Memories - The Break Part 4

The next morning, the bright light of Sunday came through my blinds, woke me up right where the night before had left me. I was on top of the covers, my body aching from the tension I’d carried home, still wearing in the black lace bra and panty set.

I stood up, my legs feeling heavy, and walked into the bathroom. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I looked at my reflection. Soft. Small. Tucked. Shaved. Smooth.

The image staring back at me was indisputably feminine. It was a vision of myself that felt so natural, so quietly right, yet it had become inextricably bound to the pain of Emily's world. I reached up and slowly unhooked the bra, letting the lace drop from my shoulders. The panties came next, pulled down with a reluctant, agonizing slowness, freeing my small penis. Every line on my skin left behind by the elastic felt like a reminder of a persona I was forcing myself to bury.

I ran a cold wash basin and washed them by hand, watching the soap suds swirl through the black lace, squeezing out the water with deliberate, heavy movements. Once they were dry enough, I didn't return them to the top drawer. Instead, I pulled out a plain cardboard storage box from the back of the closet.

One by one, I gathered it all up. The stay-soft-and-tucked sets, the sheer stockings, the garter belts, the delicate lingerie we’d picked out together. I didn't throw them away—I couldn't bring myself to do that—but I folded each piece carefully and packed them into the bottom of the box, tucking them beneath a layer of old winter sweaters where I wouldn't have to see them. Closing those cardboard flaps felt like shutting a door on a room I desperately wanted to live in, but couldn't afford to stay in anymore.

I dressed in stiff denim jeans and a plain, oversized cotton t-shirt. Traditional clothes. Neutral clothes.

Sitting down at my desk, I opened my laptop and pulled up a dating site. My hands hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before I forced myself to start typing. I was going to try to be a boy again. I was going to write a profile as a traditional man, search for a traditional woman, and do what men were supposed to do. I was going to force myself into the mold, try to find my own path, and pray that somehow, in pretending to be what the world expected, I could finally find a way to heal.

Creating the profile was harder than I expected as I had to think about what it would feel like to be a man, not a woman. It took me most of the day to get it right and even then I knew it wasn’t perfect, knew I was still coming across as less masculine than other men. But the effort wasn't wasted as I started chatting with a woman who was divorced with two daughters and seemed to be looking for something different than the man she'd been married to.

Her name was Ashley and her profile pictures showed a quiet, smiling woman sitting in coffee shops, holding paperback novels, and hiking through autumn trails. Flirting with her over text was an exercise in theatrical performance. I typed out the standard, expected lines—asking about her favorite authors, making polite observations, trying to project the easy, confident presence of a guy who had his life completely figured out.

Every time my phone buzzed with her reply, a strange pang of guilt shot through me. I felt like a cheater, sneaking glances at my screen during the workday, angling the glass away as if Emily might suddenly drop by my desk and catch me. Then the sharp sting of reality would hit: Emily was going out with another man. She didn't belong to me, and I didn't owe her my solitary mourning. I needed to move on or I would drown in the grief of her absence.

By Wednesday, Ashley and I had arranged to meet on Saturday evening, the same night Emily was going out with a man. We picked a quiet, independent bookstore in town with an attached cafe—low-stakes, easy, traditional.

Friday afternoon, Emily did stop by my office and asked my weekend plans. I lied and told her I was probably going to a bookstore on Saturday night.

Which I did. But to meet in person a woman I'd been chatting with. When I walked into the bookstore, Ashley was already browsing the fiction aisle. She looked just like her photos—warm, approachable, ordinary. She wore a fitted gray tweed pinafore dress with a classic herringbone vibe  layered over a sleek black long-sleeve turtleneck, black tights, and glossy black patent loafers. She was pretty but in a very different way than Emily.

"Hey," I said, stepping forward with a practiced smile. "Ashley?"

"Hi," she said, her face lighting up as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

We wandered the narrow wood-floored aisles together, chatting casually about books. I listened attentively, picked up paperbacks to read their back covers, and made all the right noises at her jokes. Afterwards, we walked next door to a small, brightly lit diner for a casual dinner. Sitting across from her in a cozy booth over burgers and fries, everything felt... nice. Simple. Uncomplicated.

She was sweet, easy to talk to, and genuinely interested in what I had to say. Yet as I sat there playing the part of the polite, attentive male date, I could feel the hollow spaces beneath my clothes. There were no hidden layers of lace against my skin tonight, no shared, secret dynamic passing between us, no sharp, thrilling edge underneath the surface. I was just a boy on a date with a girl, trying to convince myself that going through the motions was the same thing as moving on. 

After, there was a perfunctory kiss goodnight, chaste, polite. We hit it off, but I wasn't like the man Emily was going out with, I didn't press a woman for sex, couldn't, the thought of it terrified me. But we made plans to go out again the following Saturday.

By Monday morning, the ordinariness of the office returned, bringing the sharp edge of reality back with it. I stood outside Emily's door with two paper cups of coffee in my hands, wearing plain boxers, stiff slacks, and a button-down shirt that felt like a cardboard shell.

I knocked lightly, then stepped inside. "Hey," I said, offering a tight, practiced smile as I set her cup on her desk. "Brought your coffee."

Emily looked up from her computer, her expression instantly softening into that familiar, warm look. "You're such a friend," she sighed, taking a sip and letting the steam rise around her face. She looked radiant, rested, and entirely too comfortable.

"So..." I sat in the chair across from desk, forcing my posture to be loose, my tone breezy—just two friends pals catching up after the weekend. "Spill the beans. How was Saturday night with Mr. Salt-and-Pepper?"

Emily’s lips curled into a slow, shy smile. She swirled her coffee, looking down for a second before meeting my eyes. "You sure?"

"I...I'm sure," I lied.

"It was... really good, actually."

"Just good?" I teased, keeping my voice light, floating high in my chest like a cabaret performer wearing a mask. "Or good good?"

She bit her lip, a flush of color rising on her cheeks. "Good good. We had dinner, stayed out late listening to jazz, and... well. I ended up staying at his place."

The words landed like a blunt blow to the stomach. The air left my lungs, but my smile remained rigidly frozen in place.

"Oh, wow," I breathed out, leaning in slightly as if eager for details, playing the supportive best friend to absolute perfection. "Look at you! Was it... good...you know...the...?"

She looked at me, smiled, like this was exactly what she needed. Not drama, but her best girl friend to talk to. "It was great," she confessed softly, leaning back in her chair. "It was nice to just lose control for a bit, you know? Just be with a man who takes the lead."

"I'm so happy for you, Em," I said, hearing my own voice sound sickeningly genuine. "You deserve that." Inside, I was completely pulverized.

When we were together, the fantasy of her with another man had been an erotic game—a secret, thrilling power play that folded neatly into our dynamic because at the end of the day, she was still coming home to me. I had been her favorite secret. But hearing it now, when we were no longer a couple, there was no erotic safety net to catch me. The fantasy was gone, replaced by the suffocating reality that she was moving on, building a sexual and emotional life that no longer had anything to do with me. The pain was raw, untethered, and absolute. With her, it was our erotic game. Without her, it was watching the woman I loved walk away.

"What about you?" Emily asked suddenly, her eyes scanning my face, trying to read the quiet behind my eyes. "How was your weekend? Did you just stay in?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. Part of me wanted to throw Ashley in her face—to tell her I’d gone out with a sweet girl, that I was moving on too, that I didn't need to sit in the corner of her life waiting for crumbs. Instead, I just shrugged, giving her a quiet, self-deprecating smile. "Oh, you know me. Just a quiet weekend. Caught up on some reading, did some laundry, kept it low-key."

"You need to get out more, sweetie," she said softly, reaching out to pat my arm, her touch full of that gentle, agonizing pity. "You can't just hibernate."

"I know," I lied, looking down at my shoes, holding my breath so I wouldn't shatter right there on her office carpet. "I'm working on it."

Everything fell apart on Thursday.

Emily came to my office before I brought her coffee, shut the door behind her, something she never did. "Is this you?" she demand, showing me my dating profile on her laptop.

"Emily?"

"Is this you or not?" she demanded.

"It's me," I said.

"What did you do last Saturday?" she asked, her voice sharp and accusatory.

"You were out with a man," I said, "you slept with him."

"What did you do last Saturday?" she asked again,

"I was on a date," I said.

"You went on a date with a woman you met online?" she asked, her voice dripping with ironic pain

"Yes," I said.

"Why?"

"Because, Emily, I...I can't live like this," I said. My voice was trembling, but the anger was finally finding its edge, cutting through fog and pain I’d lived in for weeks. "I can't sit in your office every morning and listen to you talk about other men while I slowly erase myself to keep you comfortable."

Emily slammed the laptop shut, the sharp clack echoing off my small office walls. Her knuckles were white on the casing. "You lied to me. You looked me in the eye on Monday, watched me spill my guts, and you sat there pretending you were just reading and doing laundry!"

"Because you slept with him!" I hissed, standing up so fast my office chair rolled back against the wall. "You came in here radiant, glowing, telling me how incredible it was to be with a real man who takes the lead. What was I supposed to do? Tell you about my little diner date while my heart was being ripped out of my chest?"

Emily flinched, stepping back toward the closed door. The sharp, accusatory posture collapsed, replaced by something raw and desperate. "Did you?" she asked, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Did you sleep with her?"

"No!" I said, rubbing a hand hard over my face. "No, Emily. I didn't sleep with her."

"Did you kiss her?"

"What does it matter?"

"Did you kiss her?"

"Yes! Just a kiss. A chaste, polite kiss at the end of the night."

A tear tracked down Emily's cheek, catching the fluorescent light. "How could you?" she whispered, looking at me like I’d struck her. "How could you kiss another woman?"

I stared at her, completely incredulous. A bitter, disbelieving laugh escaped my throat. "How could I? You broke up with me! You handed me my heart back forty-six days ago. You went out on Saturday, gave yourself to a stranger, came home, and smiled about it. I cannot just orbit you forever like a ghost! I need to move on!"

She stormed out, clearly hurt and angry.

**********

I didn't speak to her the rest of the day. The next day either. But on Wednesday morning, she came by my office, shut the door behind her.

"I still can't believe you kissed her," she said.

"Emily, you have no right to be mad."

"I know..."

"What?"

"I can't let you go," she choked out, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, hugging herself like she was freezing.

"You have to," I snapped.

"I can't!"

"Emily, listen to yourself! Nothing has changed with us. The issue—the fundamental problem that broke us in the first place—it's still there. You know it is."

"I know," she sobbed, burying her face in her hands for a second before looking back up at me, her eyes red and wild. "I know I’m being unreasonable. I know I’m being a complete hypocrite. But seeing that profile...seeing you trying to give another woman what you gave me...I can't breathe. I can't let you go."

"You don't get a choice!" I stepped around my desk, my pulse pounding in my ears. "You don't get to keep me in a box under your bed to pull out when you need a boost, while you go out into the daylight with someone else. Are you hedging your bets? Is that what this is? Keeping me on a leash just in case?"

"Yes!" she cried out, the confession tearing out of her. "Yes, fine! I am!"

"What do you want from me, Emily?" I demanded, towering over her, my hands shaking with an overwhelming mix of fury and love. "What do you actually want?"

"Not to date other women," she whispered.

"That is insane!" I said. "If you're out there dating a man, how can you possibly try to hold me like that? How is that fair?"

"I can't," she wept, her voice breaking completely. "I know I can't. But I can't let you go either."

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Don't see this other woman," she pleaded, reaching out and grabbing my wrist, her fingers digging into my skin. "Please. Don't go out with her again."

"No!" I yanked my hand back. "No way. You either have to let me go completely, or you have to be with me. You don't get to sit on the fence while I bleed out!"

Tears were streaming down her face now, ruining her crisp mascara, making her look entirely undone. "I can't let you go because I love you," she sobbed. "I can't let you try to be a man. I can't let you live a lie with some traditional woman who doesn't know who you really are. I can't watch you try to force yourself into a mold that's going to crush you. I can't watch you fail again. I love you, and I can't watch you do this to yourself."

The room went dead silent, save for her heavy, ragged breathing. The words hung in the cold air between us.

"So you're hedging," I repeated softly, the anger draining out of me, leaving behind a hollow, terrifying ache.

"Yes," she admitted.

"You want me back? Are you kidding me?"

"No," she said, stepping closer, reaching up with trembling hands to frame my face. "I want you. I love you. I love all of you. Even the parts you try to hide in boxes."

My breath hitched. "I have a date on Saturday with Ashley," I said, my voice barely audible. "You want me to cancel it?"

"Yes," she begged, looking up at me with desperate eyes. "Please."

"And you?" I asked, a fresh wave of skepticism washing over me. "What about your plans? I thought you had a date with him on Friday."

"I do," she stammered, looking down. "It's...it's a friend's thing. A big group dinner for his partner's firm. I promised I'd go weeks ago...I can't back out without causing a huge scene, but..."

"Wait," I interrupted, the irony cutting like a knife. "You want me to cancel my date with Ashley, while you go out on a date with him?"

"Yes... no!" She shook her head frantically, holding my shirt collar in her fists. "I need to go to this thing, I really do. It's professional, I have to be there. But...but I don't want to be with him. I'll talk to him. I'll tell him it's over."

She looked up into my eyes, her expression raw, unguarded, and entirely mine.

"Come pick me up when the dinner is over," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Come to the venue. Pick me up...and I'll go home with you."

"You're serious."

"Totally," she said.

"Then you have to accept everything that comes with it," I said.

"I do."

"I can't do it like...we're either together or we're not," I said. "There is no in-between."

"I know," she said.

"You mean it?"

"I mean it," she said.

"My god, Emily," I said, taking a deep breath, "I...I love you so much."

"I know," she said, "I love you, too."

"You're really going to on on a date with him?" I asked,

"I thought you liked that," she said, her eyes twinkling.

"I...I do, I just...what if he...he'll want to...kiss and...and hold hands..."

"Is it so bad if you know I'm going home with you?" she asked, her voice soft and tender.

"But...he'll..."

"Touch my back? Put a hand on my leg? Can you just hold those thoughts in your mind all night until I have you come get me?"

"Emily..."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

"Then cancel your date," she said. "I promise I'll go home with you."

**********

The last part will be that Friday night.