My voice started to shake.
"I cut my hand chopping vegetables and I called out to you. You didn't even lift your head. I slipped and fell on the kitchen floor, bruised my knee black and blue, and you never knew. I had a 102-degree fever and still cooked for you, and you never knew."
"What do you know? You know what games Fiona likes to play, what matches she likes to watch, you know every single one of her hobbies, and then you tell me the two of you are just buddies."
"Dick, you felt sorry for her, having to go back out in the snow. Did you ever once feel sorry for a girl who crossed oceans and mountains for you, over and over again?"
He stood up, his lips moving, and in the end all he said was,
"Georgette, here you go again."
"Right. Here I go again."
I got to my feet. "Every time it's me starting up again, I'm too sensitive, I'm not generous enough. Then go find your generous Fiona!"
Dick's voice dropped low. "You're really determined to twist it like that, aren't you? So what do you want me to do? Delete her? Cut off all contact? Are you saying I can't have a single friend left around me before I've done right by you?"
The tears swam in my eyes, but I bit down hard on my lip and refused to let them fall.
"Dick, the line between a friend and a girlfriend, don't you understand it in your heart? With your brains, with how you read people, you really can't see it?"
"You just don't want to see it!"
"Georgette, are you even being reasonable?"
"Fiona would never do this. She's more mature than you, easier to deal with than you! She doesn't burst into tears at the drop of a hat, doesn't show up once every two weeks and act like the whole world owes her something!"
He drew in a deep breath, turned, and slammed the door on his way out.
The sound of the door echoed down the hallway.
I stood where I was, and the tears finally fell.
I started to pack.
The suitcase lay open on the floor, every wheel worn down to nothing.
These three years, I'd checked it through too many times.
Flying over with my heart full of joy, and in less than half a day, packing every item back in again, one by one.
I looked around the apartment. On the wall hung photos of him and Fiona at a game. On the coffee table was a hair tie Fiona had left behind. On the fridge was a sticky note in her handwriting: "Dick, your cooking is terrible."
The things I'd brought into this home.
That set of dishes he never once reached for. That rice cooker he never opened. Those cotton slippers he thought were ugly.
All of it crammed into a corner, under a layer of dust.
I thought about this past year, every time I'd flown twelve hours to see him.
Planning my route ahead of time, looking up the subway lines, writing down in the notes app on my phone every offhand thing he ever said.
He loved Chinese food, so I learned to cook it. He wanted hotpot, so I carried the broth base and seasonings on the plane.
But he always seemed to find it dull.
While I cooked, he and Fiona were on a call gaming together, doubled over laughing.
I'd say, "Dinner's ready," and he wouldn't even look up. "Let me finish this round."
By the time the food went cold, he'd finally amble over and pick at it.
I wanted to go out for a walk with him, and he'd say, "It's cold out, what's there to see," then the second Fiona said, "Dick, come play board games with me," he'd be pulling on his coat and out the door.
I thought maybe I was just too boring.
So I learned to game, dying again and again, the screen going gray over and over.
Fiona would laugh beside us. "Georgette, stop feeding the other team. Why don't you go watch a show instead."
He'd smirk. "Georgie, how are you this hopeless?"
So I learned board games, memorized the rules all night long, and still fumbled the whole game when it counted.
Fiona patted his shoulder. "How about you and me on a team? She's dead weight."
Dick sighed. "Forget it, don't force yourself."
Every way I tried to get closer to him, in their eyes, was nothing but a clumsy joke.
