Page 14 of Fun Together
I shake my head.
“Sorry, I thought I mentioned it.” Did he purposely not mention it? Have I been forcing this “staying friends” thing? Come to think of it, I am always the one to text him first. He always texts back, but am I bothering him?
“Have you two hung out a lot since he’s been back?”
He shrugs. “A few times. We both have a lot going on and I’ve been gearing up for my trip.”
“Speaking of,”—I roll his suitcase around from behind my couch—“it’s all yours.”
“Thanks. Sorry if you were still needing it.”
“No, I’m sorry. I should have gotten it back to you months ago.”
As he pulls it closer to him, I notice that it still has the airline tag from a trip we took to Chicago last March because the flight was so cheap. A trip that ended with us not being an “us” anymore.
Pretty sure he notices it, too.
“You have any plans coming up or been anywhere recently?” he asks, chewing some more on his cheek. He’s going to break skin soon. I can’t tell if he’s curious or just trying to make small talk.
“No. Not really.” I cross my arms, wishing I could burrow inside that glitter-covered sweatshirt right now. It’s all catching up to me now.
Whydon’tI have plans?
Why am Inothaving fun?
Whycouldn’tI just say yes?
I lied about never being able to get a read on those mysterious eyes of his. The night I told him I wasn’t going to marry him, I watched them fill with the dawning realization that he’d done something he avoided at all costs. Something so deeply instilled in him that he couldn’t help but worry about keeping my statistics notes pristine the first day I met him.
He’d made a mistake.
It wasn’t the first time I’d felt like a mistake to someone, but I needed it to be my last.
“Well. . .” He rolls the suitcase back and forth a few times. “I should probably get going.”
I wonder if he resents me. If, when he sees my texts appear on his phone with some stupid reference to our shared past, he wishes I’d just leave him alone. Was he driving over here this morning telling himself this is the last thing he must do, the last item he needs to check off before he can be done with me?
I spent most of my late teen years watching my mom’s exes leave with the last of their belongings. She’d sigh and light her cigarette, not even bothering to watch them pull out of the driveway. I’d always watch them, though. And even then, I kind of understood they were better off leaving.
I need to let him go.
I give him a strained smile. “Have fun in Amsterdam and be sure to eat a stroopwafel for me.”
He nods. “I will.” And with an awkward wave, he’s gone.
The click of the lock echoes through my apartment. Now the boxes filling my hallway feel less like a task I’ve been too lazy to complete and more like a reminder of the self-imposed pause I’ve put on my life.
Captain Morgan mocks me from his perch, so sure of himself and his place.You’ll never unpack me, he sneers and gestures to my pathetic lack of furniture.You have no storage options.
I turn him around so he’s facing the wall.
I dig through the Grey Goose box until I find the hammer and nails my grandpa gave me when I first moved to Raleigh for school.
“Make sure you find a stud first,” he’d said. “You don’t want a paintin’ to come crashing down on your head in the middle of the night. See this knot?” He pointed to a spot just above his brow. “The dogs decided to play poker on my forehead.”
I smile at the memory.
I find the lipstick ad in another box and hang it prominently by the front door. Now, this blonde model with beehive hair and bubblegum pink lips will greet me every day when I get home. She looks good, like she belongs there.
