatever you like. On me. I'll get you an Uber to take you back to the house when you're done."

My stomach twists. I shake my head, as if the motion can erase the past ten minutes of this evening. "We're not done with this conversation!" I hiss at him. I can tell from the waiter's posture that he's very uncomfortable with the situation he has stepped into, but I don't care. "I'm coming with you—and we're finishing this at home. Together."

Michael glances at me, and I think I catch just a hint of guilt in his eyes. "I'm... not going home."

The words feel like a slap to the face. I stare at him. "What...?"

"I moved out all my things today... while you were at work," he explains quietly. "I'm leaving for Denver tomorrow morning."

I feel like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over my head. I can't speak. I can't think.

In a move that will play in my mind on repeat for the foreseeable future, Michael pauses beside my chair. He hesitates. Then he bends down, tucks a stray lock of shoulder-length blonde hair behind my ear, brushes a light kiss against my cheek, and whispers, "Take care, Sydney."

And then he's gone. He's gone, and I'm sitting alone at a table in the middle of my favorite restaurant, staring at the chair where he delivered the news that upended all my plans. The percussion has stopped playing in my head. All I have now is heavy, dense silence.

Beside me, the waiter clears his throat. I don't look at him as he asks quietly, "So... can I interest you in some wine?"

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, Michael can go fuck himself."

I pause, leaning against the doorframe as I perform the delicate balance of pressing my cell phone between my ear and my shoulder while reaching down to yank my heels off and chuck them to the side. It's even more impressive that I manage to not drop the bottle of wine I'm clutching like a protective talisman as I leave my purse by the door.

"Mom, language," I say in a halfhearted admonition, dragging myself into the living room of my two-story townhome. I don't bother turning on the light. I don't want to. Something about seeing just how empty the place is after Michael covertly snuck all his shit out makes me want to curl in on myself like a pill bug.

"I'll say fuck if I want to," my mother protests on the other end of the phone, her voice slightly muffled as the speaker slides down to my cheek. "And I feel like this situation warrants it."

I sigh, my feet dragging against the hardwood floor as I make my way to the beige sofa in the middle of the living room. I'm more than a little tipsy from having spent all of Michael's breakup money on martinis and wine from Moretti's, and I plop face-first into the couch cushions, my right arm dangling off the side while still clutching the neck of the wine bottle.

"I'm not saying the situation doesn't warrant the word," I mumble against the couch cushion. "I'm saying I'm not used to hearing my mother say the word 'fuck.' I didn't even know you knew that word."

Mom sniffs dismissively. "Life's too short not to curse when you want to."

It's the newest—but not the most surprising—of Mom's life's too short applications. It could be worse. It could be a new iteration of the skydiving adventure from three months ago.

Mom sighs from the other end of the phone, and her voice gentles into something maternal, comforting. "Are you okay, hon?"

The room around me spins. "No," I mumble into the cushion.

There's a pause. "Do you want me to stay with you for a bit?"

The question doesn't surprise me, but I still frown when she asks. "No. I'm a grown-ass adult. I don't need my mommy to come baby me because my boyfriend dumped me."

She snorts. "That's asinine. Life's too short to get hung up on—"

"Mom," I interrupt tiredly. "I... appreciate it. Really. I just... I don't know what I need yet. Other than sleep. And Tylenol. And Gatorade. All of which I have here at my house."

"I could be there to help make sure you get those things," she offers in a mildly sing-song voice. "And I can make you soup."

"I'm going through a breakup, Mom," I mumble. "Not the flu."

"Good soup cures many things," she reminds me. "Including heartbreaks and the flu."

"Noted." I crack an eye open and glance at the stairs, wondering if I should spend the effort and energy it takes to trudge up to the bedroom. I immediately decide that it's not. "I'm... going to get some sleep. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

There's a long moment of silence from the other end, and I can practically see my mom's furrowed brow as she considers how to respond. Then she takes a breath. "Okay, hon. Just... take care of you—no matter what that needs to look like."

I would, I think miserably, if I knew what I need right now. But I don't say it out loud. That will just worry Mom. So instead I say, "Of course. Love you."

"Love you, too, sugar plum."

As soon as we hang up, I fumblingly set my phone on the end table by the couch's arm rest and drag the throw blanket from the seatback to drape over me. I hate the silence. It reminds me of who isn't there with me right now. The pain of that reminder shoves past the waves of alcohol that has dulled my misery so far, and my heart twists wretchedly.

Three years, I think as the first tears slide down my flushed cheeks. And this is how it ends.