Page 64 of When We Were Younger

There are boxes of products sent to me by brands over the years piled in the corner, makeup and skincare that is long expired. Kitchen gadgets, pseudoscience vitamins, and beige accessories for beige water bottles. I turn over the boxes, emptying the contents to the ground. I stomp on a few things, watching the heel of my shoe break through the cheap plastic. Colored powder stains my beige rug. I don't care.

I go to my room next. I strip my bed of my stupid beige sheets and my stupid beige comforter. I consider lighting a match, setting the Egyptian cotton on fire and watching it burn. I quickly tamp down that temptation. Even in this state I'm in, I know not to fuck with an open flame in Malibu.

In my closet, I pull out one of my travel bags and start tossing in the clothes that I didn't deem worthy enough to bring to Tennessee with me. I change from the sweatpants into a pair of leggings and trade my heels in for a pair of Gucci sneakers, and then I take the framed photo of Kira, Rachel, Georgie and me out by the ocean off my bedside table and tuck it into the zippered pocket inside the bag.

I pull out my phone and order another Uber, bound for LAX for the second time today.

On my way, I google realtors to reach out to in the new year, as well as someone I can hire to throw out the garbage in my house and donate anything worthy of charity.

I hate Los Angeles. I hate Malibu. I just fucking hate it here. I'm sick and tired of being sad. I'm sick and tired of being lonely. So, I'm going to go somewhere that feels like home.

A few hourslater and another impossibly small coach seat later–because, no, I still didn't call in the private jet favor–I'm in an Uber pulling up to Kira's old Victorian house in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco. I thought about getting a hotel, and then I considered going to Georgie's place. But ultimately, I decided I wanted to rot away all alone somewhere familiar.

Plus, Kira's couch is stupid comfortable.

I type the lock code into the pin pad on Kira's front door and let myself into the dimly lit entryway. It's oddly warm in here, and for a moment I think Kira must have left her heat on while she was gone before I remember that Rachel has been staying here for a few days, eversince her breakup with Amir. She's at her dad's place for the holiday, but maybe she and I can commiserate over our broken hearts when she gets back to the city.

I meander into the living room and plop myself down on the couch. There's a pillow and blanket already laid out here; from Rachel I'm assuming, since they both smell like her lemon-y lavender soap. I hate that one of my best friends is in pain, but there's something oddly comforting curling up in the same place as Rachel was while I lick my wounds. I'm sure once I'm done with this couch, Keeks will rename it something silly like 'The Heartbreak Hotel'.

My stomach rumbles, and I yank my phone out of my pocket. I don't even bother to check the kitchen. I know Kira didn't leave anything here and Rachel's inability to put together a proper meal on a good day is abysmal. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd spent her time here subsisting on only the Pirouette cookies that in a tin on the coffee table. It's nearing midnight, and it's Christmas day, so my food delivery options are limited. Basically, I have the choice between pizza, Taco Bell, and Chinese food.

Georgie says nothing fixes a bad day like a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. Rachel swears a Crab Rangoon can mend all wounds. Kira thinks a meat-lover's pizza can fill the cracks in a person's heart.

To be safe, I order all three, then pour myself a glass of wine from an unopened bottle sitting on the kitchen counter.

I turn on the TV and letA Christmas Storyplay whileI wait for my food to be delivered, opting for the 'leave it at the door' option. I'm not embarrassed by my emotional eating, but I don't need to see some random on an electric bike judging my Christmas Dinner, thank you very much.

When the food is all here and unwrapped, I sink into the couch, my plate piled high with food. Packets of Fire Sauce, soy sauce, and ranch litter the coffee table. I make a quick note to check Kira's cabinet for some Pepto and then dive in.

I take a bite of a taco and try not to think about the bow of Stephen's upper lip.

I dip a slice of pizza in ranch and try not to remember the glow of the moonlight on his skin as he slept peacefully in his bed.

I drink my wine and try not to think about Stephen telling me he loves me as I plotted my escape from his arms.

I fail.

I crack open a fortune cookie, looking for some sort of cosmic purpose to the pain I've inflicted on myself over the last few weeks.

A danger foreseen is half avoided.

Yeah, no shit. That's why I avoided Kira's attempts to get me back to Fox Hole for all those years. I knew it was dangerous. I knew how much it would hurt if Stephen had rejected me, but even more, I knew how easily I could slip back into his life if he let me. I knew how easily I could fall back in love with him, so I stayed away.

I should've stayed away. Because now it's all ruined. There are no third chances. Even if there were, I wouldn't deserve it.

I lie my head down and cry into the pillow, praying that I can exorcise the pain away through my tears.

When I fall asleep with an ache in my chest, I lie to myself and blame it on the food.

36

STEPHEN

There is one thing in life that I know to be an absolute truth.

Kira McKenna scares the shit out of me.

Thank god she was here when I needed her.

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