The Fortunate Ones

By now, it’s abundantly clear that we’re causing a scene in the middle of the sidewalk. Pedestrians loiter around us, probably unsure whether or not we’re street performers.

I want to shout at them to keep it moving, but I can’t turn my focus away from James. I’m heaving in big gulps of air and trying to make sense of the last few minutes. My whole body is shaking with pent-up anger—at him, at me, at the unfairness of the situation we’ve found ourselves in.

“What do you want to do, Brooke?”

“I don’t know.”

He looks down at his shoes and shakes his head. A sad laugh spills out of him before he glances back up and meets my gaze. “Yes you do. Say it.”

He’s forcing an answer out of me, but he already knows what it is.

“James, you can’t tell me on day one that you want a wife because then when you try to take it back and make things more casual between us, it’s not believable. Even if it’s not your true intention, I feel like all this—the flowers, the fancy dinners, the amazing suite—it’s like you’re inviting me into your delusion.”

“Oh come on, Brooke! I’m sorry I’m not some stoner at your co-op who shows his interest with a joint and a Hot Pocket,” he rasps, dragging his hands through his hair angrily. “I wanted to show you I’m interested in seeing where this goes, nothing more. That’s what the flowers are. That’s what this trip is.” He turns away and takes a deep breath before continuing, “It’s fucking impossible to navigate the emotional minefield of a 25-year-old. Anything I do to show you I care just freaks you out, but if I back off, it’s even worse. You’ll assume I’m uninterested, and then there’s no hope that the relationship will progress naturally. It’s a lose-lose. All I can do is keep trying or walk away, and I think it’s worth it to keeping trying.”

And I think it’s time to walk away.

I don’t have the guts to say that though, so I sugarcoat it.

“There’s no point in continuing this,” I whisper, wiping hard at the tears spilling down my cheeks. “We’re only going to end up hurting each other even more. Don’t you see that?”

“No,” he says, calm and resolute. “I don’t.”

His admission stuns me into silence, and it’s clear we’re at a stalemate. James wants something from me that I’m not ready to give.

“I’ll see you back at the hotel,” he says, stepping forward to move around me.

My hand reaches out for his and I squeeze his wrist. “Please don’t go, not like this…”

My voice trails off when he jerks out of my hold and continues on down the sidewalk.

“James!” I turn and cry out after him but he doesn’t stop, and it only takes a few seconds for the crowd to swallow him up.

…

On the Vegas strip, hundreds of tourists fill the sidewalk, dressed up for the evening. I fight against the flow of pedestrian traffic, annoyed as their chatter invades my depressed fog. What the hell are they so happy about? I tuck my arms around my middle and pick up my pace, nearly stumbling right into an animated street performer dressed like Elvis. When he leaps back in front of me and offers a trademark, “Thank you, thank you very much,” I tell him to go die on a toilet.

I have no clue what I’ll say to James when I see him. My only hope is that he has calmed down and is willing to talk. I need to apologize for the way I treated him. I want to explain my side, the panic that was gripping my thoughts all day. I don’t expect him to forgive me yet, but at least we can come to an understanding. Unfortunately, the hotel room is pitch black when I arrive. I flip on the light and find the suit jacket he was wearing at dinner sitting on the back of a chair in the living room. He came back to the hotel after our fight, but he’s not here now. I check his room, just to confirm, but it’s empty and quiet.

I sit in the living room and wait for almost an hour—I know because I look down and check my watch every 10 minutes. I wait in silence, willing the door to swing open. At this point, I’d willingly accept his anger if it meant he would return. Somehow, his absence is worse. It means he’s unwilling to fight. He wants distance, and more than likely, he wants me gone. When the hour strikes, I stand and head for my room. It only takes a few minutes to pack my bags. Usually I scatter my things all over a hotel room, but since my arrival in Vegas, I kept everything neat and organized, almost like I always knew I’d be making a quick exit.