You, Again(96)

“Josh—”

“I fucked things up, too. I know that. You told me you weren’t ready for a relationship and I didn’t want to hear it, so I didn’t listen. I tried to center my world around you instead of actually rebuilding my life.”

Except why is he finally “rebuilding” with Radhya? Why is that fair? How is it possible that these two people who spent the last six years resenting each other can find common ground in cutting Ari out of the picture? Sometimes the more interesting person to the left is your best friend.

There’s a police siren whining in the background; he waits for it to recede into the distance before continuing. “It’s taken eight fucking months and two different therapists, but I get it now,” he says. “To me, that night felt like the beginning of something. You were so convinced it had to be the end. And that’s not something I can control through force of will.”

The lump in her throat feels like it’s pressing on her windpipe. Don’t cry. Say something.

“You’re where you’re supposed to be right now,” he continues. “And I guess I’m where…I am.” The tears start to make her vision blurry. Josh turns into a watery blob, but his voice is crystal clear. “I think”—he swallows—“I think there’s a part of me that still loves you.” There’s a pause long enough to make her hope that the next word is and. “But I’m not going to slip back into some inane conversation with you like we’re buddies. We’re not going to have any late-night phone calls anymore. I’m not your coffee date. I’m not your shoulder to cry on.” He inhales sharply. “I deserve more than that. Even if it’s not with you.”

She wants to answer. She wants to argue that he was so much more than that. But the words don’t come. He should be with someone who doesn’t make it so fucking difficult to be in love with them.

“You warned me, you know. You said we’d hurt each other. And I was so concerned with making you feel safe, it just didn’t occur to me that…” He sniffles, maybe. “You were right.”

Josh walks toward her, and for two ridiculous seconds, she thinks maybe it was all some big fake out. Like he might reach out his hand and just…

He walks right past her.

Ari watches him quietly stomp down the back hallway, leaving her in the dark kitchen.

She’s still in a liminal space, where her brain hasn’t quite processed the conversation. It feels like it might still be possible to rewind five minutes and try it again. Only she’s not sure how it could have gone differently. They’d have to take it back so much further to make any kind of meaningful revision.

It only takes a few more seconds for her brain to turn a corner into emotional torture porn.

This is the last time we’ll ever speak. This is the last time we’ll ever speak.

Yeah. That feels good and painful. The sweating, the panic setting in, the churning thoughts stabbing at her brain like a needle into the skin. Like getting a really detailed tattoo over scar tissue. All her good Josh memories getting rewritten with this one.

Ari takes a wobbly step farther back into the dining room. The shock wears off and morphs into giant waves of emotion building in her chest, unstoppable and overwhelming. She covers her mouth with her hand to muffle the sobbing in case Josh can still hear. On the radio, there’s a commercial for a personal injury attorney. How fitting.

Ari’s about thirty seconds deep into the breakdown when a few familiar notes, heavy with reverb, ring out through the boom box speakers. Neil Finn launches into the first verse and it’s clearly a cruel cosmic joke that the “classic feel-good hits” DJ would put on “Don’t Dream It’s Over” at this precise moment.





27


ARI SIPS FROM A LUKEWARM bottle of Bud Light. She’s both jealous and relieved that she’s not the sweating guy at the microphone with a quivering handful of index cards.

It took two trains and a bus to get here from her sublet and she’d been relieved to find that the trip wasn’t for nothing: Gabe still hosts this open mic every Thursday evening. There’s no better setup for an apology than showing up at one of his events.

Gabe finishes reading Brad’s email and hands the phone back to her. “Did you burn that hideous blue shirt?”

“He withheld my last paycheck until I returned it.”

“And now you want to rejoin our Harold team?” He checks the timer on his phone. “Is that why you’re here?”

“You never made me perform in a button-down,” Ari says.

“Well, there is no team. Tim and Kamal left for Second City. Selina went to L.A. for pilot auditions and never came back. It’s been kind of hard to perform with only two people.”

“Gabe.” She sets the bottle down. “I’m sorry. I get that it was a sellout move, I just…needed a reset. And money.”

“The paycheck I understand.” He looks over his sign-up sheet and checks his watch. “You abandoned the group months before you left on your adventure in corporate America. You fed me some bullshit about being too busy. That was the insult. You could have just been honest.”

“You’re right.” Ari swallows hard. “Can I cash in my spousal abandonment sympathy points for another drink?”