Rachel

Victor. That’s his name. Just Victor. I’m sure he has a last name; I never asked. There was no reason for me to. I’m highly aware that our love affair will only last the night. This is the first time I’ve done anything like this, but there I was in my sadness and I just needed to be touched. Not only touched, touched in a way that was loving, that required no commitment. It seems strange to say that I know this is not love, will never be love, but I am satisfied by it.

I have always been the one to spew romantic love poems to my friends as if to say, this poet, they understood love. Shakespeare, Keats, Elizabeth Barret Browning—they all told me what love was. I thought that was the kind of love I had with Isaac.

I met Isaac when we were both sophomores in college. We were in the work-study program and met on our first day working in the library. He was cute—his brown, curly hair always falling in his green eyes which were hidden behind his black-framed glasses. After a couple weeks of working together, I laughed and asked why he didn’t just cut it.

“I’m trying to save money to take you on a date,” he whispered in my ear before he walked behind me to re-shelve returned books. I started blushing and turned around to find him glancing behind him as he walked away, smile bright as the sun.

The first few months together were like a fairy tale; I thought I had found my prince charming and we would live happily ever after. Then, the reality sank in and everything wasn’t as beautiful as I thought it would be. None of the love poems I loved told me how to navigate the rough patches. And there were many of them. Somehow, we made it through, and he asked me to marry him on our graduation day.

I was ecstatic. I felt I had found my match, the one who would love me forever.

Yesterday I filed for divorce. He’s been cheating on me with a coworker. He told me he didn’t love me anymore before he packed a bag to stay with a friend. I begged him not to go, pleaded that I could make him love me again if I could get one more chance. My happy ever after only lasted six years; his love for me waned so quickly. One day I was in bliss and the next, heartache.

And now, I’m lying next to Victor. Victor is the exact opposite of Isaac in appearance—olive skin, blue eyes, crew cut. My friends dragged me along with them to some downtown club; they said it would cheer me up. Clearly, they’ve never had their hearts broken. Clearly, the alcohol has impaired my judgment.

Victor started flirting with me five minutes after we walked in. I’ll admit, he is attractive and I didn’t mind the attention. My friends encouraged me to dance with him and after my third drink, I agreed to it. The loud music mingled with the alcohol and, before I knew it, we were kissing.

He asked about the wedding ring I was still wearing and I told him about Isaac; I told him about my grief. He touched my cheek so gently to wipe away a tear and that’s when I knew I would wind up here next to him. A one-night stand to help me forget about my heartbreak.

My friends acted like leaving with a stranger was a perfectly normal thing to let your drunk friend do. But then again, they’ve had their fair share of drunken sex. I was never a big partier and when I met Isaac there was no need for me to leave with a stranger. He was all I thought I would ever need. He’s the only one I’ve ever wanted.

Victor is asleep next to me and I contemplate sneaking away, but it’s dark in his room and I have no idea where my stuff is and I’m still too drunk to function. I should be passed out, but my mind wanders from thought to thought, thinking of all I have to do and everyone I’ll need to tell about my tragedy.

My mom, I think, was happier than I was on my wedding day. I remember the conversation I had with her after I put on my dress.

“Mom, I’m so happy!”

“You look gorgeous.” She cupped my face in her hands. “Not even your father being here with that bimbo wife of his can ruin the day for me. I’m so happy you’re happy and you couldn’t have found a more perfect match.”

“He is perfect, isn’t he? I have butterflies; I’m so in love.”

We sure know how to pick them mom; I guess falling in love with cheaters is hereditary. I love my dad but as I lie here, I think about if my mom felt the same as me when she found out he was having an affair with another woman—anger followed by sadness and a constriction in the chest, like all air was being sucked out—devastated that the life I thought I was building was crumbling in my hands and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I feel the tears streaming down my cheeks and do nothing to stop them.

I wake up to the smell of coffee. Light is streaming into the room from outside and I have no idea what time it is. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Shit. I turn over and Victor is no longer beside me and I’m amazed he let me sleep so long. I sit up slowly. I’m groggy and hungover, the room spins a little and I know I’m going to pay for last night with a headache.

I realize I’m still naked and suddenly feel self-conscious about my body. I should have snuck out last night; I don’t know why I didn’t force myself to. There is soft music coming from outside the room and I can faintly hear the sound of someone moving dishes around. I need to find my clothes and go home, but something keeps me immobile. I sit in his bed, waking up fully, for five more minutes.

I swing my legs over the bed too quickly and feel woozy. I remind myself to take it slow. After I get dressed and find my phone, I see that it’s 9:08 and I have ten messages from my friends wondering if I made it home safely. The first one was sent at 8. Now they care, I think. I guess the alcohol wore off and they also realized this was a horrible mistake. I shoot a quick text saying, no, I haven’t made it home yet but am on my way. They should get a kick out of knowing I had sex with a stranger; it’s out of character.

When I’m finally ready to leave, I open the bedroom door and the smell of bacon wafts in from the kitchen. No doubt he’s making himself breakfast to cure his hangover. I slowly make my way down a hallway I don’t remember walking down. There’s no way I can make it out of the house without him seeing me so I take a deep breath and step into the kitchen.

He sees me and a huge smile lights up his face. “Good morning. I made coffee. I figured you might need it after last night and I’m almost done with breakfast.” He is more handsome in the light; in fact, he’s more handsome than Isaac. His smile causes his light blue eyes to glint with kindness. He goes back to tending to the bacon as I stand speechless.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I say after a minute of silence. “I should probably get going.” I start to walk past him even though my stomach growls and sitting with a cup of coffee would be amazing right now.

“It’s not a problem. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable and I’ll walk you out, but I would really like it if you stayed.” He pauses a second before adding, “I’ve never done anything like this. I don’t want you to feel I just used you for sex.”

I open my mouth to say that it was most likely me using him, but there’s something in his eyes that tells me he’s being genuine. “Okay. I really would love some coffee and I should eat something to help with this hangover.”

“You can have a seat at the table. I’ll pour you a cup.”

I toss my bag in an empty chair as I plop in the one facing the counter. I sit there nursing the coffee and listening to the classical music he has playing from an old-school boombox.

“I hope you like your eggs scrambled with cheese,” he says, smiling so his perfect white teeth show. My mind has no idea what is happening but my fight or flight senses aren’t triggered so I just sit, staring at this man named Victor. Last name unknown.

He serves me first and I don’t wait for him to return. The eggs could use a bit more pepper, but I don’t want to complain since he’s being a generous host. He returns with the coffee carafe and refills my cup.

When he finally sits down across from me, I panic and blurt out, “This isn’t a date.”

He laughs. “No, it’s just breakfast.” I go back to eating my eggs because I hate when my eggs get cold. “I get it,” he states, catching me off guard and mid-bite.

“You get what?” I ask perplexed as to what he thinks he knows about me.

“I get heartache. My fiancée broke up with me two months ago and started dating who I thought was my best friend. We’d been together fifteen years. I thought she was the one, ya know.” He looks down and after a couple seconds starts eating again.

And I understand now why we chose each other last night. I reach across the table and place my hand on his.

“Thank you.”

He nods and we sit there making small talk while eating breakfast with each other. Two broken hearts searching for love.