And Now We Are One

They had gone shopping for decorations for her party, just the usual accouterments: balloons, a centerpiece for the cake and gifts table, some streamers. At the last minute they spied a silver and gold banner that read AND NOW WE ARE 40 and she thought how childlike it was, a statement from someone who was embracing a birthday rather than dreading it. She put it in their cart and, for the first time since they started planning the party, she felt hopeful about her impending age. This gathering would be just what she needed.

The morning of her birthday she woke up with the phrase in her head. And now we are forty. She looked at her party dress hanging on the closet door and felt excited about the festivities ahead, about turning forty, about life.

And then.

He texted her in the afternoon when he was supposed to be picking up the beer and wine.

I can’t do this anymore.

She texted back: What, pick up the beer? Why not?

Him: No, it’s not that. I can’t do *us* anymore

She felt the blood drain from her face. Her legs gave out and she slumped onto the couch. She knew this day would come. It always did. She’d been broken up with more times than she cared to tell, but she thought he was different, that he would last a little longer than the rest. He seemed to really care about her. He told her he loved her. They had plans for a trip to Italy that fall.

She stared at her phone, holding it at a distance as if she was pushing the text away.

I can’t do this anymore.

She heard it in her head, in his voice. It banged around like a pinball, and she shook her head to tilt the machine, to make it turn off.

He never prioritized her, and she let it go because there were some good sides to him. She often made a list of grievances in her head when she couldn’t sleep at night. Some people counted sheep, she counted faults. There were always good traits for her to think about, but the cons loomed bigger. She compartmentalized them, locked them up in the place in her brain where she kept her doubts.

Her phone buzzed.

Him: I dropped the beer off on the porch. I’m going to stay at a hotel tonight. We’ll square everything up tomorrow

It felt like a business transaction and she almost laughed at the matter-of-factness of the text.

She made such a big deal out of him being the one, even when that doubt would rise in the back of her head telling her it was no such thing. Push away, push away. It’s what she always did, and it’s why the ending of her previous relationships came as a surprise to her when they weren’t a surprise to anyone else. She was sure that when she told her friends and family he had left her, they would feign surprise at first, then let her know they always knew it would happen, that there would be an ending instead of the forever she wanted. They would surround her with love and comfort but also scold her softly for falling for happily ever after again.

Four years. Longer than her early marriage, which lasted all of fourteen months. Longer than her stint with a philosophy major, who had proposed to her, then panicked and broke up with her a week later. Longer than the recovering alcoholic, who was married to AA and made her sit in the back seat their entire relationship.

Buzz.

Him: Sorry if I ruined your party

He left her on her birthday. The nerve, she would tell people. The absolute nerve. There was going to be a party. It was her fortieth, and she made a big deal out of it. He had willingly taken part in the preparations; ordering balloons, picking out the cake, inviting their friends.

She looked incredulously at her phone and typed: fuck off.

How would she get over this one? Her previous breakups found her obsessing about yoga, buying a Peloton she sold three weeks later, and trying to teach herself to bake. What would take over her life this time? Knitting? Buying records? Running? Anything to fend off the emptiness she would feel acutely once she stopped crying. Anything to fend off the shame and humiliation. When her first marriage ended, she went through the stages of grief, a journey that lasted three-plus years. She didn’t want to do that again. She didn’t want to mourn.

She surveyed the framed photographs that lined their piano. They are smiling in Barcelona, he’s walking in Memphis, he's standing on a beach in California. There’s the one of him eating cotton candy in Disneyland, the one of him looking handsome and pensive at the Faith No More show. They had plenty of good times. There are no photos of the bad times, no snapshot of her being lonely while he went on another guys-only trip, no framed picture of the time he yelled at her for listening to My Chemical Romance while he was home, no physical memory of the time she got into an accident with his car and he fretfully asked if her if the car was okay before inquiring about her well being. She stayed in the hospital that night as a precaution and he didn’t come to see her.

She didn’t want to mourn their relationship. She would have a small, private funeral that night instead of a fortieth birthday party, a way to perhaps get closure.

She went outside and brought the beer in before it started raining, wondering what she would do about the guests she expected in four hours. Would they believe any lie she told them or would they surmise from her tone that something was wrong? She went ahead and canceled the party via group text, lying about having Covid. She cried for a little while, wracking sobs that made her chest hurt and her throat burn.

Abruptly, she stopped crying, blew her nose, washed her face, and put on the dress she had planned to wear to the party. She scattered the bouquet of balloons around the living room, hung the AND NOW WE ARE FORTY banner, and grabbed a Hostess cupcake from the cabinet. She put one lone candle in the center, right where her name should have been scrawled in frosting, then lit it, shut the lights, and sat motionless for a good ten minutes, watching the candle wax do a slow drip onto the cupcake.

She closed her eyes, wished for something better, and blew out the candle.

A deep, cathartic sigh escaped her and she let out a bitter laugh, proclaiming - a little too happily - And now we are one.