After Perfect Read online




  Copyright © 2021, Maan Gabriel

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2021

  Printed in the United States of America

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-203-5

  E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-204-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021910765

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To Chris, who is a realist but chooses to live in my magical world.

  To Jack, who is our magic.

  Chapter One

  “Gabriella, open the goddam door!” I hear her. My best friend, Felicity, is on the other side of the door. But I don’t move. My eyes are fixated on what’s on the kitchen table. It’s a ticking time bomb. And I own it.

  There on top of my kitchen table is the end of my story.

  I need to sign it to set Simon free. I need to sign it to set myself free. I have cried enough. There are no more tears to be shed.

  You can’t really prepare for moments like this. Moments you know will change your life forever—will change you forever.

  Simon had been the love of my life. He had been my breath. When he walked out on me six months ago, I felt my world crumble like I never knew possible.

  But I did not expect this.

  I stand in the middle of my Manhattan apartment, which I can no longer afford, staring intently at the thick envelope on my dining table, thinking about how I got here. How I got it all wrong. Sixteen years of my life, all but inconsequential now. This used to be a home. Our space. Our love nest. We picked every item here together, even the strange puppy sculpture tucked in the corner bookshelf, which we both thought was funny back then. It was our private joke, an example of how we each had an extension of ourselves to the other, that we were once the same heart and the same soul. Now, this room is a sad memory of what once was.

  Like a robot, I mechanically look around as if someone holds the key to my existence. The white walls, which once used to be bright and shiny, now feel cold and dreary, and the curtainless windows appear naked and unadorned.

  Simon moved out most of his things two months ago. I didn’t ask where he was going, but I was sure it would be with her. I know him too well. He wouldn’t risk it all unless he was sure that someone was going to catch him at the other end. He’s meticulously careful like that.

  Still in my clothes from last night, I bend my head and regard myself with disgust. I’m a thirty-six-year-old woman with more than a few extra pounds on me; my hair has not seen a salon in months; and I let my man run my life for almost two decades. I was pretty once. Boys used to follow me around in college, even though I was already with Simon back then. Being half Filipina means I will always look younger than my age, but who cares about that now? I was a valedictorian in high school. I used to be someone. Now, I’m an echo of who I once was—a faint version of my old self.

  Divorce. It is such a painful reality. But it is now my truth.

  I hear the blaring song Just Like a Pill by P!nk that is my iPhone ringtone coming from inside my room. It yanks me out of my reverie. I don’t move, knowing that it’s probably my mother or my best friend, Felicity, checking in on me. I hear it stop. I need to change that goddamn ringtone.

  I can’t talk to my mother right now. This, right here, is her worst nightmare. All my life, she had me convinced that I’d be happy as long as my marriage was stable, as long as Simon felt satisfied and content, as long as I did my best to be a devoted wife. It’s the culture she was brought up in, and a culture she lives in. Traditional Filipinos look at women in a very old-fashioned, restricted way.

  “Gabriella!” There is no denying the worry in Felicity’s voice, and yet I still don’t move. I’m too exhausted. It’s only seven in the morning, but I can already feel the weight of the day on my shoulders.

  I can’t talk to anyone right now. I can’t even handle my own thoughts. I put my hands over my ears. It muffles the noise around me, but it doesn’t stop the hostile noise inside my head. I close my eyes in hopes that if I block what I see, I will not feel what I feel right now.

  The doorbell buzzes. And I let it. It doesn’t stop.

  My phone comes back to life from inside my bedroom with P!nk singing at the top of her lungs. I press my hands more firmly over my ears. And I stand there frozen in time. Unmoving. The feeling bubbles inside me like heat creeping in slowly but steadily. I want to go back. I just want to crawl back to when I have Simon’s arms to cradle me when things are not going as planned. Losing him was not something I ever anticipated. I always thought we were going to grow old together. Wrinkly, we even joked. I move both my hands to cover my face, hiding, ashamed of myself. At thirty-six, I’m already a failure—as a wife.

  Numbness inches through me like fire and ice. I feel nothing, and yet it is everything. But my tears still don’t come.

  “Gabby, open the door, please . . . I know you’re in there. Let me in.” Felicity is pleading now. Last night, I sent her a text message after I opened the envelope. “It’s really over,” was all I said. She probably didn’t get it until this morning, and I’m most certain that she also called my mom. Felicity and I have been best friends since high school in Virginia. The three of us, actually—Felicity, Simon, and I—we were all inseparable once.

  Minutes pass. I let this moment sink in.

  “Don’t make me call the fucking fire department to break this door down. It’s your embarrassment, not mine.” I smile in the middle of it all. I have Felicity. At least I get to keep her.

  I walk slowly to the door. I didn’t think there was any truth to how you deteriorate physically when you’re sad. But here I am now, going through the motions of my emotional pain to physical ruin.

  “I’m here. . . .”

  “Don’t scare me like this, Gabby!” I open the door. She bangs it wide open with her fist and grabs me in her embrace. “Gabby!” I sink my head onto her neck, letting myself go. And yet the tears don’t come.

  “Hi,” I whisper, my head still leaning heavily on her shoulder. Felicity is a lot shorter than I am, so my body is arched uncomfortably. But I don’t mind. Her scent consoles me. It is familiar. It is what I know—like Simon.

  “Where is it?” Felicity asks, letting me go and walking to the kitchen table where the thick envelope lies waiting for my attention. She pulls the papers out, reads them for a few minutes, and tosses them back on the table. “That fucking dick!”

  “It’s over,” I say with calmness. It scares me. And I can tell it terrifies Felicity too.

  “You deserve better.” She runs back to me for a hug, on tiptoe, trying to catch me with her small frame.

  “I know . . . I heard a rumor that he proposed to her.” But I don’t cry as I say this. I’ve known about this for months, and yet I had hoped that, somehow, he would change his mind.
I thought he had because something seemed to have shifted the past month. He started calling me again, checking in on me, and having brief conversations on the phone. He had been by the apartment a few times when I was around, and we had been cordial, respectful. We even cracked jokes a few times. There were moments when we would look at each other, and I could tell that somehow love still lingered somewhere between us. I was obviously wrong. I’ve misread Simon.

  “They deserve each other!” Felicity is angry.

  “What am I going to do now?” I move to the living room. I lower myself to the sofa slowly, still in shock. My reflexes are slow, like my body is shutting down.

  I hear a fire truck drive by, and I give Felicity a questioning look. “I didn’t call that,” she says with a smirk. The noise from outside the window is proof that life goes on outside even without me. I need to be out there.

  I bend my head to my chest and cover my face with my shaking hands. “What do I do now?” I ask again in a whisper, talking more to myself than to my best friend standing across from me in obvious worry.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she wails. She does that when she tries to cover up her fears. I hate that I make her feel this way. “You’re starting grad school on Monday and will finally do something you’ve always wanted to do. Think about the cute guys you’ll meet at NYU—smart creative writers.” Felicity helped me get into the New York University master’s in fine arts creative writing program. She has been an adjunct professor in its undergraduate communications department for more than five years, in addition to her gig at The New York Times, which she recently put on hold. She’s still single and living the life she said she’s always wanted. “Besides, it’s time for you to be single in New York. You’re missing out on a lot of things.”

  I sink deeper into the sofa, clutching its armrest tightly, but I feel nothing. I’m too exhausted. I sigh. It’s the best I can do right this second. I let go of the last breath that is Simon. I let go of the life I once shared with him. And yet I’m still holding on to me. I should probably let go of her too.

  Chapter Two

  Crash!

  I jolt backward from the sudden contact. On impulse, I close my eyes and cover my chest with both my arms. I let my things fall on the floor.

  “Watch where you’re going,” the voice says. The words are uttered with precision and irritation. I open my eyes one at a time and I start to blink repeatedly. I am captivated by the voice, and in surprise find myself mesmerized by the face whose body I just collided with. I involuntarily shiver within. This reaction unsettles me. My brows furrow in confusion.

  I’d hit him straight on the chest. It had been my fault. I’ve been mindlessly looking around my new environment on my first day in unchartered territory—graduate school. I didn’t see him coming, which seems silly because his presence is definitely strong—even more so now that we’re standing face to face. My movement, as I picture it like a movie in my head, is in slow motion, and I flutter my lashes upwards as I peek underneath to meet his eyes with mine.

  An inexplicable emotion consumes my center. I feel ashamed all of a sudden.

  He’s a tall guy, more than a foot taller than I. Standing in front of him, with my insecure stance, I feel like a tiny waif— afraid, yet at the same time in awe. I instinctively move my head sideways, angling for a better view of his face, like an alien examining a human being for the first time. His black hair is unkempt, and yet it still looks unbelievably attractive. I’m quite sure there are ridiculous amounts of gel in it. He’s wearing black jeans and a plain white shirt. And an expensive-looking black leather jacket is draped over one arm. His nose is strikingly structured, his upper lip curved atypically where I can only imagine a stunning smile can come from it, and his eyes are luminous, pulling me to swim into them. He looks no more than thirty-five, maybe even younger. He’s probably also a graduate student like me.

  He crosses his arms in front of his chest with the jacket covering both his forearms but based on the parts I can see, they are toned and muscular. They’re the kind of arms you’d like to melt into. I shake off this ridiculous thought with a toss of my head. Nobody in her right mind should feel this much attraction toward someone she literally just bumped into mere seconds ago.

  I bend my head to look away from his compelling glare.

  “I’m sorry,” I whimper in humiliation, sounding almost like a hiccup. I slowly lift my head up to look back at his piercing blue eyes—deep blue, like an angry sea. For a split second there is softness in his perfectly chiseled face, but it disappears as quickly as it emerges.

  The stranger looks at me oddly, squinting his eyes, sizing me up, and probably trying to figure out whether I’ve lost my mind. I move my admiring eyes to his broad shoulders, down to his taut biceps under his tight shirt, and then further down to his narrow hips. I look away immediately, embarrassed, again. I feel my cheeks turning red.

  “Watch where you’re going next time,” he icily replies. I glance up at him. There is a pause, a long agonizing silence while we stare at each other. He squints his eyes again and looks as confused as I feel.

  Without saying another word, I hastily gather my things and walk away as fast and as far as I can. I seriously don’t need this right now.

  I command myself not to turn around to look back at him, and I push on forward, like a woman on a mission hoping to widen the distance between us. It’s disconcerting. I’m almost out of breath.

  Confident that I’ve finally escaped, I give in to a sideward glance, and to my surprise, I find him still standing on the spot where I left him, watching me, looking slightly entertained by my awkwardness. A small but distinct smile brightens his face.

  I close my eyes, willing my humiliation away and hoping that when I open my eyes, he’ll be gone. He’s not. He’s still there, looking at me curiously. I wish I could will myself to disappear.

  “Gabby! Here!” Felicity’s familiar, friendly voice is salvation. I give out a heavy, freeing sigh. I turn around, and down the hall I see Felicity giddily waving at me. She’s a happy vision in her bright pink top, red bubble skirt, and black kitten heel pumps. And no one—I mean, no one—could ever miss the big black-and-white polka-dot bow in her hair, held by a transparent plastic headband that we got together at the Kate Spade store in Jersey. Yeah, we go to the outlet in Jersey sometimes— Simon used to drive us. The thought of him pierces my heart. I shake the thought away. So, yes, think of Felicity as a Kate Spade model with the entire adorable, ladylike trimmings.

  I take a deep breath again, pulling my shoulders back, trying to regain some semblance of confidence as I walk toward my best friend. I take in the old building smell. Musty. The hall is dark, but the ray of sunlight that escapes through slightly cracked windows adds character to the old school feel. There are groups of nervous first-year students walking by. Some upperclassmen are in a hurry and some are simply taking it easy. Here, right now, is my reawakening. New chapter. Rebirth. Independence.

  I can sense that someone is observing me. A tingling feeling at the back of my neck gives it away. Or so I thought. I steal another look behind me. He’s gone, like a dream. I feel . . . disappointed. Perhaps, I’ll see him around.

  “Are you okay today?” Felicity chirps jovially—a beautiful welcome after the disconcerting incident. I smile at her with admiration and gratitude. I don’t know what I would have done the past six months without her, or the past six years, or the six before that.

  “I’m fine,” I say, letting my shoulders sag in frustration. Walking a few yards bravely is more difficult than I expected.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, looking worried after seeing my uncomfortable expression. I tell her about the stranger, omitting the part about how gorgeous he was and how good he smelled. “Don’t mind those douchebags. Unfortunately, there are a lot of them here. They all think that they’re God’s gift to art.”

  “I know. This just needs a lot of getting used to.”

  “Forg
et about that. So, what’s your first class?” She grabs my schedule, printed on a pink sheet visible on top of my obnoxiously red binder, which Felicity gave me as a present when I got my acceptance letter from NYU. “You’re in the next building. Not far away. I’ll walk you. My class doesn’t start for another hour.” She instantly links her arm in mine. I can feel a skip coming—and there it is. Felicity skips next to me like a five-year-old on a playdate. I can’t help but smile.

  The building next door is more serene. Felicity mentioned on the way over that this is where most of the graduate classes are held and where the writing labs are located. My schedule shows that my classroom is on the third floor, which looks like quite a hike up the stairwell. I’m glad I wore my white Adidas sneakers with jeans today. Felicity happily climbs the steps with me. She looks totally at home here at NYU, and I can see that this is where she truly belongs. Although she wouldn’t acknowledge it, she is a born teacher, a nurturer, someone young minds can look up to for guidance, for care, for counsel. I look up to her for all three.

  I brush my hand along the wooden rail as I climb, observing the dents and scratches, wondering about the stories and circumstances that come with them. I hold onto it, knowing that my story will one day be etched into it too. I smile because the mere touch of my palm on it is already my contribution to the history of this place.

  When we land on my floor, I see him. I do a double take in the direction where I thought I saw him. Then he’s gone. I shake my head, wondering why I can’t stop thinking about that man.

  “Are you okay?” asks Felicity. I shake my head again to reset my thoughts. I don’t want to worry her or make her feel responsible for me at school. I’m my own woman, and I want to do this. I got this, I tell myself.

  “I’m fine. Nerves,” I say, touching her arm lightly and then making a face, which surprises her. I see Felicity exhale. “Can you please stop treating me like a piece of delicate china,” I joke.