5. 1995
Chapter five
1995
Sam
W hat in the world just happened?
Left standing on Maria’s doorstep, tension builds with each passing second. The contents of the mysterious envelope hold my sole focus.
A letter I’m not sure I want to read.
The world comes to a halt, and my racing heartbeat fills my ears. When Maria walked out of the house with her shoulders slumped and her expression full of sadness, I knew something wasn’t right. Plus, my girl looked exhausted. The first thing that caught my attention was the dark circles under her puffy eyes, which is why I assumed she was sick. That coupled with her coming to the door in her PJs when she knew we had a date tonight.
Thoughts are swirling around in my head like a tornado. I look back at my car, wondering if I should stay or leave, and that’s when it catches my eye, making me pause and take a second look. I notice a vibrant red Corvette parked on the street. The streetlights reflecting off of its polished surface. My nerves were so shot when I arrived, I didn’t see the obnoxious car.
Clearly out of place in this middle-class neighborhood.
Whose car is that?
What is going on ?
I have no clue how to reconcile this in my head, so I do the only thing that makes the most sense. Mustering up the courage and with a swift motion, I tear open the envelope. Paper ripping fills the air, mixing with the crickets as my eyes scan the words written on the letter.
Dear Sam,
I am so sorry, but I have to be honest with you. I’ve met someone. Chad, my manager at the warehouse. I am in love with him.
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me and move on. I want you to be as happy as I am. You deserve to be happy.
Regards,
Maria
My throat has gone completely dry, and heat is rising in my body. I’m pretty sure my head is going to explode, and I’m suddenly weak in the knees. I stumble backward, running my fingers through my hair.
Wait. Did I just read that right? Because there is no way.
As I read and reread the letter, the words seem to blur together, leaving me more and more confused.
She’s met someone?
Chad?
She’s in love with him?
None of this makes sense.
Yet, it does. This would explain why she has been acting strangely. The distant behavior, the shorter hugs, the quick phone calls. But why? Why would she throw this away? Two months ago, we were talking about baby names for our future children while I cuddled her on the couch.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to ease the instant headache I have. This can’t be it. I need more answers. The light is on, so I know she is still in the living room. Breathing heavily with determination, I march up the remaining steps and knock on the door.
“Maria! Maria, open the door and come out here so we can talk.”
Nothing.
I pound on the door, this time with my fist, the metal cold on my flesh. “Come on! I know you’re in there.” Why isn’t she coming out? “Maria! Please don’t do this!”
Silence.
I continue to beat on the door, the force jolting through my body. “MARIA!!” I scream, not caring who can hear me. More pounding. “Maria, please!”
Crickets.
I’m out of breath as I rest my forehead on the door, my hand sprawled on the cool aluminum, unsure of what to do next. Suddenly, I’m shrouded in darkness as the porch light goes off. I take a step back, peering at the door. The click of the lock follows, then the living room goes dark.
Well, there you have it. Message sent and received.
Fifteen minutes ago, I was pacing back and forth in my apartment, trying to calm my nerves at the thought of proposing to this incredible woman.
Now, I’m standing on her porch … and she’s gone. She’s left me in the dark, both literally and figuratively. Just like that.
I look down at the letter, fold it in half, and shove it in my pocket. As I turn to leave, I glance one last time at the house. A house that minutes ago felt like a second home. Now, it will forever be the crime scene that is my life. And all I can think is … she’s behind that closed door with someone new. Someone better. Chad.
With my heart and entire future shattered in one fell swoop, I walk to my car, feeling the weight of rejection in every step. Hanging my head in defeat, I get into the rust bucket. I mean, what else am I supposed to do? If she doesn’t want me, I’ll leave. I’m not about to make a fool out of myself and beg. Even though I feel a pull to do just that … beg. Force her to tell me what is going on. But I won’t .
Honestly, I think I may be in shock. I’m numb.
Once I start the car, Michael Bolton’s voice blares from the cassette player, singing about love. With force, I jab the off button. He’s the last thing I want to hear right now. I reverse out of the driveway and yank the gearshift into drive. As I inch forward, I pull my beat-up Ford Taurus alongside the shiny red Corvette and stop.
Chad’s Vette.
The contrast of the two cars mirrors the two men who own them. Rich and fancy versus poor and regular. As I stare at the car, the reason for her choice becomes obvious.
Maria wants shiny. And I am dull.
Who wouldn’t choose the Corvette?
Maybe I didn’t know her at all. I guess some things I’ll never know.
With that thought, I angrily press my foot to the gas pedal until it hits the floor. The tires screech on the blacktop road, and I race away, wishing my Taurus was the Corvette she wants.
As soon as I step foot into our —I mean, my apartment—I throw the door shut, causing the walls to shake. Anger is radiating off my body. Kicking my loafers off, I head straight for the fridge, grab a Heineken, and pop off the cap. The cold iciness of the beer coats my throat as the first swig goes down. It does nothing to help the dull ache in my heart. I chug the whole thing practically in one gulp as I pace the floor. Frustrated, I tug at my hair, hoping to find some relief from the intense emotions that are coursing through me. I plop down on the couch, not knowing what to do next. With this night or my life.
I slam the beer down on the stained, used Formica coffee table, which shakes on impact. I reach into my pocket and pull out the letter to read it again.
Then again.
And again.
One more time .
I can’t take this anymore.
Anger swells in my chest as I ball up the letter and crash it down on the coffee table. The force of my fist causes the legs to give out on the piece of crap. The table breaks and crashes onto the old brown carpet. Along with my beer. I stare and watch as the alcohol pours out, soaking the carpet.
Something about this dumb coffee table breaking sets me off.
With force, I grab the bottle off the floor and throw it at the wall. It shatters, sending shards of glass all over the living room.
I need to release this rage—or heartbreak—that consumes me. I throw my arms and head back and scream. “AAAAHHHHH!” The primal and rage-filled sound that erupts from my throat causes my voice to strain. I fall to my knees, the beer puddle seeping through my pants.
Then I cry.
I cover my face and let it out. I cry like I’m a toddler who just got their favorite stuffed animal thrown away. Because that’s what happened. My favorite person in the universe is gone.
I give myself the time I need to cry this out. Alone. Because now, that’s what I am.
After a few minutes, I pick myself off of the floor and wipe away any evidence of my breakdown from my face. Then, I make a promise to myself.
I will never cry a single tear for her again.
And I mean it. Not one tear.
As I walk over to the fridge to get another beer, my legs feel as heavy as my heart. A wave of emotional exhaustion takes over. Having a total freak out takes a lot out of you, I guess.
I open the door, the light from the inside illuminating my dark apartment. I peer down, and I’m met with a package of wrapped processed cheese, a box of baking soda, and a questionable carton of milk. No beer in sight. I’m out. Because, of course, I am.
I slam the door shut in anger, and it shakes on its hinges. Stepping over the debris of the broken coffee table, I reach for the phone and pick it up. I would go to the store to get more, but I don’t trust that I won’t drive to her house and break Chad’s face. So, I call the one person who I know will be here with a six-pack in hand. No questions asked.
I dial my best friend Ricky’s number. Ricky and I grew up together on the same street, two houses away from each other. Since I have three sisters, he is the closest thing I have to a brother.
The phone rings a handful of times before he picks up.
“Hello.”
“Ricky, it’s Sam.”
“Sam!” he exclaims. I jerk the receiver from my ear. Loud music and commotion radiates from his end of the line. No doubt a party at his place. “Why are you calling me? Wait, are you wanting me to be your best man? Because, of course, the answer is—”
“She broke up with me.”
Silence.
“I’m on my way.”
“Bring beer.”
The line goes dead.
Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on my apartment door.
“Come in!” I yell from the living room. I parked my butt here as soon as I hung up the phone, and I haven’t moved. The apartment is pitch black, and I’m staring off into nothing.
Like I said, numb.
The creak of the door echoes throughout the quiet dark space, along with his footsteps. He’s approaching slowly. “Sam, you in here?” Ricky calls out. The clanking of glass follows as he sits the beer on the kitchen counter.
“Yep.”
He flips on the light switch, and I shield my eyes from the brightness. His footsteps grow louder as he gets closer. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse him surveying the room. “Dude, what the heck happened in here?” He takes in the scene laid out before him. Broken coffee table, spilled beer, broken glass littering the carpet.
I take in my surroundings, trying to see things from his perspective. It looks bad.
“I had a moment.” My voice is void of any emotion and a little hoarse. I screamed it all out, I guess. This must be what heartbreak feels like.
I stand and walk to the kitchen counter, zombie-like. He brought two packs of beer. Outstanding! I grab one, rip off the cap, and drink. The alcohol lingers on my tongue, a reminder of my worsening mood. But I down it anyway. Maybe if I drink enough, it will dull this ache.
“I guess so,” he mutters, his eyes lingering on the destruction, finally shifting to me. He gives me a once over. “You look like crap.”
I salute him with my beer. “Thanks.”
“What happened?”
With the bottle in hand, I gesture toward the crumbled-up letter lying on the floor, my motions robotic. He reaches down for it, as I grab the handle of one of the six-packs and sit down on the couch, resting the beer at my feet since my coffee table is now a goner. Ricky grabs the letter and sits as well, the couch shifting with his weight.
He holds out the letter, now crinkled with a wet spot in the corner. Probably beer. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
“I call it ’ The Chad. ’” His brows furrow in confusion. “Read it and find out.”
He unfolds the letter and lays it on the couch cushions, smoothing it out with his hands. I down the rest of the beer as he reads. Which doesn’t take long since the letter, or I mean, The Chad , is short and sweet. But, man, does it pack quite a punch? He looks at me, then reads it again.
“She’s in love with him?” His eyes scan Maria’s words, which shattered my heart.
“Apparently so.”
“So, like what? Did she fall in love with him at work?”
“No clue.”
He rubs his hand down his face. “Sam. This makes no sense. ”
“I know. Trust me, I know.” Visions of his hands on her makes me grab another beer, open it, and take a swig. I should feel better soon. “And to add insult to injury, he was there.”
Ricky’s jaw drops. “He was there?”
“Yep. Him and his shiny red Corvette.”
“Geez.”
The story spills out of me from start to finish, and he listens, nodding every so often.
“ The Chad is a good name for this piece of crap,” he says as he shakes the letter.
“Yep.”
“So, what are you going to do now?” Curiosity fills his question.
“Well, right now”—I look around on the floor for the remote to the TV. I find it resting next to the couch, pick it up, and press the power button—“I just want to dull this ache in my chest with some booze, share a beer with my friend, and watch the game.”
Ricky scoots his body down on the couch. “Well, okay then.” He discards the letter back onto the floor, and my eyes track the last piece I have of Maria as it soars through the air and lands on some glass. Looking away, I hand him a beer, and we watch basketball.
As the time passes, I try to pretend like Maria’s not at her house with Chad. Kissing him, holding him, loving him.
I grab another beer.
At some point during the evening, perhaps at around beer number five, or maybe it was six, I passed out.
The closing of my door jolts me awake, and I find myself on the couch, only wearing my shirt from last night and boxers, reeking of my poor decisions. The light streaming in from the window isn’t doing much for my pounding headache, so I shield my face. Slowly, I sit up, rubbing my eyes, allowing them to adjust to the brightness. I survey the room, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
It’s spotless. As if nothing happened here.
After I passed out, Ricky must have fixed my coffee table, cleaned up the broken glass, thrown away the empty beer bottles, and vacuumed my carpet. I was out cold.
How drunk was I?
Scratching my head and standing on unsteady legs, I walk straight to the bathroom. After a shower and a glass of water to help with my obvious dehydration, my focus and current situation come roaring back to me. The breakup letter is lying on the counter next to a note from Ricky.
A fuzzy memory flashes in my mind. Wait … did I nickname her letter? The events of last night after I called Ricky seem to blur together in my mind.
I did. I glance back at The Chad letter, then at Ricky’s note, written on the back of the electric bill envelope.
I ran out to get us some breakfast and coffee. You really need to go grocery shopping. Your milk was spoiled. I know this because I took a swig before looking.
P.S. I cleaned up but wasn’t sure if I should throw it away.
By it , I’m assuming he means her letter. On impulse, I pick it up and read it … again. The entire night comes flooding back into my brain.
Turns out I still have a broken heart, which is now coupled with a hangover. A fun combination.
Did she wake up thinking about him? The thought makes me sick to my stomach. I crinkle up The Chad letter again (it’s a miracle it’s still in one piece at this point) and walk over to the trash can, opening the lid. Broken glass and beer bottles stare back at me as my shaking hand hovers over the can .
But something stops me. I don’t know what or why, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. Maybe it’s because it’s Maria’s last words to me. Or I am a glutton for punishment and want to hold on to the hurt.
Whatever the reason, I smooth it out, fold it up, and walk to my bedroom. As soon as I open the door, my eyes land on the black velvet box still resting on my dresser. It’s staring at me, taunting me. Which causes another thought to pop in my head.
The ring!
I head over to the hamper, grab my pants from last night, and fish out the wad of tissue paper. Gently, I unfold it and watch as the ring appears, looking as beautiful as it did the day I bought it.
But instead of it being on her finger right now, it’s resting on a bed of tissue in my palm. Remembering the promise I made to myself, I force down the tears that are starting to form. With an unsteady hand, I gingerly place the ring back in the velvet box. It snaps shut as I grab it, and along with the letter, I walk to my closet that’s missing a door. On the top shelf is an orange Nike box that has all the letters that Maria has written to me. Years’ worth of letters. I grab it, open it, and place inside The Chad letter and the ring.
Is it unhealthy to keep them both? Probably.
But that ring and letter are all I have left of Maria. And I’m not ready to let go.
Not yet.
So, before Ricky gets back and tries to talk me out of it, I grab a pen and a piece of paper and I write one last letter.