Page 87 of The Chance

There’s not much here, not much I own.

A single couch.

Bare walls.

I can’t see the glasses in the cabinet, but I know that there’s four sitting on a shelf by themselves.

If I could have bought only one, I would have.

There’s something absolutely crushing in the fact that you can’t. That not even the glassware in my kitchen is as alone as I am.

The bowls. The plates. All in fours.

But me?

It’s just me.

Yet all I can think about … is what Mac would think of the place. Would he like the swirl of orange in the tumblers I found? Would he crash onto the couch and complain that one side is too lumpy to sleep on?

Would he fall into my bed instead and use me as a pillow even though I’m less comforting than the shitty cushions?

My jaw grits as I move to the dresser and jerkily shove my limbs through fabric.

Even the drawer is half empty, devoid of the fullness that I’m used to when I’ve borrowed Mac’s clothes or grabbed something for him.

No color or stupid prints, just my plain black briefs.

The tick in my jaw jumps into overdrive, my sights swinging around the room and pinging off of all the memories I’ll never have here.

All the things Mac will never see. Never be a part of or be able to comment on.

The things we’ll never do together …

I fucked us up.

With burning eyes and a tremble to my fingers, I swipe my phone from the armrest and pull up the clock app, its list of different time zones flashing back at me by the second. I scroll past all the previous entries, their time already into the morning light of tomorrow and when I get to the bottom, I pause.

One p.m.

He’d be awake.

The tight knuckled grip I have on the phone makes it creak.

It’s the time I’ve been waiting for, a moment where I know he’s available and I’m in the sanctuary of my own place instead of driving away from his sister’s shop or sitting inside his apartment where I’ve been staying until now.

None of it felt right—feels right—and yet I’m dialing. Waiting for the inevitable voicemail greeting when he ignores the call.

Just let him go.

I fall back onto the couch, my hat staring at me from its perch on the little coffee table with its ghost of an emblem missing as it has been for years. The song that it triggers twists up my stomach.

Is this me running from him?

The greeting picks up.

I’m still locked on the faded black when the beep knocks me out of my head, my tongue too tied to speak at first.

“Mac,” I rasp finally and clear my throat when it cracks. “I’m …”

---