(Then) Liv: I'm Done

After the last debacle, I stopped trying to get John to do things with me.  I gave up.  It wasn't worth the fight.  John didn't initiate any plans either.  Our usual Saturdays looked like this:  him and I sitting on the couch, side by side (or sometimes I sat in the chair, or at the table), him playing video games or playing on his laptop and me doing homework or reading.  We'd order food or I'd cook, and that would be that.

It only took a few weeks to get me to my breaking point.  It was a Sunday, and it had been raining or snowing off and on all day for the past 3 days.  We'd been at his apartment the entire weekend and I was feeling cooped up and ignored and I was tired of feeling like completely platonic roommates.  Hell, we hadn't even had sex since the Saturday we'd fought about hiking.

"Let's do something the weekend of Thanksgiving," I suggested desperately, during a moment John wasn't playing his game.

He frowned.  "Like what?"

"Let's get away for a couple days.  We could spend a night in Milwaukee, or Chicago.  Do some Christmas shopping.  Just spend some time together."

"Yeah, maybe," he said noncommittally.

I wasn't going to let his lack of enthusiasm stop me, so I looked up some hotel rooms.  The prices were fairly reasonable and I told John this.  "Let's pick one and book it," I said.

He shook his head.  "Do we have to decide today?" he asked.

I stared at him, trying to figure out the best way to tell him why this was important to me.  Instead, infuriatingly, I started to cry.  This was my last ditch effort to make things better, and he just wanted to put it off--probably long enough that I'd forget or give up.  He sighed.  "Liv, why are you crying?" he asked, with about as much sympathy and concern as most people have for cockroaches.  He made no move to comfort me.

"Because," I said, sniffling and trying to get it together, "We never do anything but sit here and I want to do something.  I want to spend time with you."

"We spend time together," he protested.  "We've spent the entire weekend together."

I blinked and looked at him incredulously.  "Tell me one thing we've talked about or done this weekend that has any substance, then," I challenged him.

He rolled his eyes, and I felt my anger building.  "So what? You're going to sit here and try to make me feel bad by crying so I'll pay for a weekend away somewhere I don't even want to go?"

My mouth dropped open and the tears started again.  "I didn't say anything about you paying for it.  And if I wanted to make you feel bad," I spat between tears, "I certainly wouldn't do it by crying because you obviously don't give a fuck."

He laughed.  "Yes, tell me how I feel," he said.  "Tell me more things I don't give a fuck about, since you know what's in my head."

This pushed me over the edge.  "Me.  Our relationship.  Doing anything besides sitting on this fucking couch and playing video games.  Should I keep going?  I've got more."  My hands were on my legs and my fingers were digging into my thighs so hard that it hurt.  I glared at him through my tears and fought to keep my voice from rising to a yell.

"You're immature and impossible to talk to," he muttered.  He stood and tossed the TV remote onto the couch where he'd been sitting.  "Let me know when you're ready to have a grownup conversation."  He sauntered out of the living room and I heard his bedroom door shut.  Of course, he was careful to shut it in a perfectly civilized manner, so he could be the bigger person.  I think he actually shut it even more quietly than normal.

I sat on the couch stewing for about 10 minutes, then I grabbed my purse and left.  I drove through what now appeared to be mostly sleet and arrived at my apartment in 20 minutes.  I hated that he had moved to the other side of town, it was such a pain.  When I got home, I took a shower and then called Lauren.  I needed honesty.

"My long lost friend!" Lauren exclaimed, answering the phone.  Her voice, her excitement to talk to me, hell--even just the fact that she answered the phone, turned out to be too much, and I started to cry again.  I cursed myself for crying as easily as I blushed.  "Liv, what's wrong?"

"I'm done," I sobbed.  "I can't do it anymore."

"Breathe, sweetie," Lauren instructed me gently.  "Calm down and tell me what happened."

It took several ragged, hiccuping breaths before I was able to stop crying.  The story came pouring out.  I hadn't told Lauren much about how things had been lately, because I knew exactly what she'd say: dump the motherfucker.  She didn't get it though.  She didn't know what it was like.  She didn't know the good things, or how it hard it was to leave a relationship you'd put so much of your time, your effort, your love, and your self into.

"Jesus, Liv," she said when I was done.  "What the fuck is his problem?  I hate him.  Do you want me to fly back there and punch him in the face?  Because I will be on the next flight, and his face won't even know what hit him.  Literally."

"Don't hate him," I sniffled.  "It's not just his fault.  I'm not exactly an easy person to be in a relationship with."

"Oh no," she said firmly.  "Don't you dare even think about blaming yourself for this.  He is a rotten piece of shit and he's treating you like a child.  You deserve so much better."

"He's not awful," I said defensively.  "He's not.  He can be really great.  And I love him, Lauren."

"Why did you call me?" she asked patiently.  To an outsider, it would seem like a rude question, but I knew exactly why she asked.

"Because I needed your honesty," I admitted grudgingly.

"And my honesty is that he's a rotten piece of shit.  I can predict what's going to happen next.  He's going to call you...maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.  Either way, he's going to call.  He's going to apologize.  He'll tell you he was wrong, he's sorry, he loves you.  He'll offer to do what it takes to make it right.  He'll do it, too--for a week.  Just long enough to suck you back in, but then it will all fall apart again.  You've got to get out, Liv."

I was silent.  Part of me knew she was right, but it wasn't that easy.  "Look," she continued, undeterred by my silence, "You're going to do whatever you think is best right now.  I know that, I get it, I love you anyway. But someone needs to say this stuff to you.  You know that if you ever need anything, all you have to do is call.  I really will get on a plane, and I promise I won't punch him without your express written consent.  But if you need me, I'll come, okay?"

"Okay," I replied.  "I love you, Laur, thank you."

"I love you more," she replied.  "Don't let that asshole get you down.  You're better than that."   We said goodbye, and I climbed into bed.  It was only 6pm, but I was worn out from crying and being angry.  I thought maybe I'd just lay and relax for a little while, then get up and do a few things around the house.

Just laying and relaxing turned into crying myself to sleep, and I was startled awake by someone sitting down on the bed next to me.  I sat straight up and scrambled away from the weight on the edge of the bed.  "Hey," a soft voice said.  John's voice.  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.  Can I turn on the light?"

I shook my head, then realized he couldn't see me.  It was dark.  Completely dark.  I looked at the clock and saw it was after 8. "No," I croaked.  My voice was hoarse from crying and sleep.  "Please."

"Okay," he said.  I stayed pressed against the wall, as far away from him as I could get.  He shifted so his back was to the headboard and he settled against it.  He seemed to realize that trying to touch me would be a poor choice, and he kept his hands to himself.  "I wish you hadn't left."

"You wish I would have stayed and cried on your couch while you locked yourself in your room to get away from my immature and impossible conversation?  Why bother?  I couldn't make you feel bad if you weren't watching me cry." I snipped back.  An alarm bell was going off in my head, and it was warning me that John was here to do exactly what Lauren had predicted.  Despite my earlier declaration that was I was done, I wasn't quite ready to let go--but that didn't mean I wasn't going to make him work for it.

"I didn't mean any of those things," he said.  His voice was impossibly calm and I hated him for it.  "I'm sorry.  I hate it when you cry because it makes me feel like a horrible person.  It's easier to pretend I don't care.  That's not fair to you, though."

"Very little about the way things have been going lately is fair to me," I replied.

"Okay," John said.  "Tell me what you mean."

I sighed and pulled my knees to my chest.  "Things suck, John.  They seriously suck.  Don't tell me you don't feel the same way.  It's boring, we never do anything, we're not even nice to each other.  We don't have sex, you don't listen to me, you take everything I say and twist it around to blame it all on me."  Before the words even finished coming out my mouth, I knew that how he responded to this would help me decide if I was done or if I had a little more left in me to fight for this relationship.

"You're right," he replied.  I should have expected it, but I didn't.  I wasn't prepared for that response.  "You're absolutely right.  But I love you, Olivia, and I want to fix this.  Let's fix it."

That crumbled the tiny part of me that was resolved to end this tonight.  Instead, we sat in the dark and we made a plan.  A plan to pay attention to each other, and to do things, and to talk more openly about our feelings.  I felt good when we were done.  And then we had the best make up sex we'd ever had.

It was enough.  Enough to make me hold on for just a little bit longer.  But, as Lauren had hypothesized, he did great for a little longer than a week, and then it dropped off.  A few weeks later I had, once again, given up.  He did nothing to pick up the slack.  He didn't even seem to notice when I stopped making an effort.

The final straw happened on a night we were out, a mere week before Christmas.  Of course, we were out because his friends wanted to go out, not because I wanted to.  He paid little attention to me, which was fine because I was chatting with our friends.  But when a random guy came up and struck up a conversation with me, while John was 4 feet away, he didn't even blink.  He didn't care.  I openly flirted with this guy, touching him and letting him touch me.  I giggled and leaned towards him, and did all the things I was usually far too awkward and embarrassed to do.

John barely even cast his eyes in our direction.  Later, walking home, I waited for him to make a snide comment about it.  To be mad.  He wasn't.  I knew at that moment that he just didn't care anymore.  When we got my apartment, I turned to him and said, "I'm done."

"Done with what?" he asked, looking confused.

"This.  Us.  I'm done, it's over."  I surprised myself with how calm I felt.  That's how I knew it was the right choice.  I shivered slightly in the cold, and hoped this went quickly.

"Can we talk about this?  You have the absolute worst timing," he said, sighing heavily.  I cocked an eyebrow.  "Christmas is next week.  What am I supposed to tell my parents?"

"If your biggest concern is what you're telling your parents, you should probably just go home, because there's nothing left to talk about," I replied.  My voice shook slightly, but it was purely in response to the cold wind that had just whipped down the street.

"Home?" he asked incredulously.  "How am I supposed to get home now?  It's not like I live 5 blocks away like I used to."

"Take a cab," I suggested flippantly.  I turned to walk into my apartment and he grabbed my arm.  I turned back and glared at him.  "Let me go."

"If I'm taking a cab because you're pissed, the least you could do is pay for it."  His voice was casual, but his eyes glinted coldly in the yellow glow of the street light.

"Oh, fuck you," I growled.  I yanked my arm, trying to pull it out his grasp but he tightened his grip and laughed.  Now I was getting a little nervous and I pulled again.  "John, let go," I said again, and my voice rang out shrilly in the cold air.

"You don't actually think I'd hurt you, do you?" he asked sarcastically, pretending to be hurt and disappointed.  He let go abruptly, causing me to stumble backwards a step.  I stared at him for several more seconds, wondering what had happened to the nice person I'd been friends with for years, before I spun and quickly let myself into my building, pulling the door shut firmly behind me.

Once I was in my apartment, I felt relieved for nearly a minute until I remembered that he had keys.  I quickly slid the chain across the door and hoped that he'd stay away.  He had cared so little about me actually breaking up with him.  All he was worried about was how he was going to get home, what he was going to tell his parents, and fucking with my head one last time.

I was surprised, because I wasn't sad.  Instead, I felt relieved.  I got in the shower, like I always did after fighting with John, and I stood under the hot spray until it wasn't hot anymore.  I got out, dried off, and fell into bed without bothering with pajamas.  That night, I slept better than I'd slept in a year.