I Finally Chose to Leave

Tuesday arrived with an invitation I never received.

Adrian had arranged a welcome dinner for Sebastian at a private club overlooking Central Park. I knew because his events coordinator called me to ask whether I'd approve the floral arrangements. Apparently I was useful enough to help with the party, just not important enough to attend it.

I approved white orchids. Then I went home and packed.

I put the shirts I'd bought with my own money into a suitcase. I left the expensive coats Adrian had given me hanging in the closet. I returned the watch I'd never gifted him, the receipt still tucked into its box. My hands shook only when I found an old photograph of us in college: Adrian laughing at something off-camera while I gazed at him as though the sun had been made for his benefit.

I folded it once and put it in the trash.

At six, Adrian texted.

WHERE ARE YOU? THE CLUB NEEDS THE SEATING CHART.

I sent the revised chart. Then I wrote: ARE WE STILL TOGETHER?

Three minutes passed.

STOP BEING DRAMATIC.

That should have been enough. Yet I found myself taking a cab to the club anyway. Some small, stubborn part of me wanted to hear him say the truth to my face.

Inside, Sebastian Ashford stood beneath a chandelier in a charcoal suit. He was beautiful in the effortless way certain people seemed born to be. His cheekbones resembled mine. His smile did not.

Adrian stood at his side, hand resting lightly between Sebastian's shoulder blades.

For years I'd imagined hating Sebastian. Seeing him in person, I couldn't. He hadn't made Adrian lie to me.

Marcus noticed me first. "Elliot! You're here after all."

Several guests turned. Adrian's expression darkened.

Sebastian stepped forward politely. "You must be Elliot. I've heard about you."

"I wonder what you've heard."

He glanced at Adrian, then back at me. "That you've been a good friend to him."

Good friend.

The words landed so precisely that I almost admired them.

Marcus had been drinking. "Come on, Sebastian, don't you see it? Adrian always had a type."

Another guest laughed uncomfortably. Sebastian's smile faded.

"Marcus," Adrian warned.

But Marcus only raised his glass. "Seven years and he still found himself another Sebastian. Romantic, in a twisted way."

I looked at Adrian. This was the moment. All he had to say was that Marcus was wrong. That I was his partner. That whatever had happened before, I wasn't a copy of someone else.

"Adrian," I asked, "what am I to you?"

Every face turned toward him.

He rubbed his forehead. "Not here, Elliot."

"Please. Just answer."

"You're embarrassing yourself."

Something inside me went very quiet.

I unclasped the watch Adrian had given me on our first anniversary. I'd worn it every day, even after it stopped keeping time. I placed it beside his champagne glass.

"We're done," I said.

Adrian stared at the watch. "Don't be absurd."

"I'm breaking up with you."

"Over a joke?"

"No." I surprised myself by smiling. "Over seven years of being a joke."

I turned and walked away before he could reply.

Outside, the October air cut through my jacket. Claire answered my call on the second ring and listened while I told her what had happened.

"Can you really let him go?" she asked gently. "You loved him for so long."

"I don't know," I said. "But I can leave."

I went back to the penthouse, took my suitcase, and left my key on the kitchen island. No one stopped me. Adrian didn't come home.

Only when the elevator reached the lobby did I realize I had nowhere I wanted to go.

Claire offered her couch. I almost accepted. Then, at the bottom of my contacts, I found a name I had never been able to delete.

Julian Bennett.

The last time I'd seen Julian, I was seventeen, standing beside a train platform and pretending I wasn't devastated that he was leaving for Europe. He'd hugged me longer than usual. I'd told him to go change the world. Neither of us had said what we meant.

I knew from magazine articles that he was back in New York. A celebrated mathematician. A visiting professor. Someone who belonged to lecture halls and international conferences, not to the wreckage of my love life.

Still, I sent a message.

IT'S ELLIOT. I'M SORRY IT'S LATE. COULD I SEE YOU?

His reply came before I could put my phone away.

OF COURSE. WHERE ARE YOU?

Forty minutes later, I stood outside a brownstone on the Upper West Side with rain in my hair and my suitcase beside me.

The door opened.

Julian was taller than I remembered. His dark hair was longer, his shoulders broader, his blue eyes exactly as steady as they'd been when we were young. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. For one suspended second, we simply stared.

"Elliot?"

I had rehearsed an explanation in the cab. It vanished.

"Julian," I whispered. "I feel awful."

His face changed. He stepped toward me, and I walked straight into his arms.

"Did someone hurt you?" he asked.

I nodded against his chest. It was all I could manage.

"Can I stay here tonight?"

Julian held me tighter.

"You can stay as long as you want."