Break/Breakup

An excerpt from my novel, Falling Through the Night

Substack friends, I’m feeling like a giddy 8-year-old this morning because I have exciting news. Last week, I found out that my novel, Falling Through the Night, won the National Indie Excellence Award in the LGBTQ fiction category!

My relationship with professional recognition is deeply impacted by my history with bullying and family alienation. For so many years, my inner voice echoed what I heard repeatedly, that I was a loser, that nobody wanted me, that I had nothing of value to contribute. My friend,

Mr. Troy Ford

, has a tagline on his Substack that I love: “award-disdaining author.” While the badass in me knows that awards don’t actually mean much, I am also trying to take in the positive message that this experience holds for me as a corrective experience. I know many people with marginalized identities who have experienced the same thing, so I’m offering this moment to anybody who’s ever felt that way. The truth is that we all have beauty and wisdom and talents and unique gifts to offer. Our relationships with each other are powerful: let’s hold one another up and help the world see our sparkle. Awards are just one way to change the inner dialogue, and I’m hopeful that Writers in Relationship can have that same impact on a smaller scale.

To celebrate, I wanted to share an excerpt from Falling. This is a scene where the protagonist, Audrey, gets a text from her girlfriend, Denise, saying she wants to take a break. Audrey reaches out to her best friend, Jessica, a recovering alcoholic, who lives a few blocks away. Enjoy!

***

Can’t do this. Can we take a break?

I stand in my bomber jacket in front of the building’s mailboxes, staring at my phone. Take a break? Break as in breakup? Is she backing out? She wanted to buy a house. Does she want to break up because I don’t?

I drive to my apartment. My armpits are dripping. I reread the text. Should I call? Is everything off? 

Breathe. Wellness. Wait twenty-four hours. Sit. Just—

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Phone buzzes. Jessica.

Oink.

Tweet. 

We connect on Zoom. Her desk is cluttered: lesson plans. Tupperwares with Thai noodles. 

Amstel Light.

I can’t look.

“Oh my God, are you okay? Did somebody hurt you?”

I point to the beer bottle. “What’s that?” 

“Please don’t. It’s no big deal. You’re the one in crisis, so please just tell me what’s happening. If that bitch did anything to you—”

“She’s not a bitch, Jessica. God, why do you always have to do that?”

Her face. Shock.

“Audrey, what happened?”

“She texted—” Crying. “She’s dumping me.”

“Forward me the text.”

I do. 

“She’s not dumping you. Did you tell her you were pregnant or something?”

“No. There’s this house near her apartment that we both like, and a for sale sign went up yesterday. When we walked by, she was all like, ‘We should buy that house.’” 

Jessica’s eyes get big.

“So, what did you say?”

I scowl. “What do you think I said? I told her she was crazy.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Literally?”

I roll my eyes. “No, I just told her we were doing all these major life changes and why should we have to buy a house to be happy?”

“You are a piece of work. Do you get that this is your fault?”

“How can you say that? I listen to everything she tells me and remember it. I always show up early. I research places to eat to make informed suggestions. I do her laundry.”

“And now you’re being stubborn. You go back and forth between two extremes.”

I look at her, swallowing the sting in my throat. “Who are you, and where is my best friend?” 

“You’ve been the one doing the entire relationship all this time. She’s doing nothing. You’re immigrating. You’re fitting into her life. You’re making her life easier. What has she done to make your life easier?”

I’m silent. 

“Then she plants a big idea that actually might not be a bad one, and you’re completely inflexible.”

I do something I’ve never done before: I hang up on Jessica.

Fifteen minutes later, my doorbell rings. 

“Open up!” Jessica says, too loudly. I do it, not wanting anyone to file a complaint, even though my neighbors all know Jessica. If I were being honest, I would admit I didn’t want anyone to suspect she’d been drinking.

She comes inside, pushing me back, eyes rabid. “What the fuck is your problem?”

The booze? The conversation? I’ve never seen her mad like this.

“You’re my friend, Audrey, and that means we don’t hang up on each other. You know who hangs up on people? My mother. Your ex. Not us!”

She throws her purse down and goes into my kitchen. She grabs a glass of water. Silence, sipping sounds.

“I’m sorry, Jess.”

She sits on the couch and downs the rest of the water. “I know you are.”

This cracks me up. I smile. She starts to grin but then turns away. “Goddammit, now you’ve got me fucking laughing.”

I sit next to her on the couch, and Leto jumps up onto my lap. I poke Jessica’s ribs. She shrieks and drops the glass. If not for the rug, it would have shattered. 

“Stop that! Stop! Help, somebody. Crazy woman at large!”

We’re both laughing so hard we almost forget we’re in a fight.

I sit back and wipe my face with my sleeve. I grab her glass, go into the kitchen, and refill it and then grab a towel. I come back and she’s checking her phone.

“Please tell me why I shouldn’t worry about the beer.” I give her my sternest and most serious face.

She puts her phone away. “Audrey, I’m sober. AA isn’t right about everything. Now and then, I have a beer after a long day. You’ve just never seen me do it. That’s all.”

I stare at her.

“Believe what you want, but that’s the truth. Besides, you’re the one who’s nutso at the moment. I think my beer is a convenient way for you to avoid your own shit.”

I think about this. She’s right.

“I don’t want to be dumped again,” I say quietly. 

“Yeah, you, me, and the rest of the world. But everyone is allowed to feel like the other person’s pace doesn’t work for them. It doesn’t mean she’s dumping you. Maybe you’re just stalled because of this house thing. But even if she does want to break up, that’s love. You say you want a family, a healthy family. Even healthy people dump each other. They just do it more politely.”

I cross my arms, sulking. “Healthy people stay together. Period.”

She shakes her head. “Remember in Wellness that thing about relationships having lifespans like people? We never know what’s going to happen. Let’s say our friendship ended tomorrow. Maybe I steal Denise away from you. Do you think that would mean the friendship was unhealthy?”

“But you wouldn’t steal Denise, and we wouldn’t stop being friends tomorrow.”

“How do you know, Audrey?” 

I take a big breath. “I think about buying a house, and all I want to do is stick my head in the oven. How am I supposed to get over that and smile and say, ‘Sure honey!’”

Jessica shakes her head. “It’s not about what you do. It’s about how you do it. Give her space. Or call and ask her what she means. Maybe you don’t buy this house, but you look into doing it next year after you have time to get settled in Montreal. Or maybe she means taking twenty-four hours to process. Maybe you talk to your mom. It’s a text. How are you supposed to understand what she means? Healthy is about communication, right?”

I take a sip from her glass. A window cracks open in my psyche. 

“You’re trying to make something you’ve never seen,” says Jessica, more gently. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think the whole adoption thing is very deep. And your mom never dated. So here you are, an orphan raised by a single woman, trying to make a healthy relationship and have a baby. It’s like going to Croatia and running for president. Or prime minister. Whatever.”

I smile. Jessica isn’t slurring her words, and I don’t feel worried about the beer. “But I could never be president of Croatia. Maybe I can never have a healthy family either. Maybe it’s impossible.” Emptiness floods my brain.

“Maybe. But I don’t think so. And I don’t think you think so.”

We sit for a few more minutes, breathing together, drinking water. I futz with my Star of David. She holds my other hand. 

“I do think it could help if you…”

“I know, find my bio family, yes, yes, I get it. So, tell me, all knowing one, what would that give me that I don’t already have?”

She bites one of her nails. “Knowing where we come from is so basic. Maybe you’ll find out you come from a family of famous artists. Maybe they all have anxiety. I don’t know. I just think not having all the pieces can’t be helping.”

“What is that, a quadruple negative? I want to get better and better, and that’s about looking ahead. I can make choices I haven’t made yet. This has nothing to do with my birth family. So drop it, okay?”

She tells me fine, that she has to finish her lesson plan and call her sister and get to bed before the witching hour. I hug her, and she kisses my cheek, just one side.

“Don’t screw up this relationship. Denise is gold.”

“You called her a bitch before. Which is it?”

But she’s already gone, whistling as she swings her purse, headed for the orange Subaru.

***

You can purchase Falling Through the Night as a physical book on bookshop.org or as an ebook on Amazon.