The Last Guy You Dated | by Kari Redmond
Fiction | Bonus | Dating and Learning
He wasn’t a coward, per se. Not in the whole wouldn’t-fight-a-bully kind of way, if that’s what you mean. He’d fight a bully. And he’d win. So not that way. And not in the wouldn’t-kill-a-spider-for-you kind of way either. No, he was a coward in the break-up-with-you-in-a-text kind of way. Or the forget-to-water-your-plants-when-you’re-away-and-then-lie-and-say-there-was-a-snowstorm-so-he-couldn’t-get-there kind of way. Even when you could very easily look at the weather report for the days you were gone and fact check this. Which, you did.
He was that kind of coward. The kind that doesn’t even know he’s a coward. That would gladly beat up anyone you asked him to and think that meant something. Which, you didn’t. Ask him. You weren’t that kind of person. There was no one in your life that needed beating up because that’s not who you are.
At least not then, you weren’t. But by the time you got that text, you supposed you were quite a different person all together. Surely you were no longer the hopeful he-held-the-door-open-for-me-so-he-must-be-a-gentleman girl you were when you first met him nearly a year ago. No, by then you were more like the deceived he-hasn’t-called-for-three-days-screw-holding-doors-open woman.
And then you read the text. And you rolled your eyes. You guffawed. You shook your head vigorously. And at first you were more upset with yourself, the way we are sometimes, that you didn’t see it coming. Because, of course, it was obvious. Now that you could look back with the knowledge of where it was going to end. It was clear. Inevitable. And you should have seen it coming.
But no! That’s not right. You are not that thinks-holding-doors-open-means-something girl anymore. You are the just-now-realized-how-you-deserve-to-be-treated kind of gal. You shouldn’t have seen anything coming because that’s just how he wanted it to be. This is why he opened the goddamned door for you. This is his MO, his area of expertise, his home base—deceiving. Just like a coward, you think.
You are no longer upset with yourself. You feel a sense of kindness, the way you might toward a friend, toward yourself. It is warm and soft and maybe even a bit tingly. This is new. This is also ok. It feels like a beginning rather than an end.
Then you’re furious with him. Like punch-the-walls-but-don’t-leave-any-marks-because-you-don’t-have-the-money-for-repairs furious. Like throw-a-few-things-around-but-nothing-actually-breakable furious.
You read the text again. Laugh. Consider throwing your phone against the wall, but you’ve been through this. The reasons you can’t. You forward the text to your best friend. Write—‘can you believe this shit?’ underneath. She writes back—‘what the fuck, man?’ There’s an emoji you can’t make out because she has an I-phone and yours is an android.
You pour a cocktail. A stiff one. Three fingers of whisky and a splash of ginger on the rocks. This is the kind of night you will have. The kind of night anyone would have after receiving a text from a coward, you figure. You like the burn and the cold together as it floats down your throat. The only medicine for a job like this.
You turn music on. Something hard and fast. You settle in. You rile up.
You wake up in your bed. Your shoes are off, but the rest of your clothing is still on, haphazardly, like you tried to undress but didn’t succeed. You remember the outline of a plan as it slowly pieces together again in your foggy head.
You put on fresh clothes. Walk downstairs to your living room, your kitchen, smirk at the remains of your evening—clues—a book, a TV remote, a pillow—strewn about the carpet. An open, half-empty bottle of whisky (you were never an optimist), a rocks glass upside-down on the counter. Your cat emerges from under the couch.
You turn the rocks glass right side up, pour another finger of whisky into it. Juice for the fearless. Grab your keys, say bye to your cat, exit your front door.
In your car you turn the radio up. Loud. Something hard and fast again. Something angry. You know exactly where you are going. You’ve been there a hundred times. You pull into the parking lot. Slam your door. Enter the building.
A bank. He works in a bank. (He would, wouldn’t he?) Your bank. The bank where you first met him, of course.
You wait in line. Three people ahead of you. You try to stay hidden because the surprise of it excites you, but you’re also ok if he sees you because that anticipation on his part also excites you in a he-has-no-idea-what’s-coming-and-you-do sort of way.
He is the coward and you are the brave.
He sees you. He avoids eye contact, but he sees you. You know because he’s twitchy, swaying from foot to foot. The customer with him has to repeat himself twice. One more person to help and you’re up.
You step toward his counter. He begins to say something. You cut him off, say, ‘I need to make a deposit.’ Sure, you could have done this at the ATM. But you are not a coward and you like to see him squirm.
And oh, does he squirm, just like, you think, how he might have, had he actually broken up with you in person.
You tell him you’ll see him next week with your next paycheck, and maybe the one after that. You open your own damn door on the way out. A smile like satisfaction spreads across your face.
Kari Redmond is a Fort Collins, Colorado-based writer of literary novels, short stories, flash fiction, poetry, and essays. Her work is published in a variety of literary journals including, The Colorado Book award winner for the 2020 best anthology, Rise: An Anthology of Change, The Tulip Tree Review, and Brilliant Flash Fiction. Her personal essay “Remains” was selected for Roxane Gay’s The Audacity. You can find her personal musings and essays on her Substack.
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