5. Abby
Abby
“I thought you said you were going to help me pack?” I say as I tape up yet another box on my own.
“I said nothing of the sort,” Marissa calls from the other room.
“If I recall correctly, you called and said, ‘I will come over and help you pack, then we can hit up the town like two kick-ass women in LA.’” I use air quotes to emphasize my irritation.
“First off, I do not need to say kick-ass women because it’s implied by my personality.
Don’t be ridiculous. Second, I told you I would come over and pick you up after you were done packing.
If you needed me to, I could have had my assistant from the office here helping.
He loves organizing things,” she says as she sits on my sectional and drinks her martini.
“Where did you find a martini glass in this mess?” I look at her in shock. Did I even have a martini glass in this place?
“I didn’t. I brought it with me. It’s plastic.” She taps on it.
“You brought a martini glass from home? You have issues,” I scoff.
“Can you not be so judgmental? It’s your last night in LA. You had, like, one box to pack. Stop being so difficult.” She rolls her eyes.
She’s not wrong. I’ve been slowly packing for weeks now.
“Okay, so where are we going? You’re being super secretive about it,” I say.
“Not telling you. But at least I’m not driving. I didn’t drive here, and you won’t need to either. It’s down the street from your place. I can’t wait. You’ll love it. So, it’s perfect for us,” she squeals.
Forty minutes later, I’m sitting in front of an easel with a blank canvas in shock that Marissa is about to endure a paint and wine night. She hates things like this, but she loves me enough to do it for me.
I’ve never done this before with friends.
I’ve, of course, painted on canvas but I've never gotten to go out with friends to do it. Marissa is not good with a brush; I already know this will turn out absolutely horrendous for her. The memories I’ll leave here with tonight will be absolutely wonderful to take with me to Boston.
It took me some time to find a place I liked in Boston, so moving wasn’t as quick for me to pull the trigger. Once I found a spot I envisioned for me to move into, my parents made sure the investment property made sense for them as well.
Things moved from there, and I started the process of getting things ready in California for my move.
Now that it’s really happening, I’ve got butterflies multiplying by the second.
The movers are coming early tomorrow morning.
I’ll be flying out on a red-eye tomorrow night and waiting for my things to arrive in Boston.
I decided to stay in a hotel while my belongings are being driven across the country.
I’ll be buying some new furniture for the apartment, but the majority of boxes with my clothes and dishes will be making their way over. I don’t have too many large items, so there shouldn’t be too many things to unpack once everything gets there.
Either way, knowing I’ll be going back to a place that holds all my adult memories is exciting and nerve-wracking all in one. It’s hard to imagine what it will be like to run into people I will know. Especially one particular person.
Clay has crossed my mind constantly as I think about Boston. I don’t even know if he’s seeing anyone. My brother hasn’t said if he’s dating, although I’m not sure he’d tell me. I asked that he not mention my return to Boston, and he hasn’t fought me on this issue.
Marissa speaks to him occasionally, but she’s tight-lipped about Clay’s personal life. I wonder if she’d say something about Clay’s dating life just to get a reaction out of me. She might tell me just to see if I’d get mad.
The moment my brush moves through the paint and I swipe it across the canvas, I feel at home. Each element of painting brings relief to my heart, and I’m swept into a new level of comfort. It doesn’t matter the medium of art I practice—it relaxes my body and mind.
Marissa and I laugh too much the entire time we are sipping our wine and painting. I succeed in making my starry night painting. I wish I could say the same for Marissa. Hers looks more like a hideous, blotchy mess. It’s more abstract than anything, but that’s Marissa in a nutshell.
We leave the studio giggling, and my heart is full. The moment we step out into the night, the warmth of the California summer coating our skin, Marissa grabs my painting.
“This will look perfect in my hallway, right next to that one piece you made me when I finished law school. Remember that one, it’s of Boston Harbor?” she says, and my laughter dies immediately.
“Of course I remember. But what do you mean? I painted this for me,” I say, reaching for my canvas.
“No, no. This night was about painting keepsakes for each other. You’re leaving me, and I needed something to remember you by. You need something for your new apartment that reminded you of me, and this is the perfect something, obviously.” She rolls her eyes.
“This is your something?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s gorgeous!” she exclaims.
“Obviously,” I answer, sarcasm evident.
“Hang it with pride, my friend.” She pats my cheek.
It’s hideous. But I know that if I don’t hang it up, she’ll FaceTime me and ask to see it, and if I scramble and don’t show her evidence of it, she’ll call me out on it. Then she’ll visit, and if I don’t show it to her, she’ll throw a tantrum. That’s just Marissa’s way.
“I’ll think of you each time I walk by it,” I tell her.
“Obviously,” she says, and she’s not being sarcastic.