Page 5 of Fate Fiction

He sounded like an old car’s engine sputtering to life as he fumbled over his words.

Another laugh slipped out. I should’ve left his stuff on the curb. “Grab your shit and go,” I said.

“What?” He looked like a trout with his mouth hanging open like that.

In an act that took every muscle in my body, I stood up and gestured to the door. “Respectfully, fuck off forever,” I said slowly. “I’ll help put your stuff in your car.” I crossed the living room and picked up one of the boxes.

Nick jumped to his feet, knocking over his half-empty coffee in the process and cursing under his breath. “I don’t need your help,” he grumbled, “Kaitlyn is in the car, she can help.”

Kaitlyn. The other woman.

Something overtook me. I’d been momentarily possessed by the main character of a romcom, and she wanted her big showy dramatic moment.

“Well, in that case, I’ll make it even easier.” I opened the door with my free hand and tossed the box onto the porch. It tumbled down the steps onto the sidewalk, narrowly missing a couple going for a walk.

“Yo, what the fuck? Seriously?” Nick said as I grabbed another box and tossed that one too. Nick stood behind me, frozen as each box unceremoniously rolled off my front porch.

When my entryway was empty and his things were scattered like a waterfall of clothes, videogames, and ugly sports decor, I turned and grabbed Nick’s shoulders. His curly brown hair was still damp from a shower, and I could feel the heat radiating from his shoulders.

“Bye, Nick.” I cheerfully said as I guided him out the door and slammed and locked it in his face.

Two hundred or so pounds were lifted off my chest immediately. I could breathe again. Shouting came from outside, muffled through the door. I pressed myself against the wood and took deep inhales. It was over.

Then the realization hit. It was over. And it all came crashing on top of me, for the first time in two weeks.

The most I could manage to do was whip my phone out to text Andrea before the weight became too much to bear.

It’s officially over.

I need some time, but you and C can come by tonight.

Actually. Please come by tonight. I’m gonna need a distraction.

two

. . .

Fourteen days had been spent basking in the glow of my own tragic existence and it was all for naught. I had spent nights and weekends cleaning out the vestiges of Nick while blasting music that made me feel like the main character in my own life for the first time in years. I danced around my empty apartment, aggressively lipsyncing into my broom like it was a microphone because no one was around to tell me it was cringy. At the time, there was some sick beauty to the scene of my neighbor banging on the wall while I decided which of Nick’s socks I should throw out so he’ll always have an odd number.

Whatever energy had carried me through the last two weeks had screeched to a halt. The post-breakup depression hit me like a freight train.

True tears—blocked before by superficial apathy—started welling up in a hot release. Whatever breathing I was able to do before was impossible as every breath rattled out a choking sob.

My legs were heavy as they dragged me to my bed, my head swam with the molten lava of my complicated feelings. I flopped onto the comforter, winced at the lingering scent of Nick’s shampoo on the pillow beside me, and nearly gagged on another cry. My hands balled into fists on the fabric as I bargained with the universe to give me a new form of amnesia that made me forget he ever existed.

I stared up at the ceiling and watched the popcorn texture blur into nothing as my tears formed into two tidal pools on the brink of overflowing.

Six years of my life were over.

I was starting over again in my late twenties. The person who I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with cheated on me for two years right under my nose. I was so naive. I listed these facts over and over, a grocery list of my life’s biggest shortcomings. This breakup had been so easy when it was a hypothetical, anticipatory thing. Now it felt like I was thrust into an eternal winter, just as spring was beginning to break loose.

The May sun cast shadows across the room, and I watched them dance as I tried to think about anything else but Nick. Everything seemed to cycle back to him, he was the world’s shittiest boomerang. My eyes glazed over artwork, tchotchkes, and the pile of laundry that was sitting on my chair begging to be folded.

Somehow, all of it reminded me of Nick in a way. There was the massive Edgar Degas exhibit advertisement that I made him fish out of a dumpster on Allston Christmas one year, and a miniature porcelain clown I bought at a flea market because we agreed it was haunted and had chosen us. Even my clothes had pieces of him attached to them, boxer shorts he had slid down my hips on a lazy Sunday, a skirt I wore on a casual margaritas date.

I groaned, scrubbing my hands down my damp face.

Here I was, forced to claw my way out of this dark cold cave. It was one I dug myself, but still one I needed to escape.