We lumber upstairs, lugging Harry Styles and bags full of streamers down the hallway. As I push open the door, I pause. “Has our apartment always been so…beige?”
“Yes,” Bridget confirms. “It’s like walking into a sepia-toned photo.”
I set my black bag beside Connor’s briefcase and slide off my boots, setting them on the jute rug, where my other black boots already sit at a tidy angle next to Connor’s crisp, white running shoes. There’s an empty space where his leather loafers go.
If last night had gone differently, I might crumple against this wall and cry over the space he’ll leave behind. All the abandoned plans, too. But that doesn’t scare me anymore. I’ve already had time to grieve that loss. Besides, if I can navigate a fully actualized middle school game land, and falling for my least favorite person,and losing my grip on both realities, then certainly I can handle the hassle of Apartments.com.
It’ll be strange, living on my own, but all that space is room to breathe. Room to grow and figure it out and maybe screw everything up before I figure it out again.
“Alright,” Bridget says, moseying toward the kitchen. “What are we eating?”
She opens the fridge, and we both peer inside. It’s empty, save for some sad-looking Thai leftovers. The pantry isn’t much better: pita chips, pretzels, an iffy banana.
“God.” I groan. “Even my food is beige.”
Bridget orders deep-dish pizza while I shower. It’s surreal, being back in my actual bathroom, and I pray the water will help me wash away the winning combination of deep shame and aggressive yearning swirling around in my chest.
It’s embarrassing, honestly. What Penn and I shared? It was less than two weeks. Nothing. A blip.
Except, I can’t lie to myself anymore. I know the truth.
It was everything.
The shower doesn’t help the way I hoped it would, either. All my lotion is just so sad and scent-free. I miss the Cucumber Melon and the shiny loofahs and my massive vanity full of colorful, questionably effective toiletries.
RIP, Lip Smackers. We had a good run.
I towel off, pruny and pathetic. Still bereft. Because, unfortunately, Penn’s mark on me is as impossible to wash away as that ill-advised body glitter.
It’s probably a bad idea, but I want to reach out to him. Maybe it’ll help to break the ice.
I slip on my biggest, baggiest sweatpants and sit on the bed,clutching my phone in my hands. I type and delete seven messages, and it takes me six minutes to send five words.
Thanks again for last night.
The message sounds more suggestive than I planned, but it’ll do. It’s simple, and the subtext is clear yet subtle: HEY HI SORRY I TRIED TO KISS YOU BECAUSE WE WERE IN LOVE IN ANOTHER REALITY.
Penn’s reply comes quickly, sending my heart into overdrive.
No problem.
Who among us hasn’t fallen after one (1) tequila shot?
Before I can banter back, another text comes through.
Get some rest, Wynne.
It’s a splash of cold water. A whole tub of it. With extra ice.
I toss my phone aside and collapse back on the bed, my long, wet hair sticking out in every direction. My vision blurs with tears as I stare at the ceiling. I’m so afraid I’ll never be able to love Penn the way I want to, and it’s unthinkable. All those memories from another lifetime will haunt me in my dreams and in songs and in so many quiet, everyday echoes of what we shared, a million tiny tragedies every time I remember his laugh against my skin.
Two small knocks, and then Bridget pops her head into the room. “Oh, good,” she chirps. “You’re still alive. Come eat.”
We put on a wonderfully overwritten TV show for people half our age and sit cross-legged behind the glass coffee table I suddenly hate.
“This is exactly what I needed,” Bridget gushes, tugging at a string of melted cheese. “Thank God we have tomorrow off. What should we do? Teen TV marathon round two?”
“I’m in,” I tell her. “And you can help me write my resignation letter.”
