Chapter 17
Cherry didn’t sleep well that night. (She’d had sex with Russ in the blinds-closed afternoon darkness of his bedroom, then
fallen asleep for an ill-advised six-o’clock nap.)
But she woke up Sunday morning in her own bed, determined to handle things better than she had the day before.
Cherry needed to help Tom get this done—to help him out of her life—the same way she’d always helped Tom get things done.
Tom got bogged down. He got overwhelmed by decisions. Cherry thought too much and moved too fast; Tom thought too much and
barely moved at all. He broke every decision down into a thousand smaller decisions until all he could manage was to back
away, completely discouraged.
And that’s how he was about normal things—like what kind of cell phone to buy—not actually discouraging situations. Like this one.
Plus, Tom hadn’t been living in the reality of their failed marriage for a year. Not like Cherry had. It must have been jarring
for him to walk back into the house and have to reckon with their sad ending. It must have been shocking.
Cherry could help. Cherry was velocity—she was speed plus direction. And helping Tom would be helping herself. Even if it
hurt (even if it was excruciating) in the short-term.
On Sunday morning, before Tom got there, Cherry took Stevie for a long walk so she wouldn’t be so excitable. Then Cherry came
back to the house, opened all the curtains, and turned on a generic Spotify playlist. “Sunday Morning Vintage Vibes.” She
made a pot of coffee.
Tom had left the pack of moving boxes in the foyer. Cherry opened it and unfolded one, taping up the bottom.
When Tom rang the doorbell, she’d already packed up most of their DVDs and all of the video game cartridges.
Stevie went crazy when Cherry opened the door. (Long walk be damned.) Tom immediately knelt down to give the dog the full
treatment. He was wearing pants Cherry had never seen before. Very expensive-looking cargo pants. And bright white Air Jordans.
His hair was as cherubic as yesterday. Cherry was still pissed about it.
“I made coffee,” she said. “Let me get you a cup.”
Tom looked up at her. He was scratching Stevie’s ears. “Uh, sure. Thanks.”
Cherry came back with his coffee—cream, no sugar—in a Thursday mug. (From Tom’s very first merch drop. Cherry had designed this mug and set everything up with the vendor.)
He stood up to take it from her.
“I got started on the living room.” Cherry walked that way. The main floor of the house was built so that all the rooms connected
in a circle: foyer, dining room, living room, kitchen, foyer. Tom followed her.
She gestured at the box of DVDs. “I kept a few of the boxed sets, but these are all yours.”
He frowned down at the box. “This looks like everything.”
“It’s not. I kept Pushing Daisies and Buffy. I mean, you can have Buffy if you want . . .”
He picked up a DVD. “You don’t want the Disney movies?”
“They’re all streaming.”
“They’re not all streaming.”
“Well”—Cherry put her hands on her hips—“I just think you’re more likely to watch Herbie Goes Bananas than I am.”
Tom looked confused. “Why would I watch Herbie Goes Bananas without you?”
“That’s how I feel about that whole box!”
Tom clenched his jaw.
Cherry closed her eyes. A few tears leaked out anyway. This wasn’t going well.
She wiped her eyes and took a breath. “If you don’t want something in the box, set it aside. I’ll either keep it or give it
to Goodwill.”
Tom was still staring at the DVDs. “Okay.”
“I’m going to do the books in the foyer,” Cherry said.
“Yeah. All right.”
Cherry walked away. Stevie stayed right next to Tom, looking up at him the way she had when she was a puppy. Like she was
awaiting instructions.
Cherry got another cup of coffee and built another box. The books were easier to sort than the movies. Either Tom had read
them or Cherry had. She filled two boxes in minutes, then called into the living room—“Do you have more boxes?”
“In the car,” Tom said. He walked into the foyer. “I’ll go get them.”
He came back with two more packs and opened one, starting to build out the boxes. Cherry felt like he was watching her. When
she looked over, he was frowning over one of the boxes of books that she’d packed.
“Are these mine or yours?” he asked.
“Yours.”
“Don’t give me the Tolkien books. Those are special editions.”
“You love them more than I do.”
Tom let his arms hang. “You’re arguing that I love The Lord of the Rings more than you?”
“You reread them every other year.”
“Cherry, you said that if you ever got a tattoo, it would be that Frodo Baggins quote.”
“I will take the ring,” Cherry thought, “though I do not know the way.”
“Yeah,” she said, “but I didn’t get it.”
Tom took The Hobbit out of the box and set it back on a shelf, shaking his head. His curls wobbled.
“Fine,” Cherry said sharply, “but you’re just going to have to buy the whole series the next time you want to read them.”
“Yeah, where am I going to find the Lord of the Rings books.” He put Fellowship of the Ring back, too. His hand stayed on the shelf. He laughed gruffly. “I thought we were going to fight over things you didn’t want me to take.”
Cherry rubbed her face. Her hands were dusty. “I can’t think of anything in the house I’d fight for,” she muttered. “Can you?”
He looked over at her. His chin was pushed out. “The exit sign I found on eBay, from the old Country Bear Jamboree at Disneyland.”
Cherry’s head jerked up, alarmed. “You want that?”
“No,” he said. “But I think you’d fight me for it.”
She would have, five minutes ago. But now . . . “No. You take it.”
“Cherry, I don’t want it.”
“You’re the one who found it.”
“It was a gift,” Tom said.
It was an anniversary gift. He’d spent five hundred dollars on it, back when five hundred was an awful lot of dollars for
them to spend on anything. Cherry was crazy about the Country Bears. The sign had hung inside the front door of their old
apartment, and now it was in the kitchen, by the back door. It said, We Hope That You’ll Be Coming Back Again. Cherry wanted to go into the kitchen right now and take it down.
“Just let me finish sorting the books,” she said. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “Okay.” He walked back to the living room. Cherry stared at the bookshelves for a few minutes, then went
outside to sit on the front steps. It was too cold to be out here without a sweatshirt, but she needed some distance.
After a little while, Tom came out.
He stood behind her. She didn’t look up at him.
“I think you had the right idea,” he said.
She still didn’t turn.
“You can set aside what you want me to take,” he said. “And I’ll go through it and leave what I don’t want—or take it to the Goodwill.”
Cherry huffed. “So I’m supposed to pack up your things?”
“Or I can do it? I can pack what I want, and then you can go through the boxes? I just meant—you were right, we don’t have
to do this together.”
Cherry wasn’t sure why she found that so infuriating. Tom was right—she was right. One of their neighbors was out walking his dog. He waved. They both waved back.
“Cherry?” Tom said.
“Yeah,” she said. “Okay. You can come by when I’m at the office.”
“And you’ll look over the boxes before I take them?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have to check your work. I trust you.”
“Ha,” Tom said, sounding genuinely amused. He took his keys out of his pocket.
“Are you leaving now?” she asked.
“Yeah. Fresh start Monday morning. Do you want me to text you before I come?”
“No. You know my hours—I still work from home most Fridays. I’m sure Stevie will be glad to see more of you.”
“Yeah . . .” Tom walked down the steps. His dad’s car was parked on the street.
Cherry watched him drive away.
The next day, when Cherry got home from work, the rest of the books from the main floor had been sorted. Tom had labeled the
boxes with his name and stuck a yellow Post-it note that said Cherry on the shelves with the remaining books.
Cherry glanced at what he’d set aside for himself. He’d left most of their art books but taken all the comics collections.
That seemed right.
The DVDs were sorted, too. Tom had unpacked some of her favorite Disney movies and put them back on the shelf. Sleeping Beauty. The Princess and the Frog. Again with the Post-it notes: Tom. Cherry.
She ended up taking a few more movies from the boxes. She’d write him a note, asking if she could keep them. (She’d been too
hasty the day before.)
Tom had taken all the video game equipment and stuck notes on some of the hanging artwork, asking if he could take it. It
was all stuff she’d assumed he’d take anyway.
Cherry went and got her own Post-it pad in a different color. Blue. She replied to Tom’s notes, and left notes on new things,
urging him to take them.
The next day, all of the mutually approved Tom boxes were sitting in a corner of the dining room. There were several framed pieces of art leaning neatly against the boxes—posters,
Thursday prints, Tom’s first book cover. (Cherry had chosen all of these frames and cut the mats. She enjoyed doing it.)
There were big empty spaces on the walls now, with nails sticking out. She’d have to patch and repaint. She really was going
to have to start over.
Tom had left notes replying to Cherry’s notes. And he’d left new notes, with questions.
It was all very courteous. Very civilized. (Tom was always very courteous and very civilized.)
He’d left a note saying that he’d walked the dog.