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I didn’t know how to walk over to Rachel. To place my hand gently on her arm. To whisper, “I’m sorry. Please. That was real for me. I love you.”
Rachel tugged a sweater over her head. I was fairly certain it was backwards. Fairly certain she didn’t give a damn. The pants she pulled on, stumbling from one leg to the next, were the first she’d grabbed off the heap from the suitcase. She didn’t bother with socks before yanking on her boots. I guess that should have said everything about how she felt about me: she’d rather rub her feet raw than stick around two seconds longer to pull on socks.
“You started it,” I tried again. Giving a little laugh. Hearing it fall flat. “I was just playing along.”
Rachel zipped her suitcase till the zipper snagged on a pair of hose. She’d made it halfway. She decided that was good enough. Good enough to get out of there at least. I imagined her at the airport trying to fix it as her gate was called. I saw her disappearing down that tunnel toward the plane.
She shoved past me with her suitcase.
“What about that divorce you want so bad?” I blurted out.
I hadn’t meant to sound so desperate. But reality was sinking in: Rachel was leaving. There was nothing I could do to stop her. Or at least nothing I was willing to do. Able to do: a hand on her arm. A plea. “I’m sorry.” “Please.” “I want you.” “I need you.” “I love you.” “Don’t go.”
Don’t go.
I followed Rachel down the hallway. Miss Last Night stuck her head out the doorway, calling after us as we passed. I didn’t bother to listen. Rachel certainly didn’t either.
“What about your sparkling new role?” I said at her a little too angrily.
I’d put on clothes to hide myself, but there I was letting my emotions expose me anyway. I tried to wrangle it all in, but it was like trying to harness a storm.
“Huh, Rachel? What are you going to do about that sweet, perfect, shiny little image you want God knows who to see? Huh? What are you doing to do about the bit of dirt still stuck on your Barbie doll’s foot?”
At the bottom of the stairs, Rachel whipped around to face me. She was just as angry as I was. She wasn’t trying to hide it. She wanted me to see it. To remember it.To remember why she was leaving.
“You think you can ruin my life?” she hissed in my face. “You think you can go out there and tell the world just who I am? Just who I really am? There’s one little problem with that. Just one teeny-tiny little problem. You don’t have a clue who I am. Who I truly am. You don’t have a fucking clue, Mason!”
Her finger jabbed at my chest as she spoke. Each stab harder than the last. But they all hurt. They all fucking hurt. So I wanted to hurt her back. It was that simple. And stupid. But I wasn’t thinking clearly in that moment. All I was was petty revenge and tit for tat.
I leaned in close to Rachel. Close enough that she could have stuck out her tongue and tasted herself on my lips.
I whispered, “And you think you do?”
Rachel flinched. Just barely. My strike had struck. I didn’t even have a second to celebrate before she was gone. I was left standing there in front of an open door, the rain splattering onto the entryway.
She was gone. I could hear her suitcase wheels rattling on the sidewalk for a minute or two. Then that was gone, too.
I cursed her name as I stormed back up the stairs. Miss Last Night called me from the bed. I ignored her. I went past my room straight to the one at the end of the hall, the one Rachel had just vacated. I didn’t want to see the emptied, open drawers and the hangers scattered across the floor. I was about to slam the door shut but—
A mess of my nan’s shoeboxes had fallen from the top of the closet. Half a dozen or so. A couple remained closed. A handful opened, their dainty little church heels or red velvet ballet flats tumbled out across the floor. And one shoebox that didn’t have shoes. From the doorway I could make out amongst the scattered pages a few old photos, some yellowed tickets, and a thick set of letters bound with frayed twine.
The name written across the envelope with the letters was my name. In a scrawling, unfamiliar cursive.
My name in my nan’s shoebox. Someone’s handwriting I didn’t know in my nan’s shoebox.
I shoved everything back inside the shoebox and crammed it without further thought back onto the top shelf of the closet. I didn’t bother with the shoes. I figured my nan wouldn’t mind; it wasn’t like she’d be using them any time soon. I then left the room without looking back. Closed the door. Closed it hard. Walked away fast.
The memories I had of my nan were painful enough. I didn’t need to go finding new ones. You don’t go searching for more knives when you’re already bleeding.
