Page 8 of Someday Not Soon

“You alright there, love?” I ask, ruffling her hair as I walk past to answer the door. “I ordered us pizza.”

The nickname slips out without thinking. I should be self-conscious of how she’ll take it, but at this point, I do technically love our friendship. Yeah, maybe there’s more to it that I’m trying not to admit, to either her or myself. But these seemingly mundane moments have quickly become the highlight of every day, and that tells me everything I need to know.

Every conversation. Every look. Every day. The tension between us is undeniable. That look in her eyes reflects my own, and I’m certain we both feel it. This constant tug of wanting more.

That evening, after binging multiple hours of television, we linger in the hallway between our doorways. She tells me to wait there, and rushes into her room, returning with an old, worn Whitman book. Its tattered appearance is similar to century old volumes that could have been on Whitman’s own personal shelf. She hands it to me, andwhen our fingers touch, her eyes flit up to meet mine like a flick of a match.

In that brief minute, something shifts between us. I become hyper aware of everything—the hallway feels smaller and the space between us almost nonexistent. The rise and fall of our breath, the slight hitch in her chest. My eyes keep drifting to her lips, lingering there, wanting to close the short distance between us and find out, once and for all, how that perfect mouth tastes.

I think it’s the exact moment we both realize it’s a foolish uphill battle—one we’re bound to lose, no matter how hard we try.

Chapter Five

Ella

Present

Entering my parents’home to begin clearing it out feels surreal. The front door groans as it swings open, echoing the dread that twists in my stomach.

Stepping over the threshold, memories linger in every corner. The entryway instantly hits me with its familiar scent—a blend of aging wood and my mother’s favorite potpourri. The light oak floors and faded blue wallpaper in the living room spur a surge of memories about the three of us in this space—some decent, but most painful.

Within these four walls, it’s as if someone has pressed a pause button on their lives. Little shrines of their last moments lie scattered about. Breakfast dishes on the drying rack next to the sink, and the coffee pot half full. My mom’s pinwheel quilt half-constructed on the diningtable. My father’s old, brown leather recliner with the footrest still popped out.

It’s the last sting of acknowledgment that this isn’t merely a bad dream. It’s reality. A very horribly depressing reality.

In fleeting moments throughout the day my mind forgets they’re gone. It feels as if they’ll stroll through the front door at any moment, and catch me in the act of sorting their clothes into piles for donations or trash.

After two solid hours, my back aches from sifting through the kitchen cabinets that were crammed full of random dishes, cups, and kitchen gadgets. Apparently, Mom thought she needed three four Dutch ovens and enough mugs for a small army to drink from.

Eventually, I call defeat and take a break for a shitty dinner consisting of instant noodles. As I eat from the styrofoam cup, I attempt to ignore that little nagging in my brain that if they were still here, they’d judge me relentlessly for eating this processed junk. I’m not sure why I still care so much what they would think when I’m acutely aware that I’ll never hear another one of their comments again. Nonetheless, it’s enough to sour my stomach and toss the half-empty container as their past words echo in my head.

In an effort to distract myself, I open the coat closet to start clearing it out. Gift bags, coats, and cleaning supplies come tumbling down like an avalanche. I don’t even try to stop the tidal wave of rubbish from crashing onto me.

From the outside, the house appears clean and tidy. A closer look, opening closets and bedroom doors, revealsthe hidden chaos within however. A mirror image of how our family operated—polished to the outside world, with a copious amount of dysfunction and emotional baggage behind closed doors.

The piles of clutter I’m surrounded by causes the panic to rise in my chest like a swelling storm, gathering strength. My breathing becomes faster, skin prickling with the awareness that I’m in way over my head. I move to sit on the couch, but I jump back up as if it is scalding hot when I see it there—a beige throw blanket sprawled across the cushions, creased from whichever parent sat here last.

I begin to cry, yet again, because even though they weren’t great or even good parents, I can’t muster the courage to disrupt yet another fragment of their final moments.

Being in this house feels claustrophobic, haunted by their deaths. And when it’s coupled with an onslaught of memories I’d rather avoid, it’s downright suffocating.

It was here, in this very place, where my anxiety first took hold. Where the depression crept in like shadows at dusk, wrapping me in a darkness I struggled to shake off. And in which I cried and pleaded for help for my mental health, but instead was told to get over myself.

My phone rings, snapping me back to the present as I fish it out of my back pocket. It’s Sandra, the real-estate agent I hired to sell the house.

“Hi, Sandra?”

“Sweetie, how are you? Ready to get this thing sold?”she replies, her tone equal parts caring and down-to-business.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

She assures me that the entire process should be a quick open-and-close deal. With it being a sellers market and the property located in a highly desired area, she’s confident that staging the house and major renovations would not be needed. She estimates that selling and closing should only take a month or two at most.

As soon as we hang up, I swipe at my eyes, tighten my ponytail, and get my ass back to work. The sooner I clear out this house, the faster I can sell it. And the sooner I can distance myself from the memories I have of my emotionally frigid parents.

Luckily for me, Madi and Noah’s dual bachelor-bachelorette party is this weekend. The timing couldn’t be more perfect, because what I need at this moment is a distraction. Possibly in the form of a groomsman that I have no previous connection to.

When Madi told me that her brother wouldn’t be able to come with us this weekend, all I felt was overwhelming relief.

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