Memories - The Break Part 3

It was a dress up kind of thing, the dinner theater, so when I picked her up, she was wearing a little black dress with nude nylons and heels. The dress was mostly backless, short, form fitting, and I think I gasped when I saw her.

"What?" she asked in her typical, sweet, all-knowing way.

"Nothing, I...I just...you look...nice," I said.

"Nice?" she asked. "I put on this dress and all I get is you look nice?"

"You look beautiful," I said.

"Thank you," she said, "that's better. I wore it assuming you're...safe?"

"Safe?"

"You know, um, small, soft, and tucked," she said.

"Emily!"

"If you're not, I can change," she offered.

"I...I am," I said.

"Stay small, soft, and tucked panties?" she asked with a smile.

"Yes," I said.

"Bra?"

"Yes," I said, eyes down.

"You're such a good girl," she said, "you sure about this?"

"I am," I said.

I was. Kind of. Maybe. 

"Just friends?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"Let's go, then."

The way the dinner theater was set up, she was sitting next to me to eat, but turned so she was in front of me when the show started. That meant I spent the entire time looking at the skin of her back, looking at her legs, desperately trying to keep my breathing under control, trying not to reach out and touch her, knowing that was beyond "just friends."

I was miserable. I was sitting behind the woman I loved unable to reach for her, unable to touch her, knowing she was going to go out with a man the following week.

We had a drink after the show and it was difficult but I managed to stay engaged in the conversation. I pretended she was my girlfriend. Not my girlfriend, but my girl friend. "So, this guy, he's cute?" I heard myself ask,

"Oh, my god, totally," she said, leaning in like she was sharing secrets with her actual girl best friend. She picked up her drink, swirled the glass, relaxed in her way, the way she did when we were girlfriends. "He’s got this whole salt-and-pepper thing going on, tall, masculine, carried himself like he owned the place. You know the type."

"I do," I said. My voice sounded a little high, a little too eager, like an imitation of a girl trying to fit in at the lunch table. "Like he owns the place...owns every place he goes."

"Exactly!" Emily laughed, a bright, clear sound that hit me right in the chest. "He picked a cabernet that was actually incredible."

"Sounds charming," I quipped, taking a sip of my own drink to hide the tremor in my fingers. "Does he have a laugh, or is he one of those guys who just chuckles politely to let you know he heard the joke?"

"He has a great laugh," she said, resting her chin on her hand, looking right at me with sparkled eyes. "Deep. The kind you can feel in your chest. It was...nice. To just be taken care of for an evening, you know? To not have to manage anything."

The words sliced right through me, but I kept the smile plastered on my face. My toes curled inside my heels, the sheer nylon sticking slightly against the soles. The contrast was suffocating: sitting there in my suit, secretly wrapped in lace and satin underneath, playing a role, a friend, a girl friend, hearing all about the big, strong man who was stepping into the space I used to occupy. But the weirdest part—the part that made my skin flush hot beneath my collar—was that I wanted to hear it. I wanted the detail.

"So..." I leaned closer over the table, painfully leaning into the role she’d cast me in. "Mr. Salt-and-Pepper tried to sleep with you?"

Emily swirled the ice in her glass, a mischievous smirk touching the corners of her mouth. "He tried. When he walked me to the car, he did the whole slow-turn, looking-at-my-lips thing. The whole kiss thing, the whole, what can I get away with thing."

"And?" I asked, my heart hammering against my lace bra. "You stopped him? Why?"

"I took the kiss, even the tight embrace," she said, though the way she said it felt like a half-truth, a little tease thrown across the table just for me. "I told him I don't move that fast. But god, Sara..."

She caught herself instantly. The name slipped out of her mouth like a whisper, effortless and unbidden. She froze, her eyes widening slightly as she looked at me, testing the air between us.

My breath hitched in my throat. We hadn't used that name out loud in weeks. Hearing it come from her right now, in the middle of a bar, while discussing a man she was dating, felt like a electric shock straight to my nerve endings.

"I mean..." Emily stammered softly, her tone shifting back toward something tender, almost cautious. "He's just...different than...you know..."

"Different than me," I whispered, the girlfriend persona slipping for just a fraction of a second.

"Different," she agreed quietly, her gaze dropping to my wrists, where the smooth skin was bare. She reached across the small table, her fingers brushing the back of my hand. "You're dynamic, sweetie. You give me things no 'regular' guy ever could. Talking to you like this...it feels lighter. Like I finally get the best parts of you without all the pressure."

"The best parts," I repeated, letting out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "The gossipy part? The part that asks about his hands?"

Emily’s eyes flashed with that familiar, knowing light. "Did you want to ask about his hands?"

"Are they bigger than mine?" The question came out before I could stop it, petty and vulnerable and desperate, wrapped in the guise of a joke.

Emily didn't laugh. She just held my gaze, her thumb slowly stroking the back of my knuckles. "He's just a man, sweetie. But you...you're my favorite secret." She smiled, leaning back and picking up her glass again, smoothly pulling us back into the safe, sanitized zone of gal-pals. "Now, spill, have you done any shopping lately?"

I sat there, throat tight, as the intoxicating blur of the night suddenly crystallized into a cold, sharp reality. Looking at her face, relaxed, laughing, effortlessly moving on while I sat trapped beneath layers of lace and desperate compliance, something inside me snapped. The erotic haze cleared just enough for the agony underneath to burn right through.

I couldn't do this. I couldn't sit across from the woman I loved, pretending to be her gossiping best friend while she gave her heart away to men who got to exist in the open. As thrilling as the secret submission was, the sheer pain of it was tearing me apart.

In that exact moment, watching her swirl the ice in her glass, I made a choice. I had to walk away from her. I couldn't be her shadow anymore, couldn't settle for the crumbs of a fake friendship while she built a real life with someone else. If I was ever going to survive, if I was ever going to find real happiness and figure out who I actually was, I had to try to move on. I had to go out there and find a woman of my own, even if it crushed me to the core.

Remember, this story has a happy ending, as painful as this time was.