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If I text you every five minutes, will you be mad?
No … I think I’d be okay with that.
Good. I’m here for you.
Through the parted curtains, I’m given a view of the storm raging on, the rain rampaging against the panes and a crack of lightning in the distance.
The frame makes a small clunk as I set it down and let out a heavy breath to steady myself. His clothes. I remind myself that it’s not the furniture, it’s not the visual reminders like that photograph, or anything like that that should be stored or donated. It’s his clothes.
That’s the only thing.
Naturally, I turn my back on his dresser and move to my nightstand. The lavender lotion is still there; picking it up, I find it’s nearly full. A vision appears in front of me: the last time I remember using it. In silk pajamas with boy shorts and a matching tank top. I climbed into bed, under these sheets, and he was there, waiting for me.
I’m less careful dropping the lotion and then think it should be something that I toss in this bag, but I don’t. Instead I spot the room spray from our honeymoon. I bought so many bottles of it but barely ever used it. Without touching it, the scent hits me as if bathed in it. The tropical scent of the Riviera Maya.
A sad smile crosses my face when I remember he told me I’d never use it. It was expensive and James couldn’t have cared less. He was right, but he told me to get it, because it would make me happy.
It’s not fair how many little things that are meaningless can bring on so much emotion.
Tears well again, but I hold them back, forcing myself to open just one drawer and get it over with. Just one drawer, clothes that should be donated. Clothes that I don’t need to hold on to anymore.
The lightning strikes closer, and there’s a louder rumble this time. The rain beats down as the drawer scrapes open. It’s a long drawer and I get down on my knees to go through the few pieces that lay in the bottom.
There aren’t many pieces at all. This was our vacation home. We were barely here, so it shouldn’t be surprising but somehow it is.
The first three garments are easy. I toss the shorts and jeans into the bag and I’m able to go through the entire drawer. There’s nothing to keep. Nothing that should stay here.
Sitting on my heels, I lean back and look at the pathetically empty bag and then open the next drawer and the next.
It seems easier and easier as the rain pours down and the lightning lessens, until I get to one piece. One rugby shirt that I hated. God, it looked awful on him. The fit was all wrong, the fabric too thick. I never hated a shirt more.
The storm carries on as I hold up the orange shirt, still not seeing the appeal. I remember how he laughed about how much I hated it. I’m surprised to even see it here. Just as I’m thinking he never wore it, or at least I don’t remember him ever wearing it, I see the tags.
It’s brand new. He had it for years and never wore it.
“You’re not wearing that. It’s awful.”
“You’re a little small to be so bossy,” he joked, smiling down at me.
“Seriously, I’ll dye my hair if you put that thing on.”
The moment takes over, his hands on me, how he backed me up against the wall.
I don’t realize I’m crying, hot wet lines running down my face, until my phone goes off with a text.
Laying the shirt on my lap but not letting it go, I answer the phone with my other hand and see I’ve missed three texts from Kamden.
You okay?
Hey babe I just need you to message me, okay?
Please, Ella. I’m a PITA but I love you and anything will do.
As I’m reading them, another comes through. Don’t be mad, I messaged Damon.
Shifting so my ass is on the floor, I let the shirt go and respond. I’m here. Just had a moment. It’s not so ladylike as I wipe under my nose and consider using the damn shirt as a tissue. A small laugh leaves me at the thought, but then without warning, I sob. Crying into the shirt with fresh hot tears.
“Oh my fucking God what is wrong with me,” I murmur in between wiping at my face with the shirt. Feel it and let it go.
Even as I tell myself to let go of the emotions, I don’t want to let go of the shirt. I don’t know that I’m ready. I don’t think I’m ready.
Focusing on my breathing, I quickly text, Kam I don’t think I’m ready to throw anything away.
