The Break-Up Chronicles
Ep. 6 — Stephanie
Modern Romance
Ep. 6 — Stephanie
Stephanie and I never had a formal "thing." We just never defined it— we hung out, slept together, and told ourselves, and each other, that we were in love.
In retrospect, I think the best, perhaps only, thing to call it was a distraction.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Stephanie and I met working for the same company. I can't begin to describe what we did — my eyes glaze over just thinking about it. Suffice it to say, it was a job, and we worked 3p-11p in the financial district of New York City.
There was obvious chemistry between Stephanie and me, immediately. Stephanie was smart, sexy, and fun to be around. But she was off-limits. She had a live-in boyfriend — not one she spoke highly of, but she had one. Besides, after a self-imposed two-year hiatus, I was just beginning to think about dating; the last thing I wanted to do was get entangled in that kind of thing.
By the very nature of this article, I know what you’re thinking — famous last words.
About six months in, I landed a better-paying job with regular workday hours. I had to say good-bye to Stephanie, but we still kept in touch and exchanged emails.
During my tenure at the job I met Stephanie at, the company had closed a huge deal. In the world in which I orbited at the time, it was a really big deal. Accordingly, there was a celebratory dinner. In those days, even at the ass end of the finance world, there were celebratory dinners, not pizza parties.
Though I no longer worked there, I was invited. It was at some fancy downtown restaurant; who was I to turn that down?
After dinner, when everyone had a few drinks, my former boss mentioned to the SVP that I had applied for an Account Manager's job. And while that was true, I couldn't get past HR. The SVP looked at me and asked me to walk him through my career, and I did. He nodded all along, pretty sure all he said was: "Interesting." After my tipsy attempt at pitching myself, the talk sort of moved on.
About 30 minutes later, this guy and I found ourselves in the bathroom, standing at the urinal (not the same one.)
More candidly, he asked: "So what happened? Why didn't I interview you?"
"I couldn't get past HR."
"Why not?"
"I don't have a college degree," and I didn't… at the time.
"That's stupid."
"Yes, it is."
"Which HR person did you deal with?"
"Gennifer," (with a G — shoulda been a dead giveaway.)
We finished up and washed our hands; looking in the mirror, he said: "Hmm, Yea. Okay. Come in Monday around 3p, and we'll sort that out."
When I sat back down, Stephanie leaned over and put her hand on my upper thigh, sending a charge through my body: "What was that all about?"
"I think I just got a job offer."
She squeezed my thigh: "YAY! We should celebrate!"
My body informed me that I already was, and I adjusted myself in my chair.
Once our dinner wrapped up, a few of us took a cab up to my neighborhood and popped into an Irish bar to continue drinking. And suddenly it was 3 am, or as we liked to say, it was "that's when the ashtray's come out" o'clock. And then there were three — me, Stephanie, and another friend.
Stephanie lived in Queens, and he lived deep into Brooklyn …and neither wanted to pay for a cab.
My roommate was away, so I said we could all crash at my place, which was three blocks away.
While Stephanie and I had always respected our chemistry, we kept it at arms length… but still playful. At work, she would often tap me to go smoke downstairs, we shared our own little "in" jokes, and we liked similar kinds of music. We both felt the chemistry, and genuinely enjoyed each other, but nothing was gonna happen.
That was then, this was now — and now was 4 am after an alcohol-soaked evening.
We walked the four flights up to my apartment and sleeping arrangements were made. There was a couch, a loveseat, and that was it. A little drunker than we were, our friend fell right onto the couch with a groan. Stephanie looked at the loveseat: “I don’t think I’ll fit on that.”
“You can sleep in my room.”
“Where will you sleep?”
We both knew the answer, but I said it anyway: “In my room.”
We walked into my bedroom and I closed the door. I took my pants and shirt off and looked at her: "Do you want a t-shirt or anything?"
She undid her bra under her shirt, and pulled it out of her sleeve, and wiggled out of her skirt: "No. I'll be fine."
"Don't worry. I'll keep one foot on the ground."
She smiled: "I know."
I think we lasted two minutes before we were making out.
While I can say we didn’t have sex that night, I cannot say we didn’t do anything.
I woke up the following day, alone in my bed. Walking out of my room, I found my friend still just waking up: "Did you see Stephanie?"
"Yeah, man, she left a few hours ago."
Long story short, I did get that Account Manager's job and went back to work at that place again. And Stephanie and I never spoke of what happened that night.
Well, not until about a month later.
One afternoon we were trading IM's when she said: "You should come over to my place for dinner."
"What about Tom?"
"He's away for the next two months."
Now, I know what you're thinking — the chemistry, the sexual tension, the hook-up — a more moral man would've declined the offer. And as much as I would like to say I was that man, I was not that man back then… besides, the train had left the station.
"Sure. When?"
"How about Saturday at 5p?"
"Can I bring anything?"
"An appetite."
"For what?"
A smiley emoji was her reply.
For the next two months, Stephanie and I stole away every chance we could. When the two months closed in on us, she invited me to meet her at a bar near her subway stop, 59th Street, in Manhattan. All I could think was: "Well, at least she's doing it to my face, and I don't have to go out to fucking Queens."
She was already there when I arrived. Stephanie was many things, but on time was never one of them. We chatted briefly before she got down to brass tacks: "Listen, Tom is coming back next week, so we need to stop,” motioning her arms between us: “this."
"You sure?"
She looked at me, and we held eyes for what felt like five minutes: "Yea. I'm sure."
"Okay."
Of course, I was bummed, but I knew the rules going into it. What was I going to say?
We sat awkwardly for another five minutes, long enough for us to finish our drinks, and then got up to leave. We had to go into the same subway entry, and once there, hugged without saying anything. I went to catch my train, and she went to catch hers.
My train came, and I got in. And just as the "Stand clear of the closing doors" came over the speakers and the doors were closing, Stephanie ran into my subway car.
Now, the odds of getting in the same subway car as the person you want to see, exists, but they’re small. And then to beat the clock, just as the doors were closing? Smaller still.
Stephanie and I smiled, feeling it was kismet.
I know that sounds like a movie, but it is exactly what happened.
In short order, her boyfriend came home, she ended things with him, and moved in with a friend. We carried on as we told ourselves we were in love. And then, as summer crept into autumn, she told me she was pregnant.
Here's a solid piece of advice fellas, never ask this question of your pregnant partner: "Are you sure it's mine?"
After that, Stephanie began to withdraw, little by little. Not physically, but emotionally. I could sense she was shutting down. I attributed the withdrawal to the termination of the pregnancy.
When she and Tom broke up, I knew he kept after her, but I didn't think too much of it. I had no reason to think that much about it. Stephanie would always tell me about it, and I understood how the guy was feeling.
He was heartbroken: "I still want you," "It doesn't have to be this way," "I still love you," etc., the usual pining one has when their heart is broken.
And I played a significant role in that, of course I understood.
I may be an asshole, but I’m not a monster.
Did they hang out? Yea, but Stephanie always assured me that it was only to talk or shit like that. The guy was hurting, I got it. On the one hand, I appreciated the transparency. But on the other why are you telling me about hanging out with your ex, who has openly said he still loves you and wants to still be with you? What am I to do with this information?
I believed her because I had no reason to not trust her. Besides, she blew up her life so we could be together. Who does that and then returns to the person they left?
He wanted Stephanie back and I began to see the writing on the wall. Tom was playing the long game, hoping for one of two things:
He would drive a wedge between us, and he would be there for her.
He'd eventually wear her down, she would break up with me, and he would be there.
How do I know this? Because that is precisely what I would do. Men are many things; chief among them is pretty predictable with some things; like this. If he's constantly present, she can't move on. If he’s persistent, doubt will eventually creep into her mind… and the next time will be different.
After the pregnancy, and the constant hum of her ex, it will shock no one to read that my relationship with Stephanie became more fractious.
Autumn walked into winter, and as the Christmas season came around, so did the company Christmas party. Stephanie and I made plans to get a hotel room, so we didn't have to trek home to a roommate situation—nothing swanky, just a place to stay because both of our roommates were home. Neither of us were particularly keen on the other one by this time, and whatever we had was running on fumes.
After that Christmas party, Stephanie went silent.
About a week after the Christmas party, I got the: "I need some space" comment in the break room.
Merry fuckin Christmas.
That year, I didn't see my parents for Christmas, and my roommate was out of town, so I had A LOT of time, and space, to think. I gave Stephanie the space she asked for …at least for a week or ten days. During that time, I began piecing together the dissolution of whatever it was: the fighting, the emotional withdraw, and the less frequent communication.
More tellingly was that she had stopped being transparent about Tom.
A few days before Christmas, I had been awake most of the night running over it all in my head. Naturally, I made the terrible decision to take a cab to her apartment at 6:30 am.
I buzzed her apartment.
“Who is it?”
"It's Keith. Can I come up?"
"No. Now isn't a good time."
I knew why it wasn't: "Why?"
"Hold on, I'll come down."
A couple of minutes later, she came down and we walked the two blocks over to the diner on 34th and 8th Ave. Stephanie sat across from me, and we drank our coffee. She didn’t say much. I said even less. What could either of us really say? Ultimately, I knew the rules, I knew the risk.
She said: "I'm sorry."
Now, I'd like to tell you that I behaved stoically and asked her if this was really what she wanted.
And that's what I did.
And it was what she wanted.
Stephanie finished her cup of coffee: "I should get back."
I nodded as I heard my heart breaking: "Yea, you probably should."
She grabbed her coat and stood there awkwardly; I think expecting me to stand up.
I didn't.
Eventually, she nodded and turned to leave.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, I was exhausted. As I collapsed on my bed, I was both heartbroken and strangely relieved.
But Stephanie and I weren't done yet.
A few months later, as winter was easing into spring, she sent me an email: "How are you?"
I thought: "What kind of fuckery is this?" but typed out: "I'm good. How are you?"
Almost immediately: "Missing you, that's how I am. Do you want to come over for dinner?" There were two things that Stephanie never was. As previously stated, she was never on time and the other was subtle.
Now, I know what you're thinking — a more moral man would've declined the offer. And as much as I would like to say I was that man, I was not that man back then.
"Where's Tom?"
"Away."
I thought for about a minute before replying: "Okay, when?"
"Sunday at 5?"
"Okay, can I bring anything?"
"Just your appetite." — accompanied by a smiley emoji.
Stephanie and I would see each other two more times, but whatever was once there for me was gone. It didn’t feel good knowing she was back with her ex but still wanting to fuck me. I didn’t feel good about that. This time, the sordidness of it wasn’t fun — it felt shitty.
I think she felt it too, because we just slowly faded out talking (emailing/texting) to one another.
Looking back, I can see now that Stephanie was an ocean of red flags and as toxic as mercury, but hindsight works that way.
About eight years later, the Afghan Whigs played around the corner from where I lived in Brooklyn. I saw three people walking on the opposite side of the street from me, two women and one man. All three, at different times, turned to look at me.
I could've sworn one of the women was Stephanie, and for about one second, I thought of calling her name.
But then I thought: "What for?"
Some people come into your life to show you about the wonder of love.
Even if it ends.
Others enter your life to show you the ruthless pain of love.
Especially when it ends.
Stephanie was one of the latter.