Chapter 5 Red - The Prophecy （Red’s Version）
Ihaven’t left my bed in days.
That’s not true. I emerge from the cave of comforters I’ve created to pee occasionally. Sometimes I even take a swig of water when I find a half empty plastic bottle on my bedroom floor.
I have nothing left in me.
I’ll never admit this out loud, and I’m going to hell for it, but I clutched onto the tiniest bit of hope that Dean wasn’t the father of that baby. I thought maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have to watch my dream unfold into a nightmare.
But when Margot showed up at my front door two days ago, wanting to gently break the news to me in person like the good friend she is, I watched that hope disappear. And like the shitty friend I am, I crumbled.
Thankfully, I managed to keep it together until Margot left.
I put on my bravest mask, assuring her I was going to be okay.
I played off taking the next couple of days to clear my head.
Do I think she believed me? Not entirely.
But it was enough to ensure no one would attempt to break down my door while I wallowed.
I’ve spent the past forty-eight or so hours watching every scrap of what I had meticulously thought out and planned as my future melt away into nothing.
I’ve re-lived all of the fights with Dean about children and the infidelity and the divorce and the attempts to rebuild after the fact, just to fall apart all over again.
Years. I wasted years of my life with nothing to show for it.
You know when mentally you feel done with the tears, but your body tells you it’s not finished yet? My face feels permanently puffy from crying, and I’m at the point where I’m over it.
Dean hasn’t called, not that I thought or hoped he would.
But the silence scares me all the same. I have to keep wondering if he’s going to show up, God forbid with Katie.
I’ve practiced a lot of grace and patience in my life, but that’s all gone out the window when it relates to those two pieces of shit.
I don’t want to hate Katie. I never wanted to hate her. I, along with everyone else in this town, gave liking her my best shot. When she wanted to get into it, I walked away, every damn time. I’m not so sure I could do that now. Don’t think I’d want to either.
I think about how easy it was for Miller to clock Dean’s behavior at the bar this past summer, and how he put an end to it with his fist, right then and there, no questions asked.
It wasn’t to be the bigger man or to showboat his masculinity.
It wasn’t about anything aside from standing up for his people.
“Fuck!” I scream to no one but myself. I throw the comforter off the bed and sit up, squinting at the sliver of bright sunlight streaming in from the window next to my bed.
I’m so sick of running in circles in my brain. I’m so sick of all of it.
Flopping off the bed, I move to stand, but I haven’t been upright in a while so everything feels a little wobbly and dizzying. I’m most definitely dehydrated, and I couldn’t tell you the last time I ate something. My appetite has been nonexistent.
I fumble my way to the bathroom connected to my bedroom, kicking the piles of clothes that are scattered on the floor out of the way. I purposely avoid the mirror, just like I have every other time I’ve walked by one the past couple days, and grab my toothbrush out of its holder on the counter.
Standing upright for the next two minutes feels impossible so once I have the toothpaste applied, I sit my ass on the covered toilet. The fact that I’m making an effort with my dental hygiene is good enough for me.
I attempt to run my free hand through my hair, and my fingers immediately get tangled in the rat’s nest I’ve let form on my head.
“Okay, that’s fucking disgusting,” I mumble to myself over the electric toothbrush buzzing in my mouth.
I spit and rinse with mouthwash and finally face the depressed bitch in the mirror.
It’s me. I’m the depressed bitch in the mirror.
The bags under my eyes look like I applied multiple layers of purple eyeshadow.
The blotches of red all over my face may very well be permanent now.
My hair looks greasy, dull, and like it’ll take an entire bottle of detangler after multiple rounds of shampoo and conditioner to come close to correcting.
I’m self aware enough to recognize this is a new level of embarrassingly down bad.
I strip out of the old crew neck I’ve been living in and turn the shower nozzle to the hottest setting possible. The bathroom fills up with steam, and the mirror shows me mercy by fogging quickly, letting me temporarily forget the creature I’ve turned into staring back at me.
Stepping out of the shower thirty minutes later feels like a rebirth.
I spend the next thirty brushing my hair.
I do my skincare routine.
I find a baby blue matching lounge set to change into.
I mentally check off each small accomplishment and internally high five myself with every win.
The soft knock on my front door startles me.
I haven’t checked my phone in a while, but it’s not like I’ve been expecting anyone.
My texts to Margot and Daisy in our group chat have placated them enough so they give me space.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Beth showed up unannounced but— and I know it sounds weird—that knock wasn’t a Beth Rivers knock.
Dashing to the windows, I gently peek around the curtain.
There’s no one on my porch.
I swear to fucking Christ if I was just dingdong ditched I’m about to commit a crime.
For some reason, this is the thing that sets me off. I sprint down the stairs and swing open my front door with all the strength I can muster, letting it slam into the wall and rock the picture frames hanging there.
My eyes search my driveway and then down the street to see if I can catch a glimpse of the culprit. I step onto the porch to keep looking for any sign of something and almost trip on whatever is at my feet.
I look down to see a paper bag with a pink sticky note and familiar chicken scratch handwriting attached to the top. I snatch it up and run back into the house, again slamming the door, this time closed.
I run into the kitchen and plop the bag onto the island, avoiding the note. I’m not ready to read it yet. I have to process all of this bit by bit.
Carefully unraveling the bag, I see there are two clear topped plastic containers, and I pull them out to inspect their contents. One has a salad with a small cup of dressing sitting on the top. The other is about to burst open, filled with penne and red sauce. It’s still warm.
Suddenly, I’m ravenous. I pop the top off the Tupperware and pick up a noodle with my fingers, plopping it into my mouth, forgoing the need for a fork. I can’t explain it, but the simplicity of pasta right now is so goddamn comforting. I don’t even know how he knew this is exactly what I needed.
I almost miss whatever is square shaped and wrapped in tinfoil in the bag. I grab it and peel a piece of the tinfoil away to find a vanilla cream frosted brownie with pink sprinkles on top. It’s clearly homemade, and I feel my heart crack.
I’ve missed the cafe. I’ve missed seeing my regulars and putting smiles on peoples’ faces.
But I haven’t let myself admit that I’ve missed the normalcy of seeing Miller and Penelope the most, until now.
I pull the sticky note from the bag as I keep eating the pasta, finally grabbing a fork to finish it like a civilized person.
It’s going to get better, Gwen. But until then, pasta. Penelope asked to make brownies today. See you soon.
-Miller & P.
I fold up the small piece of paper to tuck into the back of my phone case later. I watch a tear fall onto the granite, narrowly missing the note. I wipe my eyes to avoid any others spilling out and ruining something so precious.
He…thought of me. He’s also still exclusively calling me Gwen and has been since our afternoon in the park, which is still fucking weird, but that’s beside the point right now.
Miller thought of me enough to package up leftovers and drive them over here, on top of working his regular job (honestly, I still don’t know what that is), helping out at the cafe,—Margot has texted me updates—and raising his daughter all on his own.
While I’ve shut out the entire world to throw myself a pity party.
I don’t know how to process all of this rationally. I mean, he’s just an inherently good person despite all of the bullshit he’s been handed throughout his life, and this probably is just a product of that. So there’s nothing to read into.
I remind myself of that every time I pick up and unfold that tiny, pink piece of paper over the next several hours to reread the words he wrote. Later, I finally shimmy it into my phone case, right on top of the first one he left at the cafe.
I spend the rest of the evening on the couch, rather than in my bed.
I commit to going to the cafe tomorrow. I plug my phone in to charge overnight.
When it comes to life after being dead all day, it lights up with missed texts.
I consider ignoring them all and letting them be a tomorrow problem, but I realize I probably won’t sleep well if I don’t at least check to see who’s been reaching out.
Margot
Miss you. Book club got rowdy today. I think they need you to keep them in check.
Margot
Miller asked about you today. Again.
Margot
Can I give him your number?
Margot
If you don’t answer in the next 5 minutes, I’m doing it.
Beth Rivers
Margot tells me you haven’t been out of the house in days. You’re worrying me, kid.
Unknown number
Hey, Gwen. It’s me. I hope the porch drop off wasn’t an overstep.
Unknown number
Miller. This is Miller Caswell. I should have clarified that.
A laugh escapes me for the first time in days. It sounds unnatural and choppy, but God, does it feel good. I’m not ready to respond to anyone yet, but today was a good first step towards whatever comes next.
Maybe Miller’s right. Maybe it will get better.