If you can't handle it, just break up

That night when I went to the club to pick up Leon, the city lights shattered into a golden galaxy, spreading across the wet asphalt after the rain. The early autumn night breeze, carrying a chill, swept through the half-open car window. I turned up the air conditioning a notch, my fingers tapping lightly and unconsciously on the steering wheel, following the beat of an unfamiliar jazz tune playing on the car radio. I’ve repeated this motion countless times over the past five years. My phone vibrated three times on the passenger seat. The light from the screen reflected off the adjacent seat, revealing the same name—Marcus. He was a friend in Leon’s circle, the kind of guy always in charge of cleaning up the mess. Every time Leon got drunk, he’d call me. His voice came through the car stereo slightly distorted, mixed with the background noise of a bar and the clamor of voices: “Vera, Leon’s had a few too many. Can you come pick him up? Same spot as always.” “I’ll be right there,” I replied briefly, hung up, and signaled a turn. I’d been doing this for five years; I could do it with my eyes closed. Driving the white Porsche he’d given me through the midnight streets, I pulled up in front of the club, handed the keys to the doorman, then helped the drunken Leon into the car, listening to his slurred ramblings—things I never bothered to ask about. The next morning, when sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows into the bedroom, it was as if everything had been erased with a rubber eraser—completely vanished from our lives, never to be mentioned again. This was the longest job I’d ever held. It paid far better than working as a supermarket cashier and was much easier than being a sales associate at a luxury boutique, yet it required far more acting skill than either of those. The car slowed to a stop in front of the club, its tires making a faint rustling sound as they rolled over a thin layer of standing water on the ground. The doorman recognized the car—or, more accurately, Leon Castro’s license plate—and stepped forward eagerly to open the door for me, one hand resting on the top of the doorframe. I walked through the revolving doors, my high heels tapping out a crisp, rhythmic cadence on the lobby’s mirror-smooth marble floor. This club was members-only; the initiation fee was said to be worth as much as a small apartment in the suburbs. Leon was a regular here, coming at least twice a week to drink with his childhood friends and discuss topics I was never allowed to join in on. The elevator rose slowly to the top floor. When the doors opened, a thickly carpeted hallway lay before us. The carpet was a deep burgundy, woven with intricate patterns; it was silent underfoot, absorbing every sound of footsteps. Wall sconces on either side of the hallway cast a warm yellow glow, casting long, slender shadows across the carpet. The golden door stood ajar, warm yellow light spilling out from the crack, accompanied by the muffled sound of laughter and conversation. I walked up to the door, just as I was about to reach out to push it open, a sudden burst of laughter from inside made my hand freeze mid-air. “Leon, seriously—after all those times with Vera, you’ve never once messed up?” My fingers froze above the doorknob, and I froze in place. It wasn’t because my name had been mentioned, but because of the tone and choice of words used to discuss me. That tone was as if they were discussing the performance of a car, the habits of a pet, or a tool that had been used repeatedly yet had never failed. Then I heard his voice. Leon Castro’s voice, wrapped in cigar smoke and the scent of aged whiskey, drifted out lazily, carrying an air of carefree nonchalance. It was unmistakable—slightly deep, with a habitual upward inflection at the end of each sentence, as if every word were gently flicking the air. “Condoms? Never used ’em.” The private room erupted instantly. Whistles, table-pounding, incredulous questions—all the sounds mingled together, forming a cacophony of noise. Some laughed until they doubled over, others slapped their thighs and said, “I knew it,” while still others gasped in shock. “Not even once? Aren’t you afraid she’ll get pregnant?” It was Philip’s voice, laced with exaggerated astonishment. The lighter clicked. I’d heard that sound countless times over the past five years—that unchanging prelude whenever he leaned against the headboard to smoke after we were done. First, he’d flick the lighter’s wheel with his thumb, then the flame would shoot up, lighting the cigarette, and he’d slowly exhale the first puff of smoke. Right now, that sound seeped through the crack in the door like a fine needle, piercing my eardrum with precision. “It’s fine,” he said, his voice so casual it bordered on cruelty. “After every time, she remembers to take her pill.” My fingers clenched the doorknob tightly. The cold metal dug into the palm of my hand, and the pain kept the last shred of my consciousness clear. The wall lamps in the hallway still cast a warm glow, and the carpet still cushioned the soles of my feet, yet I felt as though the entire world had tilted in that instant. Inside, people were gasping in amazement. I could tell they were the usual crowd that hung out with Leon—Marcus, the real estate tycoon’s son, always dressed in flashy shirts, with the loudest, most carefree laugh; Philip, the media conglomerate heir, whose smile resembled a hyena’s, always sizing up the women around him with that unsettling gaze; and another voice I wasn’t quite familiar with—probably a newcomer to the scene—chipped in to agree. “Oh no, oh no, you’ve managed to tame her.” Philip’s tone carried a hint of something I couldn’t quite place—jealousy or envy. “Do girls like that even exist these days?” “You’re something else, aren’t you? You’ve got that young lady wrapped around your finger.” The private room fell silent for a moment, then Marcus suddenly posed a question, his voice tinged with earnest curiosity: “Seriously, Leon, what would you do if one day Vera really did get pregnant with your child?” The room fell silent. It wasn’t a natural silence, but one where everyone held their breath, waiting for an answer. I heard Leon chuckle softly. That laugh had a lazy, trailing note to it—a tone I knew all too well, the kind that suggested he didn’t care about a thing. He must have lifted his glass for a sip, because what followed was the crisp clink of ice against the glass. “If she really is pregnant? Then we’ll just get married.” He said it so casually, as if he were deciding where to go on vacation this weekend, or discussing what to wear tomorrow. There was no solemnity in his tone, no thoughtfulness—only a flippant, almost patronizing casualness. “Vera’s sensible, and we get along well enough. If I were to marry her, it wouldn’t be too hard to accept.” How generous. How kind. He used the phrase “not too hard to accept,” as if he were talking about a dish that wasn’t too bad, a piece of furniture that wasn’t too ugly, or a weekend plan that wasn’t too troublesome. I didn’t realize when my other hand had settled on my lower abdomen. Through the coat and thin sweater, through the skin and muscle, it was still as flat as ever; I couldn’t feel a thing. But I knew something was growing silently in that warm darkness. It was still so small, so small it didn’t even have a heartbeat yet, so small it wasn’t even visible on the ultrasound screen. But it had already heard everything that happened tonight. “Aren’t you not pregnant yet?” ” His voice rang out again, interrupting my thoughts, tinged with a hint of impatience, as if he found the topic too far-fetched. “Why think so far ahead?” I heard the sound of him setting down his glass. The base of the glass clinked against the marble tabletop, emitting a dull, soft thud. “If you really get tired of this, just find a decent excuse to break up when the time comes.”