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She’s already wheeling my suitcase inside, so I grab a box. Together, we take my things to her spare bedroom. Quite a luxury in New York, but Sonya’s job in the marketing department at a tech startup pays well.
“I hate him. That asshole. He thinks he can cheat on you and get away with it?! You were too good for him from the start.”
There’s a lot more of this. Any sort of motivational tidbit that comes to mind, she’s going to say it. There’s the quintessential “He only dulled your shine” and “You’re better off without him” and “He just made the biggest mistake of his life!”
I let her keep going because I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to do. It doesn’t feel right to cop to the enormous amount of relief I feel right now.
“You can stay here as long as you want,” she assures me. “You hear me?Mi casa es su casa.Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the process of ordering a voodoo doll lookalike for Cooper so we can torture and torment him, and if I check out in the next fifteen minutes, I get free shipping.”
The next few weeks living at Sonya’s apartment pass in much the same way as the last few years. I continue right on lying to myself and ignoring my elephant-sized problems. I’m used to it by now. I’ve been forcing the truth down for so long I’d almost be surprised if I could unbury it all at this point.
Knowing I’m unhappy is only the first step. Doing something about it…well, would you look at that? Old Navy is having a 25% off sale.
Instead of making changes, I continue working for a boss I dislike at a job I hate.
I tell myself (and Sonya) I’m looking for apartments to rent, but really, I just procrastinate by looking up multimillion-dollar homes in exotic locations on Zillow and critiquing the owner’s interior design choices. Zebra print couches in an Aspen ski lodge?Really?
I contemplate getting on dating apps and putting myself out there again then decide I’d rather flush my phone down the toilet.
Three weeks to the day since I first moved in with her, Sonya knocks on my bedroom door. Well, technically it’sherbedroom door, but whatever.
She cracks it open and peers inside.
“Heyyy, champ. How’s it going?”
I close my laptop before she can walk in and catch sight of all my open tabs, though for once, they’re not all Zillow.
It’s worse.
I’m doing what I always do when I’m feeling sad: looking into things I shouldn’t be, picking at proverbial scabs. It usually starts with a search into Frédéric, Emmett, and Alexander. Then, when that doesn’t satisfy me, I go down the rabbit hole of Googling Professor Barclay. It’s easy enough to check up on him. He’s no longer at Dartmouth. The year I graduated, he left the university and took up residence at MIT, likely because it’d become impossible to commute to Hanoverandkeep up with the growth of Banks and Barclay in Boston. His architecture firm is massive and ever-expanding. They’re always being written about for one thing or another: renovations at the White House, restoration of the Los Angeles Vietnam Memorial. They’ve even been a consulting firm on the reconstruction of Notre-Dame since the fire that happened a few years ago.
Three months back, there was a gala to celebrate the progress and to continue to raise funds for the remainder of the extensive renovation work estimated to cost hundreds of millions of euros, and photos of the event were everywhere because of all the celebrities in attendance. Professor Barclay and his partner at his firm, Christopher Banks, were there, as well as Emmett and Frédéric, which makes sense. Not only are they loyal Parisians, Frédéric has been the largest private donor for the cause, superseding even the French government. There were photos of the foursome—each one looking extremely handsome and dapper—but those pictures of them together didn’t really surprise me; likely they all run in the same elite circle or at least have met a time or two. It was Professor Barclay’s photos with a pretty blonde that I couldn’t get out of my head.
I was looking into that very thing tonight, trying to determine if their relationship is still ongoing. They haven’t been publicly photographed together since the gala, but that doesn’t really mean anything, right? Professor Barclay doesn’t seem like the type of man to announce his relationship on Instagram or anything.
Anyway, Sonya doesn’t need to know any of this. She knows about my past, but nothing about Professor Barclay. I meant what I told him the last time we spoke; I never told a soul about that night at the bar.
“A letter came for you from Scotland, forwarded from Dunlany. Is it from Mr. Parmer?”
I nod and reach out for it, giving her a small appreciative smile in thanks.
“Just going to hang out in here all night?” she asks, glancing around the room. I’m suddenly self-conscious of the water cups piling up on my bedside table and the laundry stack growing out of control in the corner.
I haven’t really settled in very well. My moving boxes are still taped shut. My clothes aren’t hanging up in the closet. They go from my suitcase to my body to the dirty clothes pile, then I clean them, dry them, and put them back in my suitcase. If I were seeing a therapist, they’d likely tell me my unpacked suitcase is a metaphor for something.
“I was going to venture out eventually…” I tell her. “When I could no longer ignore my stomach’s rumbling.”
She grins. “The fridge is stocked. I went to Whole Foods on my way home from work.”
“Ah, thanks. I’ll Venmo you.”
I feel terrible for yetanotherreason. I’ve been a shitty house guest ever since I first arrived. I don’t cook, and I never voluntarily grab groceries. I clean up after myself and contribute funds toward anything she buys that we share, but it’s not like I’m reallyaddingvalue by being here. If anything, my presence is only a drain on Sonya, who’s in the throes of wedding planning and arguably the happiest she’s ever been.
Even now, she has her wedding binder tucked up underneath her arm. She carries the pink frilly thing around everywhere. I’m sure she’s come in here because she wants to crack it open and get my opinion about something:Do you think linen napkins are too formal? Does beige count as a wedding color or is it just a neutral? Would the bridesmaids hate me if I made them wear their hair up?
I try my best to care about all of it, even the trivial stuff. Sonya’s been a good friend to me, and even if life just sort of sucks for me right now, I don’t want to taint this time for her.
“So…I don’t want to upset you or anything…” she starts.
