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The rest of the week really sucks.
I wish I could find a better way to say it—maybe if I was the type of person who did crossword puzzles, I’d be more eloquent—but
honestly, right now, I don’t even have the energy to try. So, there it is. The rest of the weeks really sucks .
John and I haven’t spoken a word since the breakup, and there isn’t any time for us to sort things out, even if we wanted
to. When I finally stopped crying and got around to reading the emails from NYU and the Met, it turns out I wasn’t actually
chosen for the internship initially. But one of the people they chose dropped out unexpectedly, and I was their next choice.
Which means I have to be in New York City in a week.
A week .
I’m conscious, all the time, of how the days would have played out if I’d never started dating John. I would have been deliriously
happy. Every phone call, every email, every decision would have been a thrill. Instead, every step that moves me closer to
my new life is steeped in a thick layer of misery.
When I call Fred to tell him I’m quitting my receptionist job, he actually drives in from home just to berate me for leaving,
pacing furiously around the shop and calling me a “typical flighty woman.” I sit with my hands in my lap, trying not to cry,
until he storms out with a final, furious “For fuck’s sake. It’s shit like this that makes me want to sell this damned shop.”
I know John hears what he said, because he’s in the break room when it happens, but he doesn’t say anything to me afterward,
not even when Dave makes a point of coming to my desk to thump me on the shoulder and say, “Ignore that old prick.”
When I call the owners of my house to let them know I’m leaving, they drop another misery bomb. It turns out they’ve been
thinking of selling the place, and now that I’m moving out, they’re going to put it on the market. I stare at the phone a
long while after they hang up, feeling heavy and cold all over. The last few weeks, when I was starting to sketch out my “stay
in Waldon” plans, I had this secret dream that John and I would buy this house someday. Now, not only are John and I never
going to live together, even if things go to hell in New York I won’t ever be able to come back to my perfect little house.
Telling Mrs. Finnamore, Doris, and Jim the news is its own special species of awful. Well, not Doris, so much—“What are you
looking for, girl? A hug goodbye?”—but Mrs. Finnamore and Jim seem genuinely upset to hear that I’m leaving. Mrs. Finnamore
is still in the hospital, and when I tell her, she gets this awful crinkle in her forehead and gets uncharacteristically flustered,
like she actually was counting on my help when she went home. Jim pats my knee and tells me he’s proud of me, but he’s quieter
than usual the rest of the visit, and he stands on the porch with this strange, faraway look in his eyes as he watches me
get in my car and drive away.
Rose and Trey, at least, are excited for me, and Kiara does a decent job pretending to be happy, but I can tell she’s totally
on John’s side. And why shouldn’t she be? He’s her brother. I’m the jerk who doesn’t think he’s worth staying in Waldon for.
“No, I get it,” she says hollowly, on our last morning coffee date. “It’s like I said, right? Your happiest lives just aren’t compatible.”
I fiddle with my coffee cup. “It’s not just that I’m going to New York. It’s that he doesn’t understand why I have to go. Or why I think that he’s... ”
“What?”
I clear my throat. “That he’s settling.”
A strange expression flits over her face, and for a split second, I’m sure she agrees with me. She’s heard John complain about
Fred. She’s seen how much happier he is at the racetrack.
John wasn’t lying when he said that he’s happy. He is happy. But he could be happier. And that prickly feeling I’ve had in
my gut... it’s the resentment I have toward him for not trying harder.
Kiara is silent for a moment, swirling her coffee around without drinking it. “I think he really loved you,” she says finally.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I think I really loved him too. But love isn’t a substitute for happiness.”
Her lips turn up in a joyless smile. “Love isn’t a substitute for happiness,” she echoes.
From there I go to the bank, where I sign the paperwork for my new student loan. I’ve taken out a federal loan, which I’ll
use to pay for NYU as well as the payments on my existing provincial student loan. Because it’s never a bad idea to use one
loan to pay off another, right?
I did get a little discount on my dorm room, since I’m moving in at a weird time and agreed to be a dorm supervisor for the
younger students, but it’s all still going to cost an atrocious amount of money. I’ll be lucky if I make it out on the other
side with less than a hundred thousand in debt.
God, this had better be worth it.
The miserable days tick by, one after another. Even doing Wordle is depressing. All it does is remind me of John, and if I
hit three hundred and sixty-five days, I’ll do it alone in New York. Once, at the shop, John walked into the break room while
I was doing Wordle, and just for a moment, I thought he wanted to say something. But then Dave ambled in and the moment was
broken.
It’s just as well. There’s nothing good that can come of us talking. I’ve argued with him a thousand times in my head, and
it always ends up the same way.
Before I know it, it’s my last night in Waldon. I order a pizza (I’ve already spent about a thousand dollars this week on
New York stuff, what’s another twenty bucks that I don’t have?) and eat it while I wander the empty rooms of my house. Even
though all the furniture is still there—it belongs to the real owners, not me—the house looks barren and depressing without
all my stuff, like my fridge magnets and stacks of books. All of those have been stuffed into five large boxes and a suitcase
that my parents will pick up when they get back from New Zealand next week to store at their place. The two suitcases I’m
taking with me on my flight to New York are already packed and set out by the front door.
I glance up as the doorbell rings. I’m not expecting anyone, unless the pizza guy’s come back to tell me my credit card payment
didn’t go through.
I walk to the front door, swing it open, and there’s John, looking as handsome as ever in a hoodie and jeans.
“Hey,” I say uncertainly.
“Hey.” He holds out a sweater, which I recognize as mine. “You left this at my place. I just found it in the dryer. Figured I’d get it back to you before you left.”
“Oh.” I take it from him. “Right. Thanks.”
“No problem.” There’s a long beat of awkward silence. “’Kay, well. Night.”
My heart twists painfully. “Night.”
I wait for him to walk away, but he just keeps standing there, not quite looking at me. I open my mouth to say—something,
I’m not quite sure what—but he beats me to it.
“I do have a dream job.”
I blink. “What?”
He clears his throat. “A dream job. You know, like that weird list you have.”
“It’s not weird .” Then, hesitantly, “So... what is it?”
He clears his throat again. “I want to own the shop. I know it’s not that big or important, but... I don’t know.” He rocks
on his heels. “You were right. Not about everything, I mean. I still think you’re—well.” He shakes his head. “I guess it doesn’t
matter anymore. But I have been bored with the shop. Fred’s made enough to retire, so I don’t think he cares how much money
we make or about branching out at all. And there’s a huge market for performance services, which is way more interesting.
Plus I’ve always thought it would be cool to restore vintage race cars. I’ve got a buddy who does it in Ontario, and he’s
doing pretty well off it. And the shop could look cool if someone actually put some money into it, like a real vintage car
shop.”
I turn the idea over in my mind. I’ve seen enough of the YouTube videos he watches to kind of understand what he has in mind. Camel-colored leather couches, chrome fixtures, maybe some old-fashioned posters of vintage cars...
“That would be cool,” I say. “And you’d be great at it.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe Fred will sell the shop to me, if I offer him a decent price. I think he’s getting
fed up with it. Dealing with flighty receptionists and everything.” His eyes crinkle at the edges, the old John flashing through
for a second.
My lips turn up. “You know what they say about women—hire them as receptionists for your auto shop, and a year or two later,
they’ll leave to do an internship at the Met.”
“It’s a stereotype for a reason,” John says.
We smile at each other a little cautiously.
“You’d be great at running a race car shop,” I say honestly.
“A performance shop,” he corrects.
“Ooh, you should call it ‘Race Cars ‘R’ Us.’”
He smiles. “See, this is why you should stick around and help. I never would’ve thought of such an exceptionally terrible
name.”
I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. Does he mean that?
I study his face. He’s smiling like it’s just a joke, but there’s something underneath his expression, a seriousness that
grows deeper as the silence stretches out.
“John...”
“You like it here, Em. I know you do. You could make a go of your caregiving business, and there’s bound to be a job at a
museum here, someday. I know it’s not some big, fancy city, but... you could be happy here.”
My throat grows a little tighter. I rub my arms against the chill of the evening air. “I know,” I say quietly. “It’s not that I wasn’t happy here, it’s just...”
“That you think you can be happier somewhere else.”
I nod jerkily. “It’s not that I want to leave... but I can’t stay. It’s too big.” I look up at him, willing him to understand. “It’s too big,” I say again.
“It’s my life.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Or rather, I can read it—the sharp flash of disappointment, the impulse to argue, the deep swell of regret—but I can’t do anything to fix
it.
I meant what I said. This opportunity is too big.
“Okay,” he says finally. “I mean, it isn’t okay.” He lets out a funny, strangled laugh. “But... okay.”
I blink quickly, fighting back sudden tears. I almost wish we could snap at each other again. This—this polite, quiet acceptance—is
a hundred times more painful.
“I’m going to miss you,” I say. “So much.”
One corner of his mouth turns up. “Me too.”
We stare at each other for another moment, then he clears his throat. “Okay, well. I’d better go.”
I swipe a hand over my cheeks. “Right. Yeah.”
“Good luck. I hope it’s... yeah. Everything you want.” He leans down to kiss me—my cheek, I think—but I shift to catch
his lips with mine. It lasts just a second, not nearly enough.
“Night,” he says, pulling away.
“Night,” I echo. I rub my arms again. The evening air feels twice as cold now that he’s stepped away.
He’s halfway down the driveway when I hear myself speak again.
“Want to stay?”
He turns. “What?”
“Want to stay,” I repeat. “I know we’re—y’know. Broken up. But I just thought...” I trail off for a moment. “I don’t know.
Wouldn’t you rather end things on a good note?”
He stares at me again, and for a minute, I think he’s going to tell me no. But then he lets out a long, heavy breath, and
the lines of his face relax a bit. “Yeah, all right.”
I lick my lips, and nod a bit shakily. “Well... good.” I try to summon up a brighter tone. “We can watch a movie or something.
Plus, the people who own this place asked me to clear out all the cupboards for them, and I found a ninety-dollar bottle of
wine that they’ve clearly forgotten about. I’d say it’s our duty to drink it, don’t you?”
With obvious effort, John puts on a smile.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess so.”
I put on a movie— Anne of Green Gables, one last time—and we sip on wine and eat the rest of the pizza I ordered. It’s a bit awkward at first. (Really awkward, if
I’m being honest.) We’re not together anymore—but we don’t feel quite as broken up anymore either. For the first half of the
movie, there’s a stiffness in both of our shoulders, and when our hands brush reaching for a slice of pizza, we flinch apart
like strangers.
But as Anne and Diana cry onscreen over the end of their friendship, something shifts in the air between us. Farewell, my beloved friend, Anne says. Henceforth, we must be strangers living side by side.
John exhales heavily and reaches his arm out to me, and I curl up in it without saying a word. I don’t think about New York,
or Waldon, or the fissure-like pain spreading through my heart. Tomorrow will come, whether I’m miserable about it or not.
For now, I just want to breathe in the smoky scent of John’s skin and sink into the warmth of his arms.
When Matthew dies at the end, I cry, but then John says, “Wait, who was that guy again?,” which makes me laugh a little through
my tears. He swipes the tears away with his thumb, and before I know it, we’re kissing, as if nothing bad has ever happened
between us. The real world is out there, threatening to swallow us up, but if anything, it only makes every moment with him
sweeter, an undercurrent of pain that throws our time together into sharper focus.
His mouth moves over my fingertips, my wrists; his fingers dig into my thighs as I shift into his lap, letting my head fall
back as his lips find my neck. The sound of his breathing is loud in my ears; the urgent heat in my veins is growing stronger.
His hand shifts between us, two strong fingers slipping beneath layers of cloth to send widening rings of pleasure through
my body. As we stumble to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in the hall, I give myself over to the feel of his mouth
and his hands, and I try not to think of it as a goodbye.
In the morning, I wake up five minutes before my alarm goes off. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the half-bottle of wine I drank,
or maybe it’s some internal alarm warning me I only have five minutes left with John.
It’s too dark to see his face, but I can hear the soft, deep sounds of his breath. I shift closer to him and feel him stir as I lay my head on his chest.
“’Larm go off?” he mumbles.
“Not yet,” I whisper. “Five more minutes.”
His warm arms wrap around me and I feel his breathing even out again. I must fall asleep again, too, because I’m woken up
by my alarm blaring angrily. I turn it off as quickly as I can, but it’s too late. The moment is broken.
It’s time to go.
I slip out of bed and get ready for the day, pulling on comfortable clothes for the plane and braiding my hair into two French
braids. At 5:15 a.m., I sit down on the edge of the bed and put my hand on John’s shoulder.
“John,” I whisper. “I’ve got to go.”
He blinks blearily in the dim light and then drags himself out of bed to walk me to the door. He’s still half asleep, but
he wakes up as he helps me lug my suitcases to the car.
“Is that it?” he asks.
I know he’s talking about the luggage, but the words still cut down to my bones.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That’s it.”
We look at each other. Crickets chirp in the darkness. He moves first, wrapping his arms around me tightly. I press my face
into his shoulder. I am not going to cry.
“Drive safe,” he says.
I nod into his chest. “Will do.”
We stay like that for another few seconds, then I lean up to kiss him.
Our last kiss , whispers a voice in the back of my mind. And yeah, that’s no good. I’m definitely crying now.
I pull away first and say, in a strangled voice, “I hope things work out with the shop. You’d be really great at it.”
“Thanks. You too. With the museum stuff, I mean.”
“You don’t think I could run a racing performance shop?”
He smiles thinly. “No,” he says. “I guess not.”
For a brief, painful second, I let myself imagine staying here. I know he’s not really expecting me to stay and help him run
an auto shop, but I think I can picture the future we could have together. Me, coming home from a day of caregiving work to
laugh with him about whatever mean things Doris said, while he tells me about the new bit of equipment he’s ordering, or asks
my opinion on which billing system to buy. Going to dinners with Kiara and Jake and his parents, looking for houses together,
embedding ourselves fully in our happy Waldon life.
I swallow hard. “Well—bye, then.”
He lets out a heavy breath. “Bye.”
We look at each other a moment, then there’s nothing to do but turn away and get in my car. He stands barefoot in the driveway
and watches as I back onto the road. I raise my hand in one last wave, then I put the car in drive and pull away. I watch
my mirrors, wondering if he’ll walk to the end of the driveway to watch me go, but if he does, it’s too dark to see it. At
the end of the street, I turn left at the stop sign, and that’s it.
On to my next life.