When it’s time to end things, I plan to meet my girlfriend at the least respectable bar in town, and once I’ve set a time, I show up twenty minutes late. It’s easier to cut the cord when you start off on the wrong foot. If you can disappoint them before you show your face, they’ll pretty much do the work for you, and the breakup becomes effortless.

The first thing I do, when I strut inside as if I’m right on time, is order two pints at the bar before sliding into the booth where Gillian awaits me. She’s got that raised eyebrow of impatience and sits in a tight posture, as if the discomfort of sitting alone is suffocating her. She doesn’t have a drink in front of her, and I don’t ask if she wants one. These women never enjoy the talk that’s coming, so why would they enjoy a cocktail? They never stay long enough to finish either of them.

Instead of addressing the reason we’re here, I will badger Gillian with meaningless conversation until she gets fed up and gives herself the boot. When you’ve gone through this routine enough times, it becomes second nature. I no longer have to play the distant boyfriend—I am him. The girls inevitably call it quits and leave on their own. Doing it this way saves me the guilt of having to do it myself.

My ten-year high school reunion is coming up this weekend, so that becomes the topic of discussion. I bleed Gillian’s ears about my friends I’m looking forward to seeing, and she fidgets with impatience, waiting for a gap in my chatter so she can interject. The longer I talk, the more I can see the heartache in her eyes. She’s wondering why I never mentioned the reunion before now, and if I ever had any intention of bringing her as my plus one.

By the time the bartender delivers my order, I’ve exhausted myself with speech and have run out of things to say. I slide both glasses to my side of the table, ask Gillian what has gotten her nips in a twist, and start chugging.

“Last night is what’s gotten my nips so twisted,” she snaps at me.

“Last night?” I say, feigning confusion and steering my eyes elsewhere.

“We need to talk about it.”

“It?”

“Please, don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing dumb.”

“You know what I’m talking about,” she says.

“I need a refill first.” I wave to the bartender and mime a drinking gesture.

“You still have a full one,” Gillian says.

“In a minute I won’t.”

“We can talk without you drinking,” she says.

 I squint, doubtfully. “Can we?”

Over Gillian’s shoulder, the tavern fills up with a crowd of attractive young women, their outfits barely containing their tight little bodies in short skirts and tank tops. Though I’m sitting far away from them, I’m close enough to hear their laughter and crave to be in the middle of it. Shit, I’d even consider a seat next to the old, smelly drunks at the bar if it gets me out of this booth.

There is nothing worse than sitting with a woman you can never love.

The bartender brings two more glasses of beer, and while I sip with slow deliberation, killing time, Gillian shrivels her eyebrows and leers, unable to hold back her utter disdain toward me.

“I see what you’re doing,” she warns.

I avert my eyes and say, “Have you noticed the people here keep getting younger and younger?”

“They’re not.”

“Not what?”

“They’re not getting younger. You’re just getting older—and you’re avoiding the topic.”

“I thought we were just shooting the shit.”

“You’re stalling is what you’re doing. You can’t even look at me.”

I sigh a relenting breath and say, “Fine. Go ahead.”

Gillian sits up straight, adjusting her posture as though she’s at a job interview, and says, “Last night—I told you—I love you.”

I am unreactive as I pick up my beer and bring it to my lips, drinking it in its entirety without stopping for air. Gillian waits, and when I finish, I shift my gaze to the pretty girls in short skirts giggling at the bar.

“Well?” she says.

“Well, what?”

“I just said I love you,” she says with low, emphatic slowness, speaking to me like I’m a child who needs everything spelled out. “And now that you’re done chugging your beer and staring off into space,” she goes on, “I am waiting for your response.”

“I wasn’t staring off into space,” I say.

“Yes, you were.”

“Do you think I need a haircut?”

“What?”

“A haircut.”

“What are you talking about?”

“For my reunion.”

“We’re not doing this,” Gillian says.

“Doing what?” I say.

“Talking about your stupid reunion. It’s all you’ve been talking about since we got here.” With desperation in her voice, she says, “We’ve been dating for six months. I need to know where we are heading.”

“You’re far too young to be throwing that word around,” I say, waving a lazy hand at her. “You don’t know what love is. You’ve still got your entire adult life ahead of you. What are you, nineteen? Twenty?”

Gillian shakes her chin. “Are you kidding me? I’m twenty-six.”

“Wow, I was way off.”

“How could I be nineteen? We’re sitting in a bar—drinking.”

“Technically, you’re not drinking.”

Gillian smacks her palm on the table to keep my attention from straying.

I throw my hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying I was drinking here when I was nineteen. But that’s beside the point.”

“What is your point?” Gillian hisses.

“That you are way too old for me.”

“Too old?” she says, baffled. “I’m two years younger than you. How am I too old?”

I shrug.

With her hands clasped together, Gillian rests her elbows on the table and purses her lips so tight that they turn white. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me what else is wrong with me. Do I talk too much? Do I bug you?”

“Right now, yes.”

“Have I gained weight since we’ve been together?”  

“Not enough to make it worth mentioning.”

“You’re serious,” she says, mouth agape. “You can’t possibly mean any of the things you’re saying. What’s the actual issue here?”

“You never mentioned wanting something serious,” I say, “so don’t jump down my throat because I won’t tell you I love you.”

“I’m not jumping down your—!” She pauses, shuts her eyes, sighs through her nose, and when she’s calmed herself, she says, “What exactly did you think we were doing?”

“Screwing around,” I say with another lighthearted shrug. “Having some laughs. Keeping it casual.”

“Casual is for high schoolers.”

“In my defense, I thought you were only a few years out of high school.”

“Well, I’m not. We are two full-grown adults—at least one of us is. So, what is your deal? Is it someone else? Cause I’m not buying this act that you thought I was nineteen.”

I run my fingers through my hair. Yeah, I should get a trim.

Gillian says, “Listen, if it’s someone else, just say so. Is it Courtney? From the diner? I know you were with her before me. Or Nikki?”

I shake my head.

“Who, then?”

“It’s nobody.”

“Bullshit,” Gillian says. “It must be somebody.”

“You don’t know her,” I say.

“What’s her name?”

“Forget it.”

“Who is she?” Gillian says and leans forward with her mouth clenched. “Tell me.”

I massage my finger around the rim of my glass, pretending to have gone deaf.

“You better give me something,” she says, “or I’m going to cause a scene.”

“Jesus, fine,” I say. “Yes, it’s someone else.”

Gillian leans back with a sigh and slouches in her seat, either defeated or relieved. “Are you in love with her?” she asks, her tone softening.

This is not how this is supposed to go. She should be gone by now. But what the hell, at least it’s going.

“Yes,” I say.

“And how long has this been going on?”

“Ten years, give or take.”

Gillian scoffs. “Ten years. Now I know you’re lying.”

“It’s true.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

“Prove this girl exists.”

“I can’t—”

Wait. Yes, I can. I can prove it.

I retrieve my wallet from my back pocket, open it, slide my fingers inside, and pull out a small worn-out photograph. With my fingers pinching the corner, I hold it over the table, and Gillian leans closer, squinting. She makes a grab for it, and I pull it away before she can touch it.

“That girl looks about sixteen,” she says. 

“Eighteen.”

“So that’s how young you like them.”

“She’s my age,” I say. “This is her senior picture.”

“Wait,” Gillian says. “This girl is from your grade?”

I nod.

“I’ve never seen her around.”

“She’s not around.”

Gillian frowns, and as some realization presents itself to her, she smirks. “Oh. I see it now.”

“What do you see?”

“I see,” she says, “why you didn’t invite me to the reunion.” She grabs her purse and slides out of her seat.

“Are we done here?” I ask, holding the photo an inch from my face.

“Yeah, I think I’ll see myself out,” Gillian says, and just as she begins to leave, she turns back, leans over me, and says, “You are pathetic.”

“Don’t I know it,” I say.

“You ought to get rid of that,” she says, stabbing her finger at the photograph. “Maybe then you can move on, give somebody else a chance.”

“I’d rather get rid of you to give her another chance,” I say, and Gillian lunges at me—no—she reaches for the photo. She grabs it. She pulls. I only have the tips of my fingers pinched on the end of the slippery glossy finish of the paper, but I hold on.

She yanks and tugs with all her strength and bottled resentment, pulls with everything she’s got, and I hear the fabric tear. Gillian rips her hand away, half of the picture in her grasp, the paper shredded down the middle.

My heart jolts. My head fumes, seething with rage. I gape at the mangled remnants of the photograph in my hand and say, “You—child.”

Gillian jeers with contemptuous humor, as if it’s the most preposterous thing she’s ever heard. “You’re the grown man pushing thirty—still carrying a picture of the girl who broke your poor little heart in high school—but I’m the child?”

“Just—”

“—go?” Gillian says. “Don’t worry. I’m already gone. Have fun at your reunion.” She walks away, laughing and muttering to herself, “Child.”

I stare at the torn photograph, and my stomach aches, knotted and twisted with loss and shame. There is no regret or guilt in my treatment of Gillian. No, this pain comes from my allowing the picture to be torn from my hands and destroyed before my eyes.

This picture was the last piece of evidence to prove I wasn’t always a miserable piece of shit, and now it’s ruined. Broken. All these years, I held onto it and kept it as a reminder—to remind me I wasn’t always afraid of a four-letter word.

How many hearts have I broken because of her?

I’m not sure what the number is.

I lost count years ago.

I’ll add Gillian to the tally.

And I’ll pray that all goes well this weekend.

So no more names have to go on the list.

– Devin James Leonard