Supporting Role

“I’m not going home for Christmas,” I tell him on the subway. “I’m booking myself a romcom instead.”

I explain how I’ll fly to Greece, spend a few weeks reading by the sea. I imagine I’ll get swept off my feet with a meet-cute by day three. I’ll be the clumsy one, of course. I’ll drop my beach bag and spill its contents all over the bus. An impossibly attractive man will materialize to pick up my notebook and my bikini and make some sly comment about how he knows a beach where it's not needed. It will all be tremendously cliche. It will be wonderful.

“You do look good in a bikini,” the mistake sitting next to me interrupts. I look down and realize we’re still holding hands. I ask what time he’ll be home from the dinner he’s headed off to. I was not invited.

“Probably around 11,” he says, then, “Oh. I don’t think we should meet up later. Sorry.”

I nod, untangle my fingers from his grasp, and jam my hands in my pockets. I have lost track of how many times we’ve practiced this routine.

I go back to plotting my next romance.

“I’ll write about it someday,” I say.

“Alright, then,” he says. “And what role will I play, in the romcom version of your life? I’ve always liked the idea of being a muse.”

“You’ll recognize yourself,” I say, as the train slows. “You’ll be the guy who gets in my way. I’ll probably call you Chad.”

“I do not consent to that," he says. “I am not a Chad. How about Brian?”

The train pulls to a stop, gently rolls backwards. I stand to wait by the door and he tilts his face upward, angling for a kiss goodbye. Well, that’s rich, I think.

It was innocent on paper. It always was. This time: Could he borrow my Polaroid? Sure, I said, of course. We were friends. Friends lend each other things, go to each other’s houses, hang out with all their clothes on. I could stop by with it after work, no problem. I wouldn’t stay; he had plans. But of course it happened.

He opened the door, and then he opened a bottle of wine. I’ve missed you, the wine made me say, and then he kissed me. One last kiss, he said, and then he pulled me into his lap.

We shouldn’t, we exhaled, between kisses, as he slid his hands over my thighs, my hips, my ribs, as we kicked off shoes and fumbled for zippers and buttons. We flung each other’s clothes away from our bodies, rearranged my limbs underneath his on the couch, succumbed to that level of deep, uncontrollable desire you only feel for someone who says they do not want you, who says you are not enough, who will not let you go. I buried my nose in his neck and my fingertips in his sandy curls, still damp from a shower. He smelled like spruce and hikes and sex in tents and summer romance. Maybe, I thought, maybe this time will be different.

“Oh, shit, I’m going to be late,” he said, after, too quickly, and we threw clothes on as fast as we’d torn them off.

“Sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t.

“It was worth it,” he said, even though it wasn’t. He kissed me one last last time.

We zipped up jackets, slammed the door behind us, hustled to the station. He was headed out, I was headed home. I reached for his hand. “I still don’t want a relationship,” he said, and wove his fingers through mine. “Me either,” I lied, and held his hand tighter.

He puckers his lips now, on the train, raises an eyebrow. I move toward the doors as they slide open and he leans an inch closer, places his hands on my hips to pull me toward him. His thumbs slip under the hem of my sweater, but only just. I always come to him.

I think about the part of the movie when our heroine finally recognizes how hot she is, how witty she is, how her lover will never commit, never leave his wife, never really love her. She’s done with dead-end chases, done with men who ask too much and give too little. She’s tried as hard as she can to vanquish her needs, to make it work, to make him want her, and now she’s finally out for good. We cheer for her as she storms away to marry the farmer who has no money but is a much better listener. “Fuck you!” she says to Chad, but with class.

She’s cleverer than me.

I roll my eyes, and I sigh, and I make a show of giving in. He laughs. He knows: he’s not playing a supporting role in my romcom. I’m in his.

I kiss him, for the last last last time.

“Bye, Chad,” I say, and step off the train. “It’s not me, it’s you.”