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"I'll miss you," I say.
"I'll miss you too." And even though the call fades to an end, it feels so painful and abrupt.
It's a good thing that she's taking time to think.
It's time for me to figure out how to unfuck this.
***
I bury myself in work and shut out everything else in the world. There are two weeks until Alyssa is back in Los Angeles, and that's all that matters.
But Samantha calls me every night. I text her that I'm at work. She resorts to begging. To her familiar veiled threats. I really want to see you. I don't know what I'll do if I have to spend the night alone.
I lock my phone in my desk and resolve not to reply, but my head fills with images of her crying into her wine glass, penning a new suicide note, and swallowing another half a bottle of sleeping pills.
Still, I ignore my phone all weekend. I run. I watch TV. I pack up the house–another thing Samantha is getting.
But I can't sleep. I've never had an easy time sleeping, but this is worse. I close my eyes and there it is--the first time I ran to her side, the first time she tried to kill herself. It was about a year ago now. We were practically but not technically broken up. I wasn't even staying at the house. I was staying with a friend.
And then I got a call from the hospital. It was just like it was this time--a calm voice explaining that she was in the ER. That time, maybe this time too, she called 9-1-1. Change of heart.
Or so she says.
I try to remember a time when I loved her, but I can't. Every happy memory I have of us is tainted. That dinner after graduation, where I thought we had everything we'd ever need. My father was there, and she was falling in love with him.
This has been bullshit for so long. It's one thing for me to take on this burden. I promised and failed to help Samantha.
But I can't let this ruin things for Alyssa. For us.
It's late Sunday when I respond to Samantha's texts. She's still up and she responds with a dozen smiley faces.
We agree to meet for dinner. To discuss the details of the move. She wants to come here. To scope out the house.
She's rubbing it in my fucking face.
But I agree. Better than dragging this out.
***
Samantha invites herself over. I make excuses, but she resorts to begging. Finally, I can't take it. I can't stop picturing her sitting at home alone, clutching her glass of wine, crying onto her latest suicide note. I accept her fucking invitation.
Truth be told, I've been avoiding her.
She's jealous.
I've denied it for a long time. It's not like Samantha to be jealous, and she did everything she could to throw me away. She's broken down crying a hundred times, apologizing for leading me on, for never really loving me.
I tell her to come by on Friday evening. We can sort out all the details of the mortgage. She can start salivating looking at the house that's going to be hers.
She arrives late. It's already dark and the only lights on are the fluorescent ones in the kitchen.
The door is open and she enters without knocking. She looks like she's ready for a date--heels, designer dress, enough makeup I notice it.
My stomach drops. If she thinks she's going to impress me, she has the wrong idea.
"The place looks great." She offers a bottle of Cabernet like it's an amazing gift.
We both know she'll drink the whole thing.
