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Twenty-three
Sophie
Tall, Dark and Handsome: I don’t know if this is crossing a line, but I’m worried about you. You don’t have to explain anything, but please let me know if you’re ok.
I’ve read Teddy’s text a hundred times in the last hour, my internal debate shifting from if I should respond, to how I should respond. My instinct is to answer right away and reassure him that I’m fine. To tell him a partial truth, that I’m taking the PTO I never use to be with Emma, leaving out the part that I know will hurt him.
But doing that feels entirely too comfortable. Like an old threadbare t-shirt that I’ve worn a thousand times, because that’s exactly how I used to be with Jake. Tell him only the things that won’t upset him, let him think that everything is fine, even when I’m dying inside.
That feeling may be comfortable, but I’m beginning to suspect it’s so worn it’s going to disintegrate.
My fingers hover over the keyboard on my phone, typing and deleting the message a dozen times without sending any of them.
I’m taking some time to be with Emma.
The truth, but not the whole truth.
I appreciate your concern. I’m fine, just taking care of some things.
He deserves better than a half-formal brush-off.
I’m okay. Emma is okay. I just needed a break.
That’s closer to the truth—I do need a break. But I need a break as in some good luck, not as in time off from work.
In the end, Emma gives me the answer when I quiz her for the thousandth time before letting her leave to spend the night at Bella’s.
“Mom, stop, I’m fine. You’re the one who looks like they’re going to collapse from exhaustion. Go take a nap or something.” She and Bella giggle at my scowl before Emma leans in to kiss my cheek. “I’m kidding. Sort of. You really should take a nap, though. Or you know, whatever you feel like doing. But not cleaning.”
I swat her butt as she slips away, before collapsing on the couch, phone in hand. Typing out the truth before I can chicken out, I toss my phone on the coffee table and grab my laptop, clicking open the browser I left full of job search results.
Me: Thank you for checking on me. I’m fine, Emma’s fine. Taking some time to try and build a more sustainable future for us both. One that doesn’t leave me short on sleep and long on stress.
I click open and apply for two more copywriting positions before I allow myself to check for a response. I know perfectly well there isn’t one since my phone hasn’t made a sound, but I have to check anyway.
What I can’t resist, is knowing if he’s as broken-hearted as I am.
Unlocking it, I’m rewarded with the sight of those three little dots. They appear and disappear over and over. Either he’s writing an essay or he’s started his reply over more times than me. Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?
Tall, Dark and Handsome: If there’s anything I can do to help, please tell me, Sunshine.
Sunshine. Seeing it there, that he still thinks of me that way, has regret flooding my chest. To keep the tears at bay, I make myself look around my apartment. The walls and once-white appliances in the kitchen are slightly yellowed with age and the dust I can never get rid of. This pull-out couch that I bought off Craigslist is exactly as comfortable as the fifty bucks I paid for it would suggest. A spring pokes into my ass as I shift.
It’s not that our home is dirty—Emma and I cleaned and tidied up this morning—it’s just that it’s old and faded and crowded with the stuff we’ve accumulated over the years. It fit better in the three-bedroom house we used to rent. But that’s just one more casualty of scraping by for all those years. No matter how many times we said we were going to save up for a down payment to try and buy a house one day, there was always some reason why the money disappeared before it could make it to our savings account.
Instead of letting my mind wander down that well-worn path of regret, I type out a response and go back to my job hunting.
Me: I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think there’s anything you can do.
I apply to a dozen more jobs, ear tuned for the buzz of an incoming text, but it never comes. Instead of letting myself dwell on the disappointment curled up in my belly, I open up a blank document and start writing. Anything is better than this hollowness inside my chest.
An hour later I’ve got three hundred or so words each on stories about a dog going missing, a daughter dealing with her mother’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, and a magical princess who’s about to be married off to the most pathetic knight in her father’s kingdom.
Writing has always been how I dealt with my issues. Mad at Jake? Write him as the villain in my next story. Bored at work? Write a fantastical fantasy adventure. Sitting alone in a hospital room while my husband is God knows where? Write a sexy island romance and pretend I'm living it.
Lauren is the only person who’s ever read any of my fiction though. Nothing I write is important enough to spend what little energy I have in attempting to publish it. I publish enough under Elinor Price’s name, and I don’t have the resources or the time to pursue either traditional or self-publishing.
Trading my laptop for my phone, I nearly drop it when a text pops up.
