Page 131 of Backslide
And so he goes.
29NELLIETODAY
By the time I wake up, Noah is gone. I can tell by the way the space feels before I see the clues. The actual negative space. The holes he left.
The suite feels empty.
And so do I.
I pick up the itinerary. The final day says: “Day 6:Goodbye to All That…” I scan the code and Semisonic starts belting out “Closing Time.” Because… of course.
And it’s silly, but I am an easy target and even that makes my eyes well.
There’s a lump in my throat the size of Texas—or maybe it’s California. Either way, it’s obstructing my airways. I feel like I can’t breathe.
And I know this feeling. Because I have been here before. Decades ago. When I left for LA alone.
Only today, I am making the opposite journey. I am leaving California for New York. For home. And instead of being unsure of whatto expect, of what adventures might be in store, I know exactly what awaits me—right down to the Jenni Kayne and Clare V. catalogues waiting in my mailbox. The Con Edison bills. The flyers for Thai and Mexican takeout and cheap movers wedged into my doorjamb.
The bodega cat has surely missed snarling at me.
I am packing up my suitcase, burying my face in my Dillon Beach T-shirt, which still smells vaguely of him, and trying not to cry, when I hear someone come up behind me. I whip around, hoping it’s Noah. But it’s someone much shorter and less complicated. Someone to whom I owe a massive apology.
“CB,” I say. “You came.”
And then I burst into tears.
She crosses the room and hugs me, hard. Lets me blow my nose on her super-soft top.
“It’s okay,” she keeps saying. “It’s going to be okay.”
And not for the first time, I think, her kids are so lucky to have her as a mom.
I finally take a wheezing breath and pull back, looking into her concerned face.
“I’m sorry!” I say. “I should be begging for your forgiveness and instead I’m weeping all over you.”
“No, don’t apologize,” Cara says. “I like it.”
“You like it?”
“Well,likemight be the wrong word. But at least you’re letting me in. That’s all I really wanted.”
We settle quietly beside each other on the bed, my rattled breaths coming slower and slower until I am almost calm.
I bite my lip, toy with the seam of the T-shirt in my hands, then I dare to sneak a peek at my best friend. She is no longer trying on the new boho vibe. Instead, she’s wearing one of her signature French striped tees, tailored army-green shorts, her hair back. And whenI look at her, I can see the her from today, of course. But I can also see so many versions of her—the kid I first met, the math genius, the teenager, the college student, the twentysomething, the career woman killing it, the mom.
The person who took so many shots last night and is somehow still standing.
There’s a clear path from the beginning to now. Yet, she scratches her head like she’s confused about how we landed here.
I know I am so lucky to have her. I can’t believe I ruined her party—there’s a knot in my stomach that feels like it will never loosen.
And that’s what I deserve—because what kind of lifelong friend destroys your un-wedding? That’s been in the works for months and months, maybe even longer? Because Cara has been talking about getting us all together—ourBig Chillmoment sans the funeral—foryearsnow.
The self-loathing is real.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, when I can finally will myself to speak, though it isn’t enough. “I know I can say that a thousand times and it won’t change how last night ended. But I’m still just going to keep saying it: I’m sorry, CB. That’s not how I wantedanythingto go. That’s not what you deserve.”
