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“Okay,” she says, “we can do those things. We can find you a therapist, or a psychiatrist, no problem. And an apartment. I’m sure if you have a restraining order against one of the other residents, your landlord will have to let you out of the lease. My dad can help with that, too.”
“Alright.” Her dad was a lawyer, and although he probably wasn’t my biggest fan, it would be really nice if he could.
“And you know what else you need to do in the meantime?”
“What’s that? Please don’t say call Jake.”
“Oh no way, do not call Jake. If he wants to hear from you, Ruby, he will reach out. Honestly, I wouldn’t expect anything, though,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say softly and reluctantly, “I know that.”
“You need to do what we do. You need to write about it.”
“But who would want to read about it?” I ask.
“A lot of people would, Ruby. A lot of people who have been in your position, or may be, or know someone who has been. People like Cori, who have been manipulated and gaslit by controlling narcissists into relationships that they aren’t sure how they ended up in in the first place. It’s how we heal. You might be able to help someone else heal, too.”
Evie was right about a lot of things. Luckily for me, this included being able to get out of my lease. She was also right that I shouldn’t expect to hear anything else from Jake. I didn’t. Christmas came and went in a haze of bad coping skills, little sleep, and immersing myself in my new job, which I had to admit, I was rather good at. But lately, my job has been boxes. Lots and lots of boxes.
I sit down on the dusty hardwood floors of my new apartment in what has mostly become darkness, save but for what is currently coming through the windows from the streetlights outside and the light over the stove, unpacking the final few and listening to the rain come down. This studio might be twice the size of my old place. It used to be an old mansion in the early 1900s and has since been converted to apartments. I think my first-floor unit must have been an entryway—it’s quirky and wide, with a couple of stairs that lead up to a small kitchen and an alcove for the bed. I think that maybe I could put a screen up and have somewhat of an actual separate bedroom. It’s also cold, with a big picture window undoubtedly making it colder, but it’s beautiful, and it fills me. It feels like me. The road is tree-lined, and I know it will be beautiful in the summer and breathtaking in the fall. I’m trying to find joy in the little things—a suggestion from my therapist—and finding that despite the aching pit in the bottom of my stomach, there is still plenty to take in. Even if it’s just a tiny bit, and even if it doesn’t sate me for very long.
When I was growing up, there would be times when my mother would come out of her haze for whatever reason—a fallout with a boyfriend, cleaning up in jail, or a new job or idea she was excited about. She would tell me that everything was going to change, and how great things were going to be. We would do the things that normal families do, or at least what I imagine they do, like go to the beach, get ice cream, or stay up late watching movies together. And it was nice, but it never lasted for long. I learned not to trust it. It never took long for her to get back on a bender or bring home that guy, and for me to go back to being her problem, her burden. And of course, I’d have to pay for that.
I know now that I’ve thrown a lot of that back into my worldview. I had these walls that I put up between myself and everyone else, and I made it a habit of burdening them with doomsday expectations and assigning them vindictive intentions while waiting for them to prove me right. I set the bar low, too low, in a lot of ways. I need more than contentment and my basic hierarchy of needs to be met. It was enough for that lonely, broken little girl, but it isn’t going to be enough for me now. That aching pit in my stomach is evidence enough, and I realize now that it’s probably always been there, hungry for something else, and I’d just learned to ignore it. On the other side of this, out of my haze, I realize that what I thought was peace was merely a bandage, and once ripped away, it was easy to see that while it had covered the wound and even soothed it during these years I had spent on my own, it did nothing to heal it. It continued to fester and ooze beneath the surface, infecting anyone else I encountered.
I don’t know how Alex slipped through. I guess because I assumed he was like me, and also just because my instincts are so fucked. According to my therapist, a lot of people that were supposed to show me what love was and how to set the bar for how I wanted to be treated dropped the ball, and I’m going to need to start from scratch to figure it out on my own. Something like that is supposed to be innate, like breathing. Society takes it for granted, operating under the assumption that everyone knows what it’s like to be loved, but some of us don’t. Some of us are out here completely fucking blind and we’re just making it up as we go along. We’re doing our best, but there’s bound to be a learning curve.
He’s tried to contact me a couple of times. He called me from jail, he has messaged me on social media. He’s not supposed to, and he knows that. I didn’t reply, but I also didn’t report it. I can’t help but to bleed for him a little bit even now. I believe him—that he did genuinely care for me, that we were friends. It doesn’t change anything, but I'm not afraid of him, and I don’t think I will have to worry about him anymore.
I still pick up my phone and think about texting Jake. I also pick it up and think about unfriending him on my socials, so I don’t have to see how okay he is. I haven’t been able to unpack that quite yet.
eighteen
It’sthefirstNewYear’s Eve that I haven’t spent working since I started at The Post Office in college. It feels weird to be out among the enthusiastic masses instead of behind the bar, especially given my current state. But—perspective: I am lucky that I have a friend as good as Evie to even invite me out at times like this. Granted, it’s going to be a fancier affair than I would have chosen for myself—one of those champagne and fancy attire soirees where we all masquerade as adults, at least looking the part even if we don’t feel it, for the night. Garrett, Evie’s boyfriend, will be hosting, or rather I should saytheywill be hosting attheirplace. I’ll be unabashedly underdressed, underwhelming, and hopefully unnoticed, or at least that’s the plan. Someone once told me that everything about me was loud.
“Ruby, you came!” I hear Evie shout as I come through the door. She’s barreling through the crowd towards me in a short, tight blue dress that does everything for her. Her enthusiasm is genuine, and her smile shines as it always does.
“Yeah, I was invited, right? Garrett isn’t going to kick me out?”
“Oh, stop!” she says. “No way, he loves you.”
I’ve never been quite sure of that.
“Are you all moved in now?” she asks.
“Yeah, I guess so. What about you?”
“Um, yeah, pretty much, I guess. I feel like I still owe my apartment a proper goodbye, you know, but it’s all cleaned out. Nothing left but…almost four years of memories. God, I’m going to miss that place.” She smiles and laughs a bit, but it seems more like she wants to cry. Happy tears, though, for an end of an era.
“Its next resident will have a tough act to follow," I tell her. "New beginnings for both of us, I guess. One by choice, and one kind of by force, but fresh nonetheless.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I was forced, but I wouldn’t say it wasn’t at all coerced either,” she says, laughing, but there’s something behind it. Maybe it’s just that she’s been drinking. I see that in her eyes, too. She’s never seemed anything but happy in her relationship, but I know they went back and forth on this one. She dragged her feet a lot. Maybe I am missing part of the story.
“I’m happy for you,” I tell her, hoping that it will soothe whatever unease she may be feeling.
She smiles and grabs my hand, “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”
I follow her through the room to the kitchen and run into Olivia.
