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But then what would’ve been the point in doing that? Cam hasn’t forced her to stay with him. Well, maybe there’s an element of that with the pregnancy, but I assume that was accidental. The fact is that Juliette is a grown woman. She had a choice. And she’s chosen him.
Ahhh… that fucking hurts…
I tip my head back on the glass and look up at the gray clouds. I think about my phone and wince. That was childish. What must she be thinking? I should have finished the conversation like a man, congratulated her on being pregnant, told her I understood why it made sense to stay with the father of her baby, and ended with an ‘I’ll always be here for you,’ type of comment. A promise that we can continue to work together and be friends.
But it’s not the truth, is it? She’s going to be leaving the company, well, leaving the country. The only time I’ll get to see her will be if she comes back to visit her family, or if I go to Sydney and ask if she wants to meet up. And what would be the point of that? Would I really want to see her with her new baby, happy in the glow of motherhood, in her new life?
And realistically, we can’t stay in contact. In the past I’d told myself we were just friends, but it’s always been a lie. Shaz didn’t know that Juliette and I messaged each other every day, and I’m betting Cam didn’t either. We’ve had a six-year affair, and it wasn’t fair on either of our partners. And it wasn’t fair on ourselves. If she’s going to be truly happy, we need to make the break.
Hey, if I want to be happy, we need to make the break.
For the first time, I think about a future without her. For two years, and maybe more, I’ve dreamed about ending up with her. But it’s not going to happen. She’s never going to be mine. It’s time I put her behind me. I need to start dating again. Meeting other women. There’s somebody else out there for me. Someone I can love, and who’ll understand me. Who’ll make me glow inside the way she does.
But I don’t want anyone else. I want her.
I’m furious. And so fucking upset I want to either bawl my eyes out or hit something really, really hard, multiple times. Or someone. Preferably whose name starts with a C.
The last thing I want to do is go to the conference. But I can’t get out of it now. I check my watch—I can’t look at my phone because I threw it in the ocean—and see that I have thirty minutes before I have to leave the house.
I need to finish packing. And I have to go buy myself a new phone and SIM card.
But instead I continue to sit there and watch the seagulls, fighting back tears, wondering if my heart will ever feel whole again.
*
When my Uber pulls up at the airport, Tyson is sitting on one of the outside seats, looking at his phone. He stands as I get out and retrieve my case and flight bag, and I walk over to him.
“You’re late,” he says. “We need to check in. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ve texted you, like, eight times asking where you are.”
As we head into the airport, I say, “My phone’s not working. I need to get myself a new one.”
“Not working how? Run out of charge?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.”
He glances at me, then just says, “Okay.”
We check in, put our cases on the conveyor belt, then shoulder our flight bags. Now we have a three-hour wait.
We head toward the flight lounges, find a phone shop, and I purchase a new iPhone and a SIM card. I transfer over my old number and turn the phone on, and I wait for it to sort itself out. We’re flying Emirates First Class, so we head toward Manaia Lounge, where there are leather armchairs, a bar, and places to eat.
It’s late for lunch but neither of us has eaten much today, so we order a steak sandwich and fries each and treat ourselves to a beer, then take a seat opposite each other at one of the tables.
I study the new phone. I have a heap of texts, and I scan them quickly. Nothing from Juliette. Am I surprised? Did I really think she’d message me back after I hung up on her? Even so, my spirits sink. I’m such a fucking idiot.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Tyson says, and I realize that I said the words out loud. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks.
“No.”
He leans back in his chair and has a swig of his beer. “You sure you don’t wanna talk about it?”
I look up at him. In general, guys don’t talk to one another about relationship issues, but Tyson is different. What he went through with his accident has made him look at life differently, and he’s much more open than the rest of us. When he was first confined to a wheelchair, I went around to his place with Alex, James, and Damon. After a few whiskies, he admitted that although Gaby was determined to stay with him, he was worried he’d never be able to function in a normal way sexually again. It was a very frank discussion, and it was a major reason for the creation of Kia Kaha. We all understood that being able to have sex was as important to him as being able to walk, and it led to us all knowing more about sexual function.
As a result, he’s more likely to want to talk about personal issues, and so the fact that he’s asking me now isn’t really surprising.
