Page 10 of It Should Have Been Me

After walking past the kitchen on the right, he disappears into his bedroom. I do my business, then wash my hands and make my way back. He still hasn’t returned to the lounge. I walk around his apartment to keep myself occupied, taking in the little details. The fruit bowl that only contains bananas because that’s the only fruit he eats regularly. The empty can of diet Pepsi on the kitchen counter. The math textbooks on the coffee table. The L-shaped couch and the leather recliner. The gym bag and discarded pair of Nike trainers in the corner of the room. All these things show that this place ishis. It’s his home.

JP and I don’t own any furniture. We move around so often that it’s too much of a burden to buy anything, so the apartments we rent are always fully furnished. We live in environments where we’re surrounded by the designs, tastes, and preferences ofotherpeople,theirthings. I don’t like yellow and yet the bedroom in our apartment in Paris is all done up in pale yellow. This realization bothers me a little.

I lift one of the textbooks and start flipping through the pages. It’s all gibberish to me. I don’t know how he understands this stuff. On the opposite wall is a notice board with little notes pinned up on it. I walk over for a better look and see that they’re all from his students. Some are thanking him; others praise him for making math fun. His students love him. It’s apparent in every one of those notes.

“Where are you teaching now, Scott?” I call out.

“Richmond High,” he yells back. “I teach tenth grade there and I’m also the assistant football coach.”

“I thought you’d be at a private school. The money’s better.”

“You know I don’t do this for the money, Cat. Besides, private school kids are pretentious, spoiled brats.”

“Ah, the irony,” I snicker. I continue walking through his apartment, taking in the pot plants and pictures on the wall. All these bits of him give me clues about the person he’s become. “So, Santa Monica, huh?”

“Yeah. I moved here a few months ago when I transferred to Richmond, which is three blocks from here, and I got this amazing opportunity to guest lecture math to the engineering students twice a week at a university a few miles away, so it’s just more convenient here.”

“Wow! You’re teaching university students as well. That’s incredible.”

“Yeah, I enjoy it,” he concurs, but his voice lacks the level of excitement I was expecting. “I managed to get my foot in the door and the dean was quite impressed, so he put me on the academic committee. Under mentorship, though, because I’m still inexperienced and I’m not permanent staff there, but he’s trying to groom me for the role.”

“Ooh, sounds dirty.”

He lets out a short laugh, still sounding less than enthusiastic. “I’m still having trouble believing it.”

I walk to his bedroom and lean against the door frame, watching him rummage through his cupboard. I take note of his sneaker collection. They’re not all expensive brands like they were in high school, but he still has an impressive variety of colors and designs, and I’m sure he still matches them to whatever T-shirt he wears.

Only sparing me a sideways glance, he continues with his mission. “Hey, do you remember Manuela?”

“Carlos’ little girl?”

“Yeah. She’s an engineering student now, and she’s doing great! It’s just...it’s nice to see.” He tosses a pair of jeans over his shoulder. “I mean, she was struggling with English when I tutored her, battling with fractions, and now she’s acing math. It’s such a great feeling to know I was a small part of her success, you know.”

“You were abigpart of her success. You did a lot for all those kids. And what you’re doing now is just amazing. You’ve worked hard to get to where you are and...I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.” The response is curt, almost cold. His jaw tightens, and he grabs a pair of sneakers from the bottom of the cupboard before elbowing the door shut. “I guess there are some small rewards in this mediocre life of mine.”

The entire sentence is dripping with disdain, another verbal jab that I choose to sidestep. “Do you think Dylan needs socks?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.

“Not sure. Just take a pair from the top drawer there.”

I walk to the chest of drawers, but the pictures on top of it grab my attention before I even get a chance to open the top one. “Well, this is awkward.”

“Shit,” he curses under his breath. “I forgot about those.”

My eyes scan over the framed pictures. In front, there are pictures of him with Dylan and Peter, some with his dad, some with my mom, Keith, and Isa, but at the back...most of them are of the two of us. As I take in the details, memories begin to float through my mind, so vivid it feels like I’m reliving them. The story of the years we dated is told in a series of pictures, but my eyes zone in on the earlier ones where it all began. Looking at them now, the end came too quickly.

The one he took on my porch after we went out for our eighteenth birthday.“Now I’ll always remember what you looked like on the night you gave me your number. Goodnight, beautiful.”

Closer to the edge is the one he took in my bedroom a few days before our first Christmas together.“You look like every afternoon nap that I want you cuddling in my arms. Girl, you are out here looking like the rest of my life.”

The one of my family that he took from Ms. Jeffries’ office when we were still in high school is closer to the front.“This is what I want. I want it with you and only you. Call me when you’re ready to give it to me.”

Behind it is one of us at the beach on the day he proposed, the same beach right outside his window. I’m wrapped in his arms with our mouths pressed together.“Bring it, Savage. Throw in some nagging, too. I’ll deal with anything if it’s you...and it absolutely has to be you.”

He’d kissed me right after saying that. My lips tingle with the memory of that kiss. My heart flutters with the excitement I felt on that summer afternoon eight years ago. It’s still one of the happiest days of my life. This is weird, though. It’s years later. Why does he still have pictures of us in hisbedroom?

“Doesn’t this kinda...dampen the mood when you bring women over?” I ask with as much playfulness as I can muster.

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