Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing by Lauren Hough

Author:Lauren Hough [Hough, Lauren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2021-04-13T00:00:00+00:00

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Remingtons was a gay country-western bar. (I know. Blew my mind too. And yes, there’s line dancing, with an extra shimmy.) Jay’d been bartending there for a couple months. His accent alone qualified him. The bar was a perfect choice for a breakup. Music just loud enough to allow a little privacy and just enough customers to prevent a scene.

Rhonda was telling some story about her husband that I’m sure would’ve been funny had I been there, had I not been bothered by the idea she was still married. Now that she was out about having been a closet case for most of her adult life, she felt free to discuss her husband, in painfully intimate detail. I mean that I knew that his penis curved, and in which direction. I’d have been more irritated if I hadn’t needed the excuse to end things. And that was my plan.

I’d tell her she needed time to figure out her life. Why jump right into something serious. I needed to get my shit together. We could be friends.

She ordered another drink and Jay gave me an audible look: Honey, just do it already. The phone behind his bar kept ringing, making me more anxious. So I downed my Jack Daniel’s and lit a cigarette and took a breath—actions I’d regret for years. Finally I said, “We do need to talk about something.” But Jay said, “Hold up. Honey, it’s for you.” And he handed Rhonda the phone.

Turns out when your dad dies and they can’t find you, they’ll send state troopers to your house. The troopers won’t leave until your roommate gets ahold of you. And since she wasn’t answering her cell, her roommate thought to call the bar.

I may have been a coward, but I’m not a complete asshole. I couldn’t break up with her that night. I couldn’t break up with her before the funeral, or a week before Thanksgiving. It seemed shitty to end it right before Christmas, or during Christmas.

There’s no easy way to say this: I dated her another two years. Two years that felt like getting a tattoo. Tiny needles piercing your skin while you listen to shitty music someone else chose, for two years. Not exactly painful, just profoundly irritating. And I’d be stuck having to explain it forever.

We established our roles early. She’d pay for things—my share of the rent, food, cell phone—and in turn, she could say mean things to me, fuck anyone she wanted, control me, and I’d forgive her. I could do that. She could get drunk and hit me. She could try to fuck my friends. She could tell me I shouldn’t see them anymore; they were tearing us apart. I’d agree. And I’d forgive her. I was miserable. But I thought my misery was proof I was doing something right.

I quit my job at the bar because she didn’t like that it took me away from her. I applied for the jobs she thought she

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