Chapter 39: The Melissa Decision
The Seattle job offer letter sits on my coffee table.
Melissa's been staring at it for ten minutes, wine glass untouched beside her.
"I'm taking it," she finally says.
"I know."
"You know?"
"Penny mentioned you'd decided. And—" I gesture at the letter. "—you wouldn't be staring at it like that if you weren't sure."
She sets down the wine, picks up the letter instead. Folds it carefully into thirds.
"January fifteenth. I start January fifteenth."
Six weeks away.
The math's been running in my head since October. Six weeks of dating someone you're going to lose. Six weeks of pretending it's not ending. Six weeks of borrowed time.
"We should talk about us," she says.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moves.
Outside, someone's holiday decorations blink on and off. Red, green, red, green. The rhythm feels like a countdown.
"I don't want to do long distance," Melissa continues. "I've seen it fail too many times. Different cities, different lives, growing apart through phone calls and occasional visits."
"Agreed."
"So we break up."
The words land without drama. Just fact.
"Yeah. We break up."
She's not crying. Neither am I. Just two people acknowledging reality.
"When?" she asks. "Before I leave? After? Do we—how do we do this?"
I've been thinking about this for two months. Ever since the Seattle offer materialized.
"We keep dating. Normally. Make these six weeks good. Then you leave, and we're done. Clean break."
"That's very rational."
"You taught me rational."
"I taught you to communicate." She finally drinks her wine. "Is that what you want? Six more weeks of us?"
"Is it what you want?"
"I asked first."
Fair point.
I consider lying. Saying I'm fine with ending it now, ripping the band-aid off. But Melissa deserves honesty.
"I want every minute I can get. Six weeks, six days, six hours. Whatever you'll give me before Seattle takes you away."
Her eyes water. First tears of the conversation.
"That's—Stuart, that's exactly what I wanted to hear."
"Then we agree. Six weeks. Then done."
"Then done."
We plan it like a project.
No dramatic goodbye. No airport scenes. Just—she leaves for Seattle, and we stop being a couple.
"I'll text when I get there," Melissa says. "Let you know I arrived safely."
"Good."
"Then we go silent for a while. Maybe a month. Let the feelings settle."
"How long?"
"However long it takes to stop hurting." She refills her wine. "Then maybe we can be friends. Eventually. If that's—if you want that."
"I want that."
"Good."
The plan takes shape: Keep dating through January 14th. No sad countdowns. No "lasts"—last date, last kiss, last anything. Just normal relationship stuff until it's not a relationship anymore.
"We're very mature about this," I observe.
"We're very sad about this."
"That too."
She moves to the couch, curls against me. We fit together like always. Like we'll fit for six more weeks. Then never again.
"Thank you," Melissa says quietly.
"For what?"
"For being someone who made me believe in good men. Before you, I dated—" She stops. "—a lot of assholes. Guys who talked big but delivered small. You delivered."
"You taught me I could be someone worth dating. That success doesn't mean being an asshole."
"We helped each other."
"Yeah."
The holiday lights keep blinking outside. Time passing in red and green intervals.
"Six weeks," she repeats.
"Six weeks."
"Let's make them perfect."
"Deal."
Later, lying in bed, I think about the powers.
They showed me stocks, products, cultural trends. Gave me perfect financial foresight.
Never warned me about this.
Couldn't have. Personal relationships exist outside the database. Melissa's career trajectory wasn't in my absorbed memories.
The powers made me successful. But success doesn't mean everything works out.
Melissa shifts in sleep, murmurs something unintelligible.
I pull her closer.
Six weeks.
Then she's gone.
And I'm alone again.
But this time, alone with a penthouse and two shops and friends who care.
Different kind of alone.
Better kind.
Still hurts.
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