Page 3 of Protecting the Boundary
He rolls his blue eyes at me. “Of course you did. That’s part of why this isn’t working. I feel like you’ve checked out.”
Ihavechecked out. I don’t know when exactly it happened, but he’s right. I don’t want to be in this relationship anymore, and I suspect I haven’t for a long time.
When I first met Cameron at the end of sophomore year at UCLA, he seemed charming and funny. He was focused on his studies like I was, but also liked to go out and have fun on the weekends. Everyone thought we were a perfect fit. Hell, most of our friends have been asking when we’re going to get engaged. But staring at him now, I feel the same apathy I feel about getting my degree.
I should feel guilt or remorse orsomething.But I don’t really feel anything.
“I’m sorry,” I say because I have to say something and I’m pretty sure this is what he wants. He wants me to apologize for checking out. He wants me to take responsibility for our relationship falling apart so he can feel confident about ending it.
But why hasn’t he ever asked mewhyI’ve checked out? For the first time in weeks, a surge of something bubbles through my veins. Instantly, I don’t feel numb or frozen or like I’m just going through the motions. The blood under my skin heats as anger spreads, the faintest pinprick of sensation much like the tickle you feel on your leg before looking down to find a bug crawling on you.
“You know what?” I say, taking over this conversation, because fuck him. He doesn’t get to make me feel bad when he’s been as disconnected from this relationship as I have. “You’re right. This isn’t working. We should break up.”
His eyes widen for a second before he schools his expression.His throat bobs as he swallows and nods, looking down at his empty plate. “I’m glad we could be civil about this.”
Sure he is. He almost looks disappointed. I can’t help wondering if he’s disappointed I didn’t fight him on it, or disappointed he didn’t get to be the one that actually ended it. He’s always loved having the power in our relationship, and for way too long, I didn’t bother to fight him on it.
I think I settled with him because so many of my friends thought he was the right guy for me, but he’s not. This conversation should’ve happened a long time ago.
He sets down enough money to pay the bill. “I’ve got to get going. I wish you the best, Meredith.”
“You too, Cameron,” I respond, not moving from my chair.
He stands up and hesitates before seeming to make up his mind and walking out. I lean back in my chair and let out a heavy breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. After almost two years, I should feel sad, but as tension fades from my shoulders, all I feel is relieved. After not feeling much of anything over the last six months, I’ll take it.
The drive home only reinforces the feeling of relief. The farther away I get from the café, the lighter I feel.
“Dad?” I call out when I get home.
After I graduated a few months ago, I moved back home with my dad. My college roommates were all moving for jobs or getting their own apartments with partners, and it didn’t make sense for me to get my own lease when I didn’t have a job—or any postgrad plans for that matter—lined up.
I got a degree in kinesiology because I’ve wanted to be a physical therapist since I got a knee injury playing soccer in high school and became fascinated with the power of helping others heal. But then, when it was time to apply for grad programs, I froze. I questioned if this was really what I wantedto do for the rest of my life. What if there was something out there that I’d be better at, or that might pay more, or would be more fulfilling? I was filled with what-ifs and self-doubt that became debilitating.
I started going through the motions and sticking with what felt familiar because it was safe, and compared to the scary unknown of my life after college, safe seemed pretty good.
But now I’m wondering if maybe it’s time to figure out what’s next, as scary as that is.
I could take a gap year, try doing something else for work in the meantime, and figure out if I can find the love and passion for physical therapy that I had before.I’m basically doing that anyway, except for the finding a job part.
Bolstered by the thought of finally having a plan, I head into the kitchen on the hunt for my dad.
“Dad!” I shout.
Still no response, which means only one thing. If he’s not in the kitchen, he’s usually in the garage. I head out the back door and down the stone walkway my dad put in when I was fourteen. The garage door is cracked open, and inside I hear a muttered curse and the clanking of tools. Biting back a laugh, a smile pulls at my lips for the first time all day. Pushing the door open all the way, I find my dad bent over the front of an old convertible he’s been “restoring” for at least a decade, if not longer. He’s always been a tinkerer, and cars are his passion, with food a close second.
I have to dodge some car parts before I finally reach him, and then rest my elbows on the side as I duck my head under the hood to see what he’s looking at.
“Hey, Princess, how’s Cameron?” he asks, never taking his eyes off the bolt he’s trying to tighten.
“We broke up.”
He pauses, his whole body freezing slightly before heglances at me. Before he can ask, I reassure him. “I’m okay, Dad. That relationship ran its course anyway.”
He stares at me for a beat longer, assessing if I’m telling the truth. When he’s sure I am, he resumes his work. “I never liked him anyway.”
I smile, even as my heart twinges a bit. “Sure, Dad.”
“I mean it. He was always so focused on himself and his own successes.”
