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The barista looks away and starts steaming milk.
“Hey,” Eliott says, giving me a one-armed side hug.
There’s no passion. No kissing. There was never a time when we couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves, not even in the beginning.
I feel nothing when he touches me. Not even a spark.
“I ordered you a caramel macchiato,” he says.
“Okay,” I reply instead of telling him that hasn’t been my favorite in a while. I’m picking my battles right now.
Once our drinks are ready, we head over to the table. I take a seat and sip on my coffee as Eliott launches into a description of his latest studies. He’s consumed with medicine twenty-four/seven, which is all he talks about these days. He’s oblivious to the tension in my shoulders and the forced smile on my face.
“Eliott,” I say, finally interrupting him.
He stops talking to look at me, maybe for the first time since I walked into the café. And in that moment, I realize this is exactly what is wrong with our relationship. I don’t feel seen by my boyfriend. Maybe I never really was. He’s always been sweet and supportive of me and my art. He’s always been a gentleman when he takes me out. But I don’t think he gets me, not the person I am at the core.
“I think we should break up.” Rip the Band-Aid off.
“What?” His brow furrows. He looks shocked, like I’ve taken him completely off guard.
I shake my head as my eyes fall to my hands where they surround my mug. “I don’t want to hurt you, Eliott, but I realized something when you mentioned marriage. I don’t want to get married. I’m not even close to that place. And it made me take a good, long look at our relationship.”
“And what did you see?” he asks.
He glances out the window at the people hurrying along the sidewalk with his brow still furrowed and a frown on his face. He focuses on a mom pushing a stroller.
I reach across the table and land on his forearm. His eyes shift to where I’m touching him. “We’ve had so many good times together. So many good years. But I’m just not feeling it anymore.”
“You’re not feeling it?” The anger starts to stir in his words. “So, let me get this straight. You want to break up. Just like that, out of the blue.” He snaps his fingers. “No conversation. No chance to fix whatever it is that’s wrong. Why is that, Emerson? What has changed? Do you not want to get married at all, or do you not want to get married to me?”
Our gazes connect, and I can’t hide the guilt in mine. Or the truth.
He stiffens, moving his arm away from my touch and dropping it at his side as he realizes that it’s him I’m uncertain about and not marriage in general. “Three wasted years …”
“Don’t look at it like that,” I plead with him. “We’ve had so many good times.”
“How am I supposed to look at it?”
His face is turning red with anger. Eliott rarely gets mad. He’s never emotional. He’s steadfast and controlled. He will make a great doctor and a wonderful husband—for someone else.
“You’re supposed to remember all the fun we had. What we were to each other at one time,” I say, my tone and expression soft.
“Forgive me if I’m not there yet. You’re talking about us in past tense. And I’ve had about a minute to absorb what you’re saying,” he growls. “This isn’t what I want. This is what you want.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” He rises from his seat, his coffee forgotten. He starts pulling his jacket on.
“I am. Please don’t leave yet.”
“You want me to stay?” he spits out. “For what? So you can tell me we’re better off as friends? Well, forgive me if I don’t want to be friends with you. I wanted to marry you, Emerson. I still do. And now, we’re going from that … to this?”
He’s hurt, and I wish I could do this without causing him pain. But we’re not on the same page. And we haven’t been for a while now. At some point, he’ll see this was the best thing for both of us. But that point will obviously not be now.
“Please, Eliott. Let’s talk about this some more.”
He pauses, glancing away with an empty stare. “I don’t think there’s anything else to say, Emerson.” His eyes find my face, and he traces every inch of it like he’s trying to memorize the way I look. “I’ve felt you pulling away for a while. I just didn’t want to acknowledge it. And then you took that ridiculous job …” He sighs. “I wish you the best, Emerson. But I don’t want to be friends. I can’t.”
