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Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I anxiously pick at the skin around my nails as I survey the barren condo that I call home. The white walls are void of pictures, the furniture spotless, the sleek wooden floors polished to perfection, and the marble countertops so sterile they could be used in an operating room. My eyes drift to the glass windows surrounding the living room to take in the bustling streets and twinkling lights of the city.
As pathetic as it sounds, the windows make me feel less alone on nights like this. I can only entertain myself for so long before I end up staring at the bland walls of this empty condo, wondering when Elliot will come home. I feel like it would be more bearable if I at least had a pet to keep me company.
When Elliot asked me to move in a year ago, he made it clear that pets were off-limits. He claims that he’s allergic, but his mom finally admitted to me that he simply doesn't like pet hair, which makes sense because he carries around a pocket-sized lint roller everywhere he goes. She told me that they always had family pets, and Elliot never once had an allergic reaction. Elliot knows I love animals, so I figured I would have been able to persuade him by now, but he absolutely won’t budge.
Sometimes I wonder why I even agreed to move in with him instead of waiting until we’re married, until we have a place that we can callours. Instead, I moved intoElliot’sspace, and I feel like I’ve been abiding by his rules ever since. When I try to hang up frames or add new plants, he complains that it makes the place feel crowded. I’ve tried to make extravagant dinners, but it stresses him out because it makes a mess of the kitchen. I even tried to add colorful rugs and curtains, but they didn’t look crisp and clean enough for him… and the list goes on.
Before we buy our first home together, we will most definitely be having alongdiscussion about what it means to share a space, because the way we are living right now isn't going to cut it. My home should be my happy place, a place that feels cozy and comfortable. I couldn’t care less about living in a fancy condo that feels like a five-star hotel room, with white linens and beige curtains always looking pristine and untouched.
My phone vibrates against the marble countertop in the kitchen, pulling me from my thoughts. After the call with my mom, I decided to leave it on the counter to charge for a while. Pushing myself to my feet, my fleece socks slide against the glossy floor as I shuffle toward the kitchen.
Disconnecting my phone from the charger, I unlock the screen while taking a seat on one of the bar stools surrounding the island. I have a few missed calls and texts, but one message in particular has my breath catching in my throat. I have to do a double-take when I see the name flashing across the screen. It starts with an ‘E’, so I try to convince myself that it’s Elliot. But after staring at the name for a full two minutes, I finally acknowledge that it most certainly is not my fiancé.
Dammit. I thought I had deleted his number.
This is the first time he’s texted me in years. Hell, this is probably the first time he’s attempted to evencommunicatewith me in years. I hate that there’s a flutter in my stomach at the sight of his name on my screen. I try to tell myself that it’s the bad kind of flutters, the kind that makes you nauseous and full of dread, but I can’t deny the flippy feeling in my heart or the utter anticipation I feel to read his message.
I haven’t even opened his text, yet a flood of emotions surges like wildfire through my veins.
This.This is why I vowed to stay away from him. This feeling… It’s uncontrollable and uncomfortable all at the same time. I hate that anyone could ever make me feel this way. It can’t be healthy to have such a physical reaction to another human.
Taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, I tap on the message.
Everett: Hey, it’s Everett. Is this Skylar?
Obviously. You’re the one who texted me,I think to myself.
Me: Yes
Everett: Okay, good. Didn’t know if this was still your number.
I’m honestly shocked to learn that he still has my number. A few years ago, Elliot’s parents made us all exchange phone numbers on a family trip in case one of us got lost. I just assumed Everett would have deleted mine by now.
Me: Yup, it’s me. Are you still picking me up at six in the morning? My bags are packed, and I’m ready to go. I have four boxes, plus my suitcase. Do you have enough room in your truck for everything?
I’m quickly trying to redirect the conversation because I know neither of us wants to acknowledge the fact that we still have each other's numbers saved.
Everett: Actually, I was thinking I could swing by tonight and load the boxes for you. That way you can just get on a flight tomorrow. I’ll meet you in Denver with your stuff.
All the butterflies in my stomach quickly die, turning into sharp knives as I read his text. The fluttery feeling in my heart shifts to disappointment…. embarrassment. He’s clearly not happy about taking me with him, and this is his not-so-subtle way of telling me.
My shame quickly turns to anger, my cheeks heating with every passing second.
I mean, is he fucking kidding me?
First off, who just sends a text message to change plans less than ten hours before? Secondly, does he seriously think I’m going to just book a last-minute flight and pay for an overpriced ticket, which will most likely be a middle seat because he didn't have the decency to text me about this days ago? And lastly, there’s no way in hell that I’m going to trust him with boxes of fragile decorations that I’m responsible for.
Hell no.I should have never agreed to this in the first place.
Frustrated, I suck in a deep breath and type back.
Me: Really, Everett? You’re supposed to be picking me up in less than ten hours. You’re insane if you think I’m sending the decorations with you. I’ve put in countless hours of my time, effort, and money into preparing for this wedding. Half of the boxes are full of breakable items that must be handled carefully. I’m the one who will be blamed if the decorations arrive in shattered pieces, not you. So, no thank you. I’ll pass on your “generous” offer. I can drive myself.
After angrily typing out the message, my phone clinks against the counter as I forcefully set it down before pouring myself a heaping glass of red wine. I haven't been able to relax all day, and now I’m dealing with this. I need something to take the edge off.
My head snaps back to the counter when I see my phone buzzing with an incoming text. Gulping down the bitter wine, I pick up my phone and ready myself for Everett’s response.
Everett: I was trying to do you a favor, damn. Forget it, I’ll be there in the morning. 6:00 a.m. sharp.
