Chapter 8 - Same Time Next New Year's

“So you finished all of your delicious ice cream?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation towards more casual discussion.

He reaches out of frame to show me an empty rectangular container. “All done.”

“Good job.”

“Thanks.” He chuckles. “Was that pizza everything you wanted it to be?”

I nod solemnly. “That and more,” I joke with a serious face.

He laughs. “I’ll have to introduce you to real pizza when you come to New York one day.”

“Oh, I’m coming to New York one day?”

“I hope so,” he tells me, his face soft and sincere.

I roll my eyes but can’t hide my answering smile. “Are you one of those snobby New York pizza guys?”

“Snobby New York pizza guys?” he questions with a laugh, feigning offense.

“Yes,” I clarify. “New Yorkers and their food—pizza, bagels, breakfast sandwiches—apparently you can only get those things in good quality in New York.”

“Oh,” he says in realization, dragging the word out. “Well then yes, because that’s the absolute truth.”

I shake my head. “I’ve happened to have had some really great pizza.”

“I’m sure you have”—he smiles—“but not New York pizza.”

“So do you like New York pizza or real Italian pizza better?” I ask him.

He nods. “Great question, great question.” He drums his fingers against his chin as if he’s thinking “Well real Italian pizza is different from American pizza. They can’t even compete in the same category.”

“Really?” I say, surprised.

“Yeah, and I love both of them,” he tells me. “You can’t make me choose.”

I laugh. “Okay, okay.”

“What’s your favorite kind of food?”

“I do really like Italian,” I say, and his slow answering grin makes me blush. I shake my head at him. “I also like Thai food. I think Thai is my favorite.”

“Thai?” he asks thoughtfully. “I’ve never had Thai food. You’ll have to introduce me to that one day.”

“I think I can do that,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” He grins.

“Yeah.” I smile back at him. I sigh. “So it looks like you’re spending your evening alone too?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, his arm reaching up to rub the back of his head. “I was going to go over to my parents’ house, but I like talking to you too much to stop.” My heart flutters and my breathing becomes uneven. His words feel like honey—smooth and warm as they cover me. Cling to me. I have no desire to wipe them off. He suddenly leans really close to the screen and I’m taken aback.

“What are you doing?” I laugh nervously while moving my phone back a bit.

“I wanted to see your cheeks turn pink,” he tells me.

“You’re very confident in your abilities to make me blush.”

“Surprisingly, I am,” he says before moving back to where he was. I’m briefly given a better glimpse of his sweatshirt, and the broad chest that seems to be underneath it. I’m able to make out what could be a sports team name. Before I’m able to see what it says it’s covered and I look back up to his face. Even through a phone screen—through the miles between us—I can feel the heat of his eyes on me.

“Seriously, I haven’t been this…” I trail off, looking for the right words. “Blush-induced I think ever.” I laugh.

“Really?” he asks incredulously.

“Really,” I confirm. “Not even with Greg.” The words are out before I can stop them, and even just saying his name makes my stomach turn. “Sorry.”

His brows pull down in confusion. “Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t mean to bring up my ex-husband.” I cringe. “It’s honestly so weird to say that, ‘ex-husband.’”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t bother me. If it would help you to talk about him, I’d be more than happy to listen.”

“You don’t want that.” I force a chuckle.

“I do if you want to,” he says seriously, his eyes remaining warm and kind. “Have you had a chance to really talk about him? About what happened?”

“Besides with my parents and sister, not really,” I tell him truthfully. “They know I don’t really want it brought up at family functions, so we do a good job at navigating all the conversations to steer right around it.”

“Do you think you should talk about it?” he asks before hastily adding, “I’m sorry if I’m overstepping. I really don’t mean to. I just hope that you’ve been able to process everything that happened. That you have people you trust that you can talk to.”

And then I’m full on swooning. I hope that what I feel inside my chest isn’t completely evident on my face because I want to just melt into the fabric of my couch. It’s not even just the flirty words and cheeky smiles that have me swooning, it’s just…him. His unabashedness for talking about feelings—real feelings. His comfort in speaking about potentially hard conversations even though we don’t really know each other too well. It’s his boldness that isn’t in any way cocky or annoying, but purely endearing. It makes him even more attractive than his appearance ever could.

When I realize I’ve been staring at him, I blink quickly before I say, “I mean I haven’t talked to, like, a therapist. I’m not against that at all, it’s just something that I’ve never really…explored before, I guess?”

He nods. “I understand that. I have a buddy who is a social worker. I like to say that he’s my therapist, but he always scolds me and reminds me that he’s not.” He laughs. “But he gives me great advice. He does a lot of counseling, so he really is good at listening and offering support. He actually referred me to the guy I talk to once in awhile.” I smile, listening to him. “But funnily enough, I was actually talking to my parents about this recently.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, enraptured by his unashamed honesty. It makes me question the people I’ve surrounded myself with, if I’m turning into a mushy mess because of a man casually talking about therapy, and honest conversations with his friends and parents. Shouldn’t this be the standard? Why have I let myself accept less?

“Yeah.” He grins in response. “We were talking about how many people still hold this stigma over therapy and mental health. And people think that if you’re going to therapy, you’re broken. But I think that if everyone went to therapy, it might actually prevent a lot of the breaking that people go through.”

I find myself hanging on every word he says, amazed by his incredibly thought-provoking mind. For a moment I’m speechless, completely enthralled by him, picking at the threads on my couch. When I can finally find my voice again, I say, “That’s so incredibly true.”

“Will it cure all of the problems in the world? Obviously not. But I think everyone can benefit from learning not only things like”—he pauses his eyes flickering around like he’s searching for the right thing to say—“emotional regulation, breaking generational curses, healthy communication. Everyone can use help with communicating.” He laughs, and I join in.

“Those are some really incredible points, Leo.” When I say it, his face looks like it lights up as his smile grows.

“I’ve come a long way,” he admits. “So all that to say, I guess”—he laughs nervously—“I can be your buddy if you want to talk about your past, or your ex, or anything.”

And again, I don’t know how or why, but I believe him. There’s something about him that makes me feel comfortable enough to not just talk, but to truly share and open up. Not just fake and surface level conversations, but real ones. “I guess there was some blushing with Greg in the beginning of our relationship,” I try to quickly explain. “But then, I don’t know, we just got comfortable enough that I didn’t even realize it all went away.”

“What went away? The blushing?”

“The…” I stop, not sure how to find the words for what’s in my head. “The mushy couple things? I guess?”

“Mushy couple things?” He laughs amused.

I cover my face with my hand. “Yes. That’s the best way I can describe it.”

“How long were you together?”

I sigh. “Eleven years.”

His eyes go wide. “Shit.”

“Shit,” I confirm.

“That’s… that’s a really long time,” he says. “I’m sure it’s been really hard. I’m sorry.”

I shrug. “It is what it is.”

“But I’m still sorry that you had to go through all of that.”

I smile at him. “Thank you.” I turn myself and prop my phone up on the end table, moving my body on the couch so I’m still in the frame. He watches me with a smile. “He was my closest friend for the longest time. But I think that’s what we turned into, just friends…maybe eventually even acquaintances that lived and worked together, especially in the later years.” He nods, understandingly. “I want to say that our spark just fizzled out, but honestly…” I trail off, realizing I’ve never admitted this out loud before. “The more I think about the last eleven years and everything we went through, a part of me isn’t sure we ever had that spark to begin with.”

And there it is. The revelation I didn’t know I needed to have. I had settled for convenience and easy comfort. I was desperate for companionship, maybe even to not be alone. I sit in that revelation for a few moments. Feeling surprised and then…relieved.

He nods, his face watching me intently and thoughtfully.

Feeling empowered and encouraged by all of the confidence and honesty he exudes, I continue. “We had a connection, obviously. I mean we were together for over a decade. But at some point down the line, we just…become ordinary, I guess? And ordinary is fine. It’s safe. There was still a comfort because we knew each other for so long. We did a lot of growing up together.”

“But there was no passion?” he guesses, and his words halt me in my tracks.

My first instinct is to be defensive, even offended. But I hold onto his words instead, and turn them over in my mind and sort through the responses.

He’s right.

“Yeah,” I finally admit for the first time ever—to anyone, including myself. “We didn’t have any passion. And I didn’t realize it was missing because…I didn’t know anything different?” My last few words turning into a question again.

“That makes complete sense,” he says kindly.

Then all of the words I didn’t even know I was keeping inside start flowing out of me. Years of suppressed feelings begin to just seep out. “Eventually our comfort and friendship turned distant, like we both stopped trying to be more than what we became. We went from a couple to just two people sharing a home and a car.” I laugh, humorlessly. “And I didn’t even see it. Eventually our indifference turned into arguments of him telling me that I don’t try anymore, and I’m not giving him what he needs. And I was trying. But it’s hard to put effort into something that isn’t being reciprocated. Making myself vulnerable and putting myself out there was just humiliating when he either rejected it or ignored it.” I shake my head and sigh. “And then of course he said the affair was my fault and that I wasn’t giving him what he needed so he had to look for it somewhere else. As much as I tried, it was never enough. But I guess it was enough with my friend.” I sigh before breathing in and letting it out slowly. My eyes lock on his and I’m immediately struck with the realization of everything I just dumped on this man that I barely know. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I-I can’t believe I just dumped all of my shit on you.” I bury my face in my hands.

Leo smirks. “You can dump your shit on me anytime.”

A nervous chuckle bubbles out of me. “Stop, you know what I mean.”

“I do.” The humor fades from his face and is replaced by a cautious seriousness. “I hope it’s not too forward of me to say that you seem like someone who maybe keeps things in? But you don’t have to do that with me. I’m not lying when I tell you that I’ve never talked to someone so easily before in my life. I can’t even wrap my mind around the fact that I’ve known you for what, twelve hours?” he says in disbelief. “It feels like so much longer.” His admission wraps around me. “But please trust me when I say, your shit is safe with me.” I shake my head that’s still in my hands. “Look at me, Jo.”

I reluctantly look up at him. “I’m mortified,” I whisper.

“I wish you weren’t, because I promise that you have no reason to be. What happened between you and that asshat is not your fault.” His voice is the most serious it’s been. “No matter what happens in a relationship, it’s never an excuse to be unfaithful. If he was unhappy or struggling, there are so many healthier and productive ways to address that. What he did is inexcusable.” I open my mouth to object but as if he can read my mind he says, “It’s not your fault.”

Every word he says is like a quiet affirmation, confirming that everything I feel inside—everything I’ve carried alone for years—is real. It matters. It feels like he takes away this invisible weight that I’ve been carrying and suddenly I don’t seem so alone.

I look at his face on my phone screen. A foreign face, yet somehow becoming more familiar with each second that we share between us. I try to keep my breathing steady and hold back the sudden tears that are threatening to escape. I roll my lips into my mouth and bite hard, trying to hold my emotions back.

“Say it’s not your fault,” he pushes, but still gentle.

One tear escapes as I say, “It’s not my fault.”

He watches me, his face showing such raw tenderness. “Please don’t cry when I’m not there to wipe your tears away.”

A laugh escapes me even as my chest tightens with feelings of appreciation. I use the back of my hand to wipe under my eye. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Jo,” he says warmly.

“I don’t care what you say.” I sniffle and pull myself together. “Crying in front of a stranger is cringey and awkward.”

“Well, I really happen to like cringey and awkward,” he tells me with a grin.

I shake my head. “Can you please ‘trauma dump’ on me so I feel less awkward right now?”

He laughs. “That only seems fair. Well, I told you that I got out of a long term relationship this year too. Not as long as yours. We were together for almost two years.” I nod, listening earnestly. “I should’ve ended it sooner, but I just held on to hope that things would get better.” He sighs. “She wasn’t very kind. Well she was a total sweetheart in front of our friends and family. She just turned it on and off like a switch. But she was honestly a bully behind closed doors. I told myself that she was just comfortable enough around me to not pretend. She was able to be herself around me, and for a while that placated my feelings of frustrations. But then I realized that being comfortable around someone doesn’t give you permission to make them into your personal punching bag. So I finally ended things. Everyone was shocked because all they had seen was such a sweet and doting partner, but they had no idea what she was like behind closed doors.”

“Leo, I’m so sorry,” I tell him, my heart aching for his. “That’s awful, and I’m sure that making that decision—even though it was the right one—was really hard. I’m so glad that you stood up for yourself. You deserve better than that.”

He gives me a soft but sincere smile. “Thanks, Jo.” He lets out a breath. “I don’t think I’ve really told anyone the whole truth, just bits and pieces. Unfortunately, there’s that other stigma with men speaking out about abusive partners. I think many don’t even realize they’re in abusive relationships. And if they do, they think it makes them weak that they let themselves be treated that way.”

“No one willingly enters into an abusive relationship,” I say. “You begin a relationship, even fall in love with someone, and sometimes that makes it easy to miss or even ignore the red flags.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re right.”

“And it’s not a sign of weakness to admit that, or to remove yourself from that,” I tell him. “It’s truly a sign of incredible strength.” I pause. “Is it weird for me to say that I’m proud of you?”

His smile is tender and reaches his eyes. “Not at all.”

“Then I’m proud of you, Leo.” I smile at him. He holds my smile in his for a while. And we just stay like that. Two ‘not really strangers but still kind of strangers,’ sitting peacefully and comfortably in silence.

Talking with Leo feels like he is reaching into the depths of my mind and pulling my thoughts out with such ease and clarity. He brings sense and understanding to what I’m feeling, as though he knows exactly what I need to hear. I don’t need to explain myself to him because I am already understood.