Page 25 of It Couldn't Be You
I wished I could tell my mind to turn off for the night. It was late, and I needed rest. I wiped my eyes and wished the same for my tear ducts. I wasn’t grappling with regrets or even doubts, but I was carrying around so much loss, so much shame, so much grief. But no one really knew what to say to me since I was the one who ended it. His name wasn’t mentioned at my family’s, as if they had all decided beforehand to act like Jordan had never existed.
I had rehearsed what I would say when people patted my shoulder and sympathetically asked me, “How are you doing, Emma?” But no one did because it was hard to feel bad for someone who climbed out a window and refused an engagement to such a sweet guy.
“I wonder why? Why wouldn’t she say yes? Such a shame.” I could imagine them whispering, wondering what was wrong with me. Wondering what I was holding out for. Jordan’s family was probably cursing my name this Christmas, telling him, “You’ll find someone so much better than her.” I sickly wondered if his mom was saying, “We never really liked her much anyway.” Or maybe they were all politely erasing me from his history, too. Like I never existed.
Emma, who?
What would I be doing right now if I hadn’t left him?I knew I would still be awake on Christmas Eve, plagued with doubts and worries. Just twisting a silver ring around my finger instead of the empty space there.
I finally crawled out of bed, wrapped up in an old family quilt, and fell asleep on the couch watchingThe Holiday.
That Christmas morning, I woke up early like I used to when I was a little girl and crawled back into my bed. I watched the sunrise outside the window, all purple, pink, and white, like advent wax melting across the sky. I had originally planned to get all dressed up this morning and bring my parents over to Jordan’s. I had felt a little sad to let my usual slow, pajama-clad Christmas morning go.
Every year since I could remember, my dad would always go out and pick us up coffee from our favorite coffee shop, leaving them an extra big tip. When he got home, we’d sip our coffee still in our PJs, exchange our presents, and then we made giant cinnamon rolls. We’d always have a heated debate over which Christmas movies to watch and in what order.Why, when my dad always fell asleep, did he have such strong opinions? Who knows.
Later in the afternoon, Mom and I would get into the kitchen and make the three of us a giant feast. Sometimes random family members would join us for dinner, but it was always the two of us in that kitchen. Mom and me making an absolutely delicious meal.
Such a delicious meal that one year, when Katie had been completely heartbroken, Mom and I made our traditional Christmas meal to cheer her up. I think our homemade garlic mashed potatoes had been a large part of her healing process, truly. Christmas wasn’t hustle and bustle to me. It was the best rest of the year.
While I lay in bed this particularly heart-sore Christmas morning, I heard our front door close and lock. Then my dad’s truck started outside my window. I could already taste the gingerbread latte.
The grief over losing what Jordan and I had was real. Thewhat ifanxiously was reeling in my mind. The sadness over what I’d broken was there in my chest. The shame over how I’d handled something precious to me had my stomach in knots for days and would for weeks to come. But I was still relieved that I didn’t have to get dressed up that Christmas morning, that I didn’t have to sacrifice being side-by-side in the kitchen with my mom, and that I still got to debate Christmas movie choices with my dad.
I let myself relish my gingerbread latte, letting any spiraling thought melt in the nutty steam.
Eight
Ihad a meeting on New Year’s Eve with my editor to go over my story assignment, which was going to be a New Year’s Day publication on our local New Year’s Eve fireworks show. The assignment was to go to the firework show, take notes, then rush home and write it up so it would go up the next day.
I had pitched this assignment, happy to work on the holiday because Sweet River’s firework show was one of my favorite traditions. Plus, originally, I got the idea to pitch it because I had plans to go with Jordan’s family. His mom was a volunteer helping set up, so I could go early and interview all the different committees and volunteers who made the show possible.
That morning I got dressed, had a little bit of leftover cinnamon roll, and then rushed to my editor’s office. It was an old building with dark wood furnishings and pharmacy lamps on every desk. My editor, Rich, with his salt and pepper hair and wiry glasses, had a tradition of greeting me with a dad joke. It was his thing.
But today, when I walked in, he just said, “Emma, hello. Please take a seat.”
I should’ve realized then that he was firing me or kindly “letting me go.” But I suppose I’m really bad at seeing things coming, be it proposals or firings. Rich felt guilty and sad, hence waiting until after Christmas. But the “higher-ups” had decided I needed to be fully let go by the end of the year…which was today. He’d waited until the very last minute.
“I wish things were different. I do,” he said solemnly, avoiding eye contact.
I was in shock. I had been wondering if this job was right for me, but it never entered my mind that maybe the people who hired me were wondering if I was right for the job.
I heard Jordan, his voice raw the night we ended things, saying, “What now?” in my mind. “What now?” was becoming the title of this chapter of my life.
“We had to let a few people go; it’s not just you. We’re cutting our budget way down. Honestly, it’s taking a lot of work to figure out how to keep our doors open,” Rich said with a loaded sigh.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said.
I loved this newspaper. The Sweet River Gazette had printed so many of the highs and lows of my life growing up—big school wins, the aftermath of an awful summer tornado, or when the bank closed. My friend Lexi’s dad had lost his job, and we all cried with her because she had to move. I could count on the stories happening around me being captured in black and white and laid out across our kitchen table every morning.
This job was my safety net when I came home from college. Wandering around our town, taking notes and finding my dad reading my stories at the kitchen table on a Saturday morning. Tears started to prickle behind my eyes, and I had to bite my inner lip to hold back the tears. I saw his face fall when he must have recognized what was happening.
“Emma,” he said. “I really am sorry.”
“No, no, no.” I shook my head as tears dropped down my chin. “I understand the budget cuts. I know how hard things are right now for the paper. I’ll miss my job, but also,” my chin trembled. “it’s just been a weird holiday season. My boyfriend actually proposed to me last week, and I broke up with him. It really sucked. I, like, climbed out his window, and am so embarrassed I did that. And my best friend’s brother is back in town, and so I’m kind of avoiding her right now because I’m avoiding him because we have a really complicated relationship that I’ve made more complicated over the years.” I couldn’t catch my breath now, speaking through snotty sobs. “And…now, I’m just… I don’t know what to do with my whole life. Like, everything is going to be different. Jordan and this job were my whole life.”
He blinked at me.
“I dumped one half of my life, and the other half has dumped me,” I laughed grimly. Or, pathetically, if we’re being completely honest.
