“It’s not always romance movies.”
His brow shoots up to this hairline. “Just ones with a cancer-ridden husband and a soon-to-be-widow.”
My throat tightens. I don’t say anything. Not only because I can’t, but because my argument is thin. Scarce. Pathetic even.
“You need some fresh air,” he says when I stay quiet. “And not to the trash chute. Like, real outside air. And a nice adult meal. Not cereal.”
“The air in the trash room isn’tthatbad.”
“Okay, now I know you’ve lost it.”
I laugh. A real laugh, not self-deprecating, but an actual laugh that feels different andnice. Like a sliver of optimism and encouragement wedged into this new lifestyle of grief.
“So go shower and get dressed in something that isn’t…fleece,” he instructs, giving my outfit a once-over. “And we can paint the town red.”
“Best I can do is beige,” I joke, finally relenting. “Maybe khaki.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. As long as there’s some kind of smearing and slathering involved.”
I follow his instructions and take a shower that’s hot and gratifying. I probably spent too long under the scalding water because steam billows around me when I step out of the tub androughly towel dry my hair. I slip on a pair of jeans with a creamy cashmere sweater. A gift from James from a holiday shopping trip to the mall. I spent a minute too long dilly-dallying over how expensive it was and how I shouldn’t spend so much money on something that isn’t a necessity, and he whipped out his card with a wide grin. It’s soft and loose, something we both figured I’d use with the need for extra growing space.
“Much better,” I whisper to my reflection after I dab on some lip gloss.
I muster a smile, the corners of my lips stretching into an unfamiliar shape. My hair is still slightly wet, and my skin feels soft and damp, the aftereffects of a pruning shower. Though I didn’t manage to put any effort into my appearance, I smell a whole lot better than I did thirty minutes ago.
Kyle is standing over my kitchen sink, his sleeves bunched up to his elbows, and it looks like a gang of cleaning fairies has flitted through my apartment. The trash that was littered throughout like a trail of breadcrumbs is gone as if it’s been swept under a rug. The dish rack is packed with freshly washed bowls. No more crusty cereal and sour milk thanks to some elbow grease and a half-empty bottle of Dawn. And a tenacious neighbor.
By the time we’re hopping into Kyle’s car, I don’t feel like I’m leaving my house against my will. And by the time Kyle’s paying the check—a lost battle on my end after we played a game of tug-of-war with it—I think maybe I’ll be okay. Maybe I can call my mom back and tell her what happened, fess up and tell her the real reason I’ve been feeling under the weather. Even fill Sylvia in on my current relationship status. Let her know that, after some consideration and afterthought, I decided to dissolve what was left of me and James. That we are no more. No more accidental pregnancies or baby announcements around a brightly lit Christmas tree. No more shared apartments androommate agreements. All of it’s gone.Poof. Just like it always should’ve been. Just me, all alone, in my sad little apartment.
With a stomach full of paella and margaritas, I’m going to recalibrate my life. Place my feet back on track with the pathway it was heading all along. I’m going to focus on my work, concentrate on my classroom and my students so maybe I can get a permanent teaching job for the next school year in San Diego. I’m going to take up a hobby. Like baking or knitting. Maybe even something daring like surfing.
This is good. Probably what I should’ve been doing from the start. Instead, I tossed all that independence I wanted to hold on to the second I met a man. It’s like I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone and I clung to the first person I thought could fill the void from being away from home. And I fell for him. I fell hard, like some lovesick fool. I feel so stupid.
We’re walking back to our apartment building, climbing up the steps leading to our hallway when I’m greeted by the last person I expect at my door. I stop halfway, my feet stuck in that mud again.
“Hi,” James whispers.
“Hi,” I croak. He looks horrible. His eyes look bloodshot, dark circles surrounding them. I want to ask him if he’s okay, offer him a place to sit and something warm to sip on in my apartment while I soothe away what’s obviously ailing him. But I shouldn’t.
“I’ll catch you later,” Kyle announces. His eyes ping-pong between James and me, and I wonder if he’s going to whip out a tub of popcorn or even pull out a chair and have himself a front row seat. Luckily, he does neither, and James and I are offered a moment of privacy.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as soon as I hear Kyle’s deadbolt click.
It’s then I notice he’s holding something behind him. He looks down, his head hanging between his shoulders in what looks like defeat, and when he brings his hands in front of him, we’re both bleakly staring at a stuffed owl.
“It came in a couple of weeks ago,” he explains. “I ordered it off the store’s website. It was supposed to be a Christmas gift. I wanted it to be the baby’s first…”
His voice trails into trembles and cracks, a clear sign he’s barely holding it together. He isn’t okay. When I hadn’t heard from him after I kicked him out of my apartment, I assumed he’d moved on. He’d walk away grateful and relieved now that this unexpected burden of fatherhood has been lifted. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe his grief, a lot like mine, is stubborn, much like the sticky mud I’ve been stuck in.
I watch his throat bob. Like all the words and thoughts and emotions stop right there. At the base of his neck, so close to coming out but too fickle and unsure. I hate seeing him like this. So broken and timorous. He’s not the man I fell in love with, and every muscle in my body wants to bring him back. I want so badly to give in. To hold him, console him, but I don’t know how to do that after we’ve become so broken. How do we even start?
“It’s just been sitting in my room since it came in, and I thought you might want it,” he says. The stretch of silence is tight, tension filled with something we’re too unfamiliar with.
I nod. And even though I don’t know where to go from here, I do the one thing that feels most natural to me. I reach out and slip my hand into his. Another feeling I have to readjust to. Because I don’t know if this is okay. I don’t know if we’ll come back from this. Whether or not we’re even worth salvaging. We’ve only known each other for such a short time, and we’re already so susceptible.
But then I think about never seeing James again. Never being able to laugh with him, hold him or kiss him, and I feel like mychest is going to split open, leaving my heart completely naked. Even my insides, exposed so he can see everything I feel. All the aches and pains, bleeding out onto the drab carpet lining my apartment building. But maybe he needs to know. If not so he knows he’s not alone, then for the simple fact that I’m willing to do what it takes to bring us back to where we were. This isn’t silly or stupid like I thought. It’slove. It’s simply and so naturally love.
“It’s a really cute owl,” I whisper as I run a timid hand over the soft fur.
