I smile at her. “Thank you.” I reach for the hoodie and pull it off. “I’m returning this.”
Mila scoffs, looking at the shirt underneath. “You’re wearing his shirt too?”
I pull the shirt down and shrug. “Guess so.”
“Well, return that too.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not keeping it!”
“High school you would.”
I smile, looking at Penelope and then back to Mila. “I would.”
Mila points at me and says, “College you will not.”
I shake my head. “No, college me will not.” I open my hand in front of me and gesture, “I am so done being that girl.”
“Do you need me to come?” Mila asks.
I shake my head.
She groans, “Thank God. I was going to tell you I’m not coming anyway.”
I let out a sarcastic, “Ha. Ha. Ha,” and then I go to the bathroom.
The shower is hot enough to make my skin pink.
I stand under it with my eyes closed and let it hit the top of my head and run down my back. I don’t think about anything for a long time. I wash my hair. I wash my face. The faintest smudge of the mustache is still under my nose from where I tried to scrub it off. It comes away on the washcloth, and I watch the soap slide down the drain and disappear.
He drew that on me.
But I’m not romanticizing it. I’m not. I don’t allow myself to go there. It’s not happening. That’s my plan. I’m a cool girl. I can be a cool girl.
I stand in front of my closet in a towel for longer than I mean to. The thing about closets is that they are full of small decisions you don’t want to make. I don’t want to look like I tried. I don’t want to look like I rolled out of bed. I don’t want to look like I came over to talk to him. I don’t want to look like I came over to not talk to him either. I want to lookcool. I am a cool girl. I can be cool. Super cool.
I pull on soft jeans. A plain long-sleeve. Sneakers. A scarf because it’s cold and because the scarf gives me something to do with my hands if my hands get nervous on his porch. Hair down, brushed, still damp at the ends. A swipe of mascara. Lip balm.
I look at myself in the mirror over my dresser.
I don’t look as hungover as I feel.
I look like a person.
I fold the hoodie and stack it on the t-shirt. I pick up the stack, press it against my chest with both arms, and grab my keys off the bowl by my door. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
In the living room, Mila is sitting up on the couch with her arms crossed and her chin on her hand, watching me. Penelope has not looked up from her sketchbook.
I don’t say goodbye. Mila doesn’t either. I love her for it.
The drive is six blocks. I park on a side street, shut the engine off, and reach for the folded clothes on the passenger seat. I remind myself that I’m here to return his clothes. I have no ulterior motive, even if he makes me feel like I do. That’s always been his vibe that he puts on me, it’s not mine. I’m here doing a good thing.
I step out with his clothes and notice that the pumpkins are still on the porch. The front door is closed. The fog machine is gone. I walk up the steps and listen. No TV. No music. No voices through the door. The house is quiet. That’s the easiest outcome. I knock, nobody answers, and I set the clothes on the bench and walk away.
I reach the door and knock.
I hear a voice say, “Come in!”
My stomach does a small flip. That’s Stanley’s voice. I was hoping that nobody was home. I turn the handle. The house smells like coffee. And, faintly, underneath that, like the wreckage of last night that has been cleaned up but is still in the walls — beer and cologne and the small ghost of old bacon.
