Page 53 of Fake As Puck
I envision the scene from my living room and laugh. “You did that?”
She laughs. “It wasn’t meant to terrify her. When you’re a parent, you’ll learn how fun it is to mess around with kids. She was a tomato.”
I smile. “She didn’t tell me that one.”
“Tessa says she’s really good with the girls. Are you going to start having children soon?”
“Okay, mom,” I stop her right there. “It’s still new. We live in different states and––”
“Well then, what are you waiting for? Ask her to move in with you.”
I don’t say anything.
My mom continues, “You sound happy.”
I scratch my head and sit on my couch. “Yeah, she was just here. I am happy.”
And the weird thing is, I am happy. For three days, I was happier than I’ve been in months. Maybe years.
Now I’m back to normal, and normal feels like shit.
By evening, I’m going stir-crazy. I’ve cleaned everything, worked out twice, answered all my emails, and organized my closet. I’ve done everything except acknowledge that I miss her.
Which is insane, because she was here for three days. Three days out of my entire life, and somehow she managed to rearrange everything.
I walk past her room on my way to bed and pause outside the closed door.
I could open it. Check to make sure she didn’t leave anything behind. Strip the bed and put the fancy toiletries away and pretend this weekend never happened.
Instead, I keep walking.
Because opening that door feels like I’ll somehow erase her out of my life, and I’m not ready for that yet.
In my own room, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the way she danced in my living room last night. The way she fit against me when we fell asleep on the couch. The way she looked at me during the wedding ceremony.
Three weeks.
I have to wait three weeks to see her again, and already the time feels impossible.
My phone buzzes with a text from her:Made it home safe. Thanks again for everything.
I stare at the message for a long time before typing back:Glad you made it. See you July 1st.
She responds with a thumbs up emoji, and that’s it. End of conversation.
I set my phone aside and try to sleep, but my brain won’t shut up.
This was the plan. Get through the weekend, send her home, wait three weeks, repeat the process for the next wedding.
Clean. Simple. Transactional.
So why does it feel like I just lost something I didn’t even get to have?
13
The LAX baggage claim feels like a different planet after three days in Seattle.
Everything’s too bright, too loud, too chaotic. People are pushing and rushing and generally acting like retrieving luggage is an Olympic sport, and all I want to do is find a quiet corner and pretend I’m still in West’s kitchen, drinking coffee he made and eating eggs he cooked for me.
