Chapter 6 Rachel
My plan to buy a ticket to a Boston Buzzards game was not enough proof of my growth to prevent my grandparents from kicking me out.
They think they’re helping me. All it’s doing is hurting me.
I didn’t think I could be sadder than when I lost Richie.
This is a new low, even for me. Every time I try to convince myself that this might not be horrible, my gram’s words ricochet around my brain
You’ll always have a home with us.
It’s not true anymore.
There’s no such thing as always. At least not for me.
I have to move. I have no choice. But also, the real estate market in Sharon, Massachusetts, where my new office is going to be, is ridiculously expensive, so I’m forced to live a few towns away in Mansfield in order to save about $1000 each month.
My commute will take at least twelve to fifteen minutes, and that doesn’t include any extra time to stop and pet cats along the way.
The apartment complex where I find a rental that won’t break the bank was built in the early ’70s.
No matter what kind of renovations they do on the inside, there’s no disguising it.
It has a sad pool that I’ll probably never go in.
The apartment interior is a wash of tan and white.
From the oak kitchen cabinets to the beige carpets to the white vertical blinds that cover the sliding glass door to the tiny balcony, the whole thing has about as much personality as a piece of dry toast.
Perfect for me.
I mean, it’s not. It’s not at all what I would pick if I were moving into my dream place. This whole thing is more of a nightmare than a dream, sort of like the story of my life. It’s available and cheap, and it’ll do. What other choice do I have?
The past two weeks have been a whirlwind, sapping my already sparse energy.
I currently vacillate between seething and sobbing.
Both are draining. Who knew how tiring it would be to find a place to live, pack up all my stuff, buy furniture, and make sure I have internet?
Adulting totally sucks. I’ve driven up and down I-95 more times in the past fourteen days than I probably have in the last fourteen years.
All the work of getting moved in doesn’t even include my job responsibilities in setting up the new office. My first day there will be September fifth. To soften the blow, Gramps made me South Regional Director. It’s a fancy way of saying I’m in charge in the new office.
It’s a sizeable promotion, complete with a sizeable pay raise, and I’d be honored if I didn’t have to leave my home.
If I wasn’t so alone.
My new place smells weird, like desperation masked with cheap primer. At least it smells better than my day job, though that’s not saying much. The bar’s pretty low for that one.
Through some creative negotiation—okay, I cried in the rental office—I was able to move into my apartment the last week of the month rather than on the first. The delivery truck from Bob’s Discount Furniture is a frequent visitor; my only visitor.
The Target is less than five miles away, and I make that trip at least once, if not twice per day.
That’s all it took to move me out on my own.
Packing up my room at home was harder than I expected it to be.
It’d been easy when I was little, as often as I had to do it.
Mom dropped us off with Gram and Gramps almost yearly and then stumbled back into town to claim us about six months later.
When we were with her, we’d move once or twice, depending on the state of her relationships.
About two months after the last relationship would end, she’d drop us back at Gram and Gramps’s.
I used to be good at packing up all my life’s belongings on a moment’s notice.
This time was different. I’d hoped I’d be so fueled by rage that it wouldn’t bother me. Now, though, when I’m going to sleep in some strange place, I have to face the fact that Richie won’t be with me. She’ll never set foot in this apartment. There will be no trace of her in here.
Whenever we’d spend the first night back with Mom, we’d snuggle in our shared bed, and we’d plan what things we’d have in our house when we grew up.
In the days before Pinterest, we’d snag old Better Homes & Gardens and Martha Stewart Living magazines from Gram and cut out pictures of how our safe haven would be decorated.
Our house. Together. I’m not supposed to be by myself.
The absolute ache I feel in my chest deepens. Some days, I’m afraid to look in the mirror, afraid that there will be a literal hole right through me, where my heart used to be before my sister’s death ripped it out.
I’m on my own, in Target for the billionth time this week, trying to make decisions without any input from her.
It’s a constant reminder she’s not here to pick out furniture or tell me what color shower curtain I should get.
For the record, she’d have picked the peach ruffly one, but I go for something called "Bohemian Stripe" that has turquoise and orange and gold and black designs. It’s not my style either, but I figure the bright colors will break up the monotony of the apartment.
Maybe I can fool myself into cheering up if I mix enough bright colors and bold patterns together.
And even though I’m tempted to get the one she would have picked, I can’t decorate my apartment for her. I have to start living for me. Isn’t that the point of all this? Isn’t that why Gram and Gramps kicked me out?
So here I am, in this new place that feels like a stiff pair of shoes a size too big, with nothing to do except sit with my own emotions, none of them good.
I pick up my phone and open up ClikClak.
The video of Baldpate Road is still getting views.
I re-edit some of the footage and post another video.
Next week, when the new office opens, I’ll have lots of great material.
Until then, I’m trying to be creative with recycling footage from previous job sites.
I finish uploading and go out to the feed, relaxing back on my brand-new Bob-o-pedic couch. I glance up at my brand-new bookshelf, two shelves filled with my all-time favorites. I should read a book. It’s been months since I found solace in the words on a page.
Instead, my gaze drifts back to my phone because it’s easier than getting up and trying to figure out what I’m in the mood to read.
I swipe a few times, barely processing what’s flashing before my eyes.
An ad for concealer. Three videos in a row of people dancing to the same ’80s pop song.
An ad for a weight loss supplement. A guy talking.
I swipe up and then immediately pull the video back down to watch as my brain, lagging behind the speed of my fingers, processes the username.
TJ Doyle.
I’ve read his name so many times that it’s emblazoned in my memory.
Holy shit, it’s the guy who usually cooks practically naked!
How did I not connect his name with those videos before?
Probably because I expected him to be doing something sports-y or with a ball.
Right now, he’s fully dressed—I almost didn’t recognize him disguised in a shirt—sitting on a black couch, talking about his brothers.
But then it shifts into talking about having a sibling with cancer and this charity event he’s doing.
—with me and a few of my Buzzards teammates, then stay for the game as we look to crush the Wave on September first.
September first. That’s the game I said I was going to go to, way back when. Okay, it was only three weeks ago, but it seems like a different lifetime. I click on the link in his bio, and it directs me to the website.
"Meet Boston Buzzards superstars Brandon Nix, Landon Stubbs, TJ Doyle, and goalie Callaghan Entay!"
My heart starts to race. My hands grow clammy.
I might actually be able to do something on Richie’s list. Like, for real.
I can meet this guy, whom she undoubtedly had a crush on because he bears a striking resemblance to Chris Evans, and then I can cross it off.
I don’t think I ever noticed his face before. Damn if my sister didn’t have a type.
After I fill out my name and email, the first question on the list is, "Do you have or have you had a sibling with a life-threatening, life-altering, or terminal medical condition?"
A big ole yupper on that one.
I keep getting prompted to fill out more.
Glioblastoma. Check.
Only sibling. Check.
I pay the fee of $250, which includes a commemorative T-shirt, a professional photo, and two tickets to the game.
I don’t have anyone to take, obviously, but if there’s an open seat next to me, at least I won’t have to make small talk about a sport I know absolutely nothing about. I can probably bring a book to read.
What am I doing? This is stupid. I don’t even like sports. I go back to the website, only to see a huge red banner dashing across the page. "EVENT SOLD OUT."
Did I get the last tickets? What if there’s someone else out there who really wanted them? My buyer’s remorse is immediate and strong, especially at that price point.
My phone dings with a confirmation email. I open it up, looking for contact information so I can try to get out of this. NO REFUNDS.
Dammit.
I open the itinerary and read. Registration begins at 11:30 with the event starting at noon. Then my mouth goes dry, and my heart sinks as I read what I should bring on Saturday. Cleats are preferred. Shin guards. Water will be provided.
Oh no.
I was so excited that I’d get to meet TJ Doyle that I didn’t process what the event was.
It’s not just standing around, shaking hands, and taking pictures like at a comic con.
It’s a soccer clinic. Like where they teach you how to play soccer.
Maybe I should have paid attention to the fact that the whole stupid thing is called Soccer for Sibs.
Me, playing soccer.
That’s got to be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I couldn’t catch a ball if my life depended on it. I’ve never been to a sporting event in my life. I’ve never even watched one on TV. Once I got past middle school PE, I don’t think I’ve touched a ball.
And I paid two hundred and fifty bucks for this.
"You’re expensive even when you’re dead," I yell to the ceiling. Gramps always said Richie had champagne taste on a beer budget. When we were little, we had no idea what he meant by that. Now, I’d say it tracks.
Again, Richie doesn’t answer me. Bitch.
In my apartment by myself, I have between now and Saturday morning to obsessively spiral about what a stupid thing I’ve done, and there’s no one here to stop me.
Usually, that’s said with an evil laugh, but for me, it’s a scary voice inside my heart talking.
I want to call Gram, but I’m trying to stay strong.
Maybe it’s childish, but I’m mad at her for kicking me out.
Rationally, it makes sense not to have me commute all this way, especially considering my punctuality issues.
I don’t feel like being rational.
It’s the hurt that overwhelms me, tasting like bile in my mouth. My mom didn’t want us. My sister had no choice but to leave. My grandparents said I had to go.
It’s hard when no one wants you long enough to stay.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or world-renowned psychologist to figure out that I’d rather be alone than face rejection ever again. I’ll take survival mechanisms for 100, Alex. I’ll work and come back to my ’70s apartment. Maybe I’ll take up a hobby like knitting.
I should get some cats.
Yikes, that’s a dark place to go to. I mean, I love cats, and my grandparents always had at least two at a time my entire life.
Somehow now, that seems like a cry for help.
I need to be strong. I need to be productive.
I need to show them all that I am just fine on my own, and that I don’t need anyone to love me.
I need to be a self-contained unit that doesn’t need anyone or anything.
I will also avoid the animal shelter for now.
If only to give myself something else to focus on, I walk to my new bedroom and try to figure out what I’m going to wear for this soccer thing. There is nothing even remotely athletic in my closet. Or in my suitcase, which has yet to be unpacked because I haven’t assembled my dresser yet.
I sit down on my floor, overwhelmed by the state of my apartment. The state of my life. Everything is all brand new, and I hate all of it. I make a vow to never leave my apartment or speak to anyone again in protest of all the change.
I can almost hear Richie tsk’ing at me from the great beyond. She’d say, "Rach, you’re this close to meeting TJ Doyle. To making physical contact. To sniffing him. Don’t let me down now."
Okay, fine. I can do this one thing from the list. One thing, and one thing only. If Richie has a problem with that, she can come back and haunt me herself.
But now, in all seriousness, what do I wear to this thing?