Page 50 of The Other Side of Apart
Marcus: Turns out, I like cute, small things around. In fact, now that we have Charlie, I’ve solidly landed on wanting 4 kids. I hope they’re fuzzy like him.
Mei: 4??????? Are you volunteering to be the pregnant one??
Charlie paws at my feet as I dry a bowl and put it in the cupboard, then I scoop him up. He nuzzles into my chest, purring. It’s so nice to have him around when Marcus isn’t, and I’m just happy I got to keep him. It was a close one since Marcus has never had a pet, and I wasn’t even sure how much he liked animals. I wish I would have recorded Marcus’s face—eyes wide, completely still for the first time since I’ve known him, like Charlie was going to rip his throat out or something. But by Christmas afternoon, Marcus patted his lap for Charlie to come sit, and by that night, he was talking to Charlie in a new voice, kind of like a boy voice mixed with high-pitched old lady. That’s when I knew Charlie had a forever home.
I finish cleaning the dishes, my movements slow and sluggish like the rest of my body has been all day. I picture the bed, my pillows, warm blankets, and wonder if I should take a quick nap. I’ve been so tired lately. Yes, we stay up late, and some of my shifts have been earlier, but I’m full-body exhausted, like I’m coming down with the flu and want to sit and cry for no reason. It could be the long winter and the piles of snow in every direction, surrounding us like barriers. When we got to Indiana, I was so excited about seeing snow for the first time. I’m so over it all. Maybe I really do just need a nap.
I dry my hands and shuffle into the bedroom. The door to our closet is partially open, so I push it as I pass, but it won’t close. I investigate.
Marcus’s duffle is blocking the door. It must have fallen off the shelf. I bend to pick it up, and it’s heavy, even though we emptied our bags when we moved in. Marcus must have left a few things in his.
I place the duffle on the bed, unzip it, and peer inside at a few of Marcus’s books that lie abandoned, untouched. We did a lot of research of our own, and by the time we left Vegas, he didn’t need books anymore. I smile, picking up one of them and flipping through it. I stop on Marcus’s notes and…sketches. Diagrams. I turn the book, tilt my head, and laugh out loud as I take a picture of his notes with my phone and send it to him as a reminder of his pre-wedding assumptions.
Mei: Oh really…? Is that how it works…?
Setting my phone aside, I pick up another book and finger through it, stopping on a Q&A., like he was quizzing himself on what he read. I pick up the last one, scan the title, and am forever grateful he didn’t shy away from it, but before I can read anything written inside, a note slips from the pages and drops on my feet.
I snatch it up and unfold it, ready to see more Marcus diagrams, but it’s written on The Palazzo notepaper and the handwriting isn’t Marcus’s:
TO THE ESTEEMED MR. MILLER,
YOU AND MEI LI SHOULD HAVE FOUND A BETTER HIDING PLACE. I’LL COUNT TO 3…
My mouth goes dry, and my hands shake, the pads of my finger burning against the paper. I can feel bruises on my face, around my neck. My throat tightens, and Nick’s hands are around it again. My body throbs with the memory of his face, his dark eyes, empty except for anger and hatred. I force away the memories and remind myself, once again, that they’re of a past life. But this time, they’re not so easily shoved away becausethey’ve crept into my new life and twisted around my bright, happy, recent memories. Nick wrote this in Vegas—that means he found us. And if Marcus has this note, he knew. He packed us up. He left the motorcycle. He picked me up at work, and with no explanation, drove us to the bus station in a stolen car where we left our life behind to, once again, start another.
Marcus kept it all from me. He lied to me. For months.
Hot tears burn my cheeks, my chest tight as my lungs struggle to find air. But there isn’t enough, and when my stomach lurches, I scramble to my feet, dart to the bathroom, and throw up in the toilet.
CHAPTER 27
Two days of power outages postponed too many indoor soccer games and wrecked my paycheck. No games, no ref. No ref, no money, and I really wanted that TV like the one I bought at Stanford and had to leave behind. There’s always the diamonds. I’ve never wanted to dig through Mei’s girl supplies so bad. But then again…how am I gonna haul a TV back to Stanford with us when the day finally comes? Hopefully. Five months and counting. Still no reports of Nick rotting in jail.
I walk past a guy about my age sitting on a bench, soaking in the weak sun rays as he studies and devours a Little Debbie. I’m starving, and the Little Debbie makes my stomach rumble, but I almost falter in my steps when my eyes land on the guy’s chemistry textbook; it’s been months since I’ve touched a textbook. Been too busy studying Mei, and she’s definitely my favorite subject, so I’m not complaining or anything. But still…I miss it. Miss a life that slipped through my fingers because of some loser we can’t shake. If Nick didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be walking down this random street in the middle of nowhere Indiana hoping he gets locked up or shot soon so I can make it back to California in time. If Nick no longer existed, I’d be running the field, going to class, and then going home everynight to study chemistryandMei. We could’ve had everything. Wehadit all. I might be able to get it back, but my motivation has been wearing down with every passing week.
My legs are heavy and my head throbs with loss and resentment that always stirs during this walk home, unsettled by students and progress and futures. Brutal reminders of this wasted time. But every time I walk through our door, I remind myself that Mei’s way more than enough, and I have to be enough for her, too. From the moment I met her, I couldn’t stay away, so now…here we are, but at least we’re together.
I swing open the apartment door, close it behind me, and drop my keys on the counter. Charlie jumps up to greet me then flops to his side, begging me for a belly rub. I give in like I do every day, and his purr vibrates the countertop. I catch sight of Mei lying on the couch in the fetal position and abandon the belly rub. “Oh. Hey. What are you doing home? Weren’t you scheduled for this afternoon?”
“Not feeling well.”
“Ooh …” I hate seeing her like this but don’t wanna get too close; can’t afford to get sick right now, even though she would never act like this if I were the one not feeling well. She once spent three hours pulling cactus needles out of my butt in Vegas after I’d basically fallen asleep on my feet during a hike and slid through a cactus patch.
“Stomach virus? Or was it my bad attempt at Mexican last night?”
She sits up, and her face is blotchy, eyes swollen. “Not sure.”
“What happened?” I kick off my shoes and go sit beside her, but she stands and walks toward the kitchen table. I visually follow her as she picks up a piece of paper and holds it up. My eyes skitter across it. I freeze.
“Want to tell me now why we left Vegas?” Her tone is cold, sharp, and I’m suddenly achy, like I’ve fallen in a cactus patch allover again. This time, though, I’m wide awake, my brain flicking through the series of events that led her to finding the note. She sent me a picture earlier of the sketches I’d drawn in my books. I didn’t even think about what else was in them. Now I’m gonna puke. I’d prefer that to talking about the note in her hand.
Instead, I vomit words. “I was working, and I found that note on the valet desk. I freaked.” I shake my head, swallowing as I relive the moment. “Stole a car, called you to make sure you were okay. Then I went to our apartment. The whole place was trashed. Like Nick, or whoever, was looking for something. You? Me? I don’t know. Didn’t know what to do, so I packed our stuff and picked you up, and now we’re here. I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t have handled the look in your eyes. Maybe it was selfish, yeah, but I wanted to protect you from it.” My chest relaxes, like pulling out the words created new space where I can breathe again.
“So you lied.” The accusation barely makes it out of her, like she’s afraid of it.
My eyes snap to hers. “Mei, I?—”
“Even when I begged to know the truth, you lied. There was never an immigration officer.” Her voice is louder, fury seeping into it. “I knew…I knew it was something else.” She clutches her stomach, breathing hard and staring at the floor before darting to the bathroom.
