At least the house will keep me busy. That's something, I guess. I close on it this afternoon, and like me, it's an empty shell. I sold almost all my furniture and possessions from Baltimore. And what I didn't sell fit in one of those small pod containers. Today, I'll sign papers, but after that, I don't know. Paint? Set up my recording area? It all feels lackluster without someone to share it with.
"Earth to Mateo," Theo says, waving his hand in my face.
I blink. "What's up?"
"Was asking if you needed a hand with moving this weekend?"
I shake my head and let him push my knee this way and that. "Not much to move in, but I've got some painting and shit to do first anyway."
He nods. "Text me if you want some help rolling on some millennial gray."
"Will do, man. Thanks."
"You make up with that girl of yours yet?" he asks, helping me to my feet.
I grit my teeth and frown.
He winces. "Sorry, man."
"I can't force someone to love me back," I say.
"No, but how hard have you fought for her?" he asks.
Theo walks with me to the exit, and I pause at the door to the waiting room. "She still isn't returning my calls or texts," I admit.
His eyes go wide. "That's it?"
"What do you mean that's it? What else is there?"
Theo sighs. "You haven't fought for her?"
"Dude, everyday I'm not with her is a fight."
He grips my shoulder, and his face turns serious. "But does she know that?"
His question is a broken record in my head as I drive home. It doesn't stop when I shower or get dressed. It's constant as I sign my name thirty thousand times with a fancy pen on paperwork for Jade's house. Because Addie's right, it's not my house. It's hers.
That makes me chuckle out loud as I pull into the driveway. She'd castrate me.
I can hear her now.
Stop trying to save me.
How do I tell her I'm not? I'm trying to save myself.
Theo's right though, I haven't fought for her.
But fuck, she hasn't fought for me either.
She rolled over for my sister and walked away from me. I'm not sure what's worse—only being loved in public or only being loved behind closed doors. Opposite sides of the same coin, and they both fucking suck.
The key in my hand feels heavier than it really is. The weight of my life resting in my palm. I insert it into the lock and turn the key, opening the door to my forever. Alone.
I've stopped imagining the sound of laughter greeting me or music blaring from a speaker in the kitchen. Silence. Why does it feel like a ton of bricks sitting on my chest? It's suffocating.
Despite the winter air, I leave the door propped open. I need to feel the ice in my lungs. The burn. I wander through each room of the house and open every window, ending with the one in myfuture bedroom. I bought this house because it felt like home, so why doesn't it feel like that now?
I'm lying on my bedroom floor, spread-eagle, on carpet that desperately needs to be replaced or at the very least shampooed, when the night seeps in. The hours have passed in what feels like moments. One minute I was opening the window and lying down to relieve the ache in my chest, and now the darkness hides the shadows.
