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Three weeks after the breakup, Sylvain packs a single duffel bag and moves to Europe.
“What the fuck is he doing,” Dorothea says, checking Instagram. Ingrid does not have an Instagram. Dorothea keeps her in the loop of things but this is one space she no longer requires updates on. Ingrid removes her head from Dorothea’s lap. The manicured hand that had been stroking through her hair lifts—then pats her. Like a dog.
“Oh God, he’s calling it a reconnection with his homeland,” Dorothea continues as Ingrid sits up. “I’ve seen this man eat a bun between two burgers. He should not be allowed five feet into France.”
Ingrid’s face pinches.
“...Does he look alright?” Ingrid asks. “Happy?”
Dorothea analyzes her with a calculating stare. Ingrid dislikes when she thinks so much, composing words she believes the other member of the conversation might most like to hear. Dorothea weighs which Ingrid wants to be informed of: that Sylvain Gautier is upbeat with post-breakup freedom, or that he is lashed with crippling depression at the hole Ingrid has left behind. Ingrid silences her friend’s thoughts.
“I want him to be,” she says, “happy.”
“Oh, then he’s fine.”
Ingrid waits two months and three different countries before she texts him. It’s simple: Hey, Sylvain. Just checking in. I wanted to make sure you’re doing alright.
Dorothea has asked her to dinner, a certain kind of dinner, a weighted one, not shared between mere friends, and Ingrid—isn’t hung up on Sylvain, but knows that he might still be hung up on her. And if she takes this warm, solid, ever-present hand that’s been extended to her she is terrified he might hear about it from a different mouth than her own.
I’m doing well, he says. Better, yeah. Have you ever been to Spain?
I haven’t. Is it nice?
She thinks for a retroactive, bleak moment that they might still be friends. He fails to answer for seven hours. When he replies, her heart sinks.
Sorry, Grid. I can’t do this.
Ingrid can’t bring herself to break his heart all over again so she stays quiet about the Dorothea development. His lack of communication is frustrating, but it’s fine. He deserves space. He deserves to tailspin however he feels fits best. He deserves to come home stronger.
When he comes home it is to one friend less. “That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” Dorothea murmurs into Ingrid’s neck, all too willing to acknowledge what is surely a fresh, Ingrid-shaped wedge between her and Sylvain. She seems fine with this. Ingrid gets the feeling they never quite liked each other anyway.
Ingrid allows Dorothea to lean her back onto the couch. Dorothea crawls atop her, hands pressed to the thin fabric of a pajama top. Ingrid says, “Do you think he’s mad at you?”
Dorothea pulls at her shirthem. “Are we still on this?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“It’s alright, pretty thing,” Dorothea coos. She leans close, gazing down upon Ingrid, long hair curtaining her features until the only thing Ingrid can see is gentle, mulberry waves and a centered moon of a face. “I’ll let you take me in the divorce.”
I really think we could still be friends.
Sylvain does not respond.
It feels a little open-ended and raw, the way we’ve left everything.
Sylvain does not respond.
“Hey, uh.” Felix is stiff at her side. He’s holding a beer but it’s unopened, as if he’s recently read a book on party-chat and is attempting to feign casualness. “Don’t talk to Sylvain tonight.”
Ingrid grimaces. It’s Dimitri’s birthday and she’s heard Sylvain is planning to attend. She’s glad. She’s already taken one friend from him, she could not unintentionally seize more. She says, “I don’t think Sylvain is very interested in talking to me.”
Felix has treaded lightly on the situation but he nods, once. Slow and forced. He looks a half-second from bolting. He says, “I don’t think he’s ready.”
“I don’t know what’s taking so long,” Ingrid states back, a little too quickly and a little too irritated. “I know things will never be the way they were before we dated, but I’ve tried everything to recover something from this mess. He’s unwilling to even acknowledge me.”
Felix looks as if he would rather be anywhere but beside her, listening to the great fall of their once grand trio. He hands her his beer. “You should move on too.”
Is this really it for us, Sylvain?
Ingrid feels so lost.
I miss you.
She texts, but mostly pleads:
Sometimes I wish I never would have allowed things to escalate, just so I’d still have you in my life.
This message sets a slight tension in Dorothea’s jaw when she’s informed of the latest in the saga of Ingrid’s crumbling emotional wall. “Ingrid,” she says. She doesn’t add anything to it. It’s enough. She’s not angry, not really. She’s far from envious. The look in her eyes is one Ingrid knows well. It is always the same, glistening with pity for the naive innocence she seems to think Ingrid wakes to daily. Ingrid gets frustrated with it, on occasion. She can be dense but not dumb. She is entitled to her wants.
She should probably not want an ex-boyfriend prone to vice and doomed to doom them.
“Hey,” Sylvain says when Ingrid opens the door to her apartment minutes after the doorbell rang. It took her a while to remove herself from bed. Sylvain is there, still there. He’s holding a cardboard box.
“Hello,” she says, voice distant.
“You left some friends at my place.”
There are five Breyer horse models placed gingerly in the box. Ingrid started collecting them once she had the money and a fleeting sense of selfishness to spare on indulgences. She must have accidentally abandoned a few of the creatures when she packed up. She had not been her most cognizant self at the time.
Sylvain places the box into her hands. He steps back.
“Welp,” he says. “Have a good day I guess.”
Ingrid’s fingers clutch at the cardboard. “Is that all?” she asks.
Sylvain hesitates. His mouth draws tight. “Sorry.”
“You don’t.” Ingrid swallows. “We’re friends, aren’t we? You don’t have to apologize.”
“Ingrid.”
“You don’t.”
“...I wish it could be more too.”
“It can be.”
Sylvain nearly flinches.
“It can be,” Ingrid presses, “We were friends before, we can be friends again. It’s that easy. What’s stopping you?”
Sylvain smiles at her, wide and false. The way he smiles at everyone else but her and maybe, on a good day, Felix. “It’s complicated.”
Ingrid falters. “Do you hate me?”
“No. Not at all.”
Air rushes from Ingrid’s nose. “Then why must we be so immature about this?”
She doesn’t mean to scold him on matters of maturity. He’s been through a lot since things fell apart. He looks older. She has no idea if the age is from anguish or mere time.
Sylvain confesses: “For reasons that are only partly your fault, I am still in love with you.” He says it so proudly, so sadly. “So if that’s alright, I’m going to have to move along now.”
He dips his head at her and departs.