Page 94 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
Theyouis an accusation. And a contrast. It’s not real for me, but it’s real for him.
But we can’t be real because themein it doesn’t exist. With him, I’m Break Ellie. Not Real Life Ellie. So it doesn’t taste like a lie when I say, “No. Not for me.”
His face is bloodless. I feel the color drain from myself as well, but I call on the scaffolding I’ve spent the past decade-plus erecting. I hadn’t known it, but it had all gone up for this. Because no matter how many times I try to tell myself differently, heisthe one who will stay. It won’t matter how hard things could get, how far I might deteriorate, what shell he might be left caring for. He’d stay through it.
And I won’t do that to him.
We stay in our stunned silence: Ian, white faced at my cruelty; me, erect in defiance of the seismic shift that’s taken place inside of me. For so long, I’ve been afraid that I’d be alone. That my ruined insides or broken personality would keep getting me left behind. That was the pattern until now.
Now I have the man I know won’t walk away. But I can’t bear the thought of him staying. Not for what this could look like. I won’t ask that of him. I want more for him.
“Then you’re fired,” he croaks. His voice is so broken, it takes me a second to process that he’s even used words.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“We’re done,” he says, his voice tight, but his own again. “Completely. If none of this has any significance to you, then I don’t want you on the team.”
“Theteam? That’s your concern? That I’m going to be a drag on morale? Fuck that. You can’t fire me! I quit.”
“Fine!”
“Leave!”
“I am!” He sputters, and starts for the door to the side yard, me on his heels. He turns so suddenly, I almost run into him. And it’s a mercy I don’t, because if we’d collided, I’d be collapsing into him and I don’t think I’d be getting up again.
He points at me, his face fierce. “And don’t eventhinkabout coming back to the gym.”
“I’ll just work out here, then!”
“Fine!” He flings open the door and storms out. I stare into the darkness, listening to his angry footsteps on the gravel path.
I want him to come back. I want to go after him. But I told him to go.
And now he’s gone. Because that’s what happens.
I end up collapsing anyway.
34
THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWare agony.
Not just emotionally. My body has completely rebelled, attacking me with the full force of barbed wire across the kidneys that makes getting out of bed an eye-watering ordeal. I spend Sunday and Monday holed up, mainlining ultra-strength Tylenol and cursing my maker. And crying.
And screening calls. My absence from the gym does not go unnoticed, and on Tuesday, I admit to Babs and Helen via text that I’m basically bedridden with pain. Within the hour, I’ve received a care package containing three pints of ice cream from Jeni’s and a selection of Haribo chewy candies, which tells me that Heather and or Mark had been asked about my preferences. Accustomed to my inoperative periods, they send me messages of sympathy and offers of Taco Bell, but I demur. They know too much, and one look at me will tell them exactly what’s going on. I reply with appreciative gifs and promises to keep them updated. I am an asshole.
When I do emerge from my miserable isolation that evening, the guys tiptoe around me. I worry what I might be modeling asfar as expectations regarding the menstrual cycle. Diego roasts a chicken for dinner. Alistair watches me like he might one of those extreme driving videos out of Russia, with a combination of anticipatory anxiety and morbid curiosity. Grant avoids eye contact. Ian is not mentioned.
I’m at the Ping-Pong table for a change of scenery Wednesday evening, testing out all 240 of my felt-tip markers to see which are out of ink and how long I can commit myself to the task before lobotomizing myself with one. Habit has me glancing at my phone every few minutes, but I turned it off when a new group chat populated. Babs, Helen, Heather, and Mark. Helen asked Ian how I was doing. He didn’t know. She would like to know why not. Theories abound.
Grant joins me at the table. He sits, picks up one of the scraps of cardstock I’m using to test my pens, and turns it over between his fingers. “I talked to Ian.”
It takes me three tries to recap my cyan. I want to ask, “About me? Has he asked about me? How is he? Forlorn? Pining? Indignant?” but manage a cool “Yeah?” instead.
“About what I want to do. Education, and all of that.”
I put down the pen, giving Grant my full attention. “How did it go?”
“He was surprised. Worried that it would be a lot of responsibility for me. But he… got it?” His brow puckers, as though he still hasn’t worked out how this conclusion came to be. “He understood that, like, helping to establish that foundation of fitness is part of why I want to do it. Because it is!” He leans in, face alight. “Ian helped me figure out how to express that. I want to introduce kids to how awesome it is to move their body on purpose.”
