Page 31 of The Unraveling

I’m not sure why I say no. I like Arabella. I guess I just want to be alone.

“You sure?” she asks.

I nod. “I’m just going to go for a walk, I think,” I say.

She looks concerned, but says, “Okay. Bring your phone with you, sí?”

“Will do.”

The late evening sun is warm on my cheeks as I walk down the unfamiliar streets. My mind is so preoccupied that I don’t even listen to music or anything. I have too many thoughts to sort through. They’re so tangled and discordant, it’s like listening to a hundred concertos at the same time and being asked to dance with it.

I don’t even mean to do it, but after winding around, street after street, I find myself around the corner from Jordan’s show.

I feel like one of those psycho stalkers from a melodramatic TV show as I stand there, looking on at the gallery in the near distance. There are dramatic up-lights outside, and there is an energetic buzz around the place.

I move closer. The show looks like a massive success. I’m so happy for him, but miserable for myself as I resist the compulsion to run inside and wrap my arms around him. I would undoubtedly burst into tears.

People come and go, and I feel sick knowing that this place is off-limits to me, when only days ago, I was more than entitled to be there.

What the fuck was I thinking breaking up with Jordan? My feelings for him haven’t changed. They never change. It’s just that when I’m mad, I can’t see straight. I can’t think straight. I can’t do anything right.

I’m close enough to see inside now, through the big picture windows that line one wall of the building. I gasp when Jordan comes into view, walking around a corner with a group of wealthy-looking people who listen to whatever he’s saying with rapt attention.

He looks so good. He looks nervous, but happy. He’s wearing the suit I helped him pick out, but his shoes are new. For some reason, this makes me feel unseated. Like he’s already moved on and the shoes are the evidence.

Speak of the devil, the blonde arrives. She hands him a glass of champagne, says something evidently hilarious, judging by the round of laughter from her little audience, and then leaves again, patting Jordan on the shoulder as she goes.

Okay, it’s time to go. I’m just a weird stalker out here in the dimming twilight, literally staring through a window at my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend.

As much as I would love to get arrested for something like this, I know I have to go.

I walk down the block and stop at a lively-looking restaurant with large, open windows and a busy patio. I walk up to the hostess and say, “Just one,” and she offers me a seat at the bar.

There’s only one open seat, and it’s toward the end of the bar, beside an attractive man in the corner who probably sat there because he wanted to be left alone.

I sit on the stool and accept the menu handed to me by the hostess.

“Sorry,” I say, when my elbow touches his.

“No problem,” he says. His voice is low, a little gruff.

I order a glass of wine and say that I need a second for food.

“The mussels are phenomenal,” he says, so quietly that at first I don’t realize he’s talking to me.

“Oh—oh, are they?”

“Yes,” he says. “Highly recommend them. Their seafood is all fresh.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll try those.”

When the bartender comes back over, I order the mussels and hand back the menu.

“Thanks,” I say to the man.

He says nothing, just gives a small no problem shake of the head.

I go to use my phone, feeling a little nervous beside this man and wanting to hide behind it.

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