3. Serena
Serena
I’m sitting on the porch surrounded by my things, eyes unfocused and clothes thoroughly drenched, when my friends arrive.
When I realized I wasn’t going to be able to stop crying, I got off the phone with Bianca. I’ve never liked being mushy with other people, and especially not over the phone. Even my best friend.
And especially not now. Not after months of counseling, dragging out the rawest parts of myself for Alex to see, only for him to boot me out like this. Like I haven’t worked hard enough, earned the right for this to be my place, too.
Just for one time in my life, I would like to leave of my own volition.
For a few minutes, I’d pounded on the front door, demanding that Alex show his stupid, slimy face. Calling him a coward and a bastard. Screaming until my voice was so hoarse it felt like a physical, raw thing, struggling to make room around my throat.
Then, I’d remembered my things—the vintage cameras and old records.
All the belongings not protected by black plastic.
Maybe Alex didn’t know it was going to rain, or maybe he did, and it was intentional.
Worse than both of those things was the obvious truth—I wasn’t even worth the consideration of checking his weather app to find out.
I dragged everything up on the porch and out of the rain, to try and protect them, laying them out to dry.
Then, when that was done, I saw Mrs. Dweyer on her front porch, wrapped in a dusty pink robe, surveying the scene and talking on the phone.
Mr. Richards had paused in the street, wearing that stupid matching poncho that his schnauzer wears, and only seemed to realize he was staring when I looked pointedly back at him.
Of course, I couldn’t suffer this humiliation in peace.
So I sat on the front porch, surrounded by bleeding record sleeves and ruined Polaroids, and started to laugh. It was like being possessed, which probably didn’t help the whole neighbors watching my misfortune like a soap opera thing.
“You want something to look at?” I’d hollered, voice fractured, whiny. Then I stood, using my left hand to flip off Mrs. Dweyer, and the right for Richards and his stupid, yappy fucking dog. “How’s that?”
Richards said something I didn’t catch and hurried along, while Mrs. Dweyer retreated from the front porch and went inside, choosing instead to stare at me through the window.
It’s not like Alex and I made a particularly strong effort to get to know the people around us. Aside from bumping into them getting the mail, or suffering through an awkward, so, when are you having kids? question, I never saw them at all.
Maybe they all knew this was going to happen and were waiting patiently for the day.
“Serena!”
I blink through the angry, mortified fog in my head and look up to see my friends tumbling out of Lillie’s beat up, silver and rust Chrysler Pacifica. It makes me laugh again—they look like clowns folding out of a tiny car.
“Hey, guys,” I say, standing and waving, giving them a wry smile. It’s an instinct rooted in me, to act like nothing is bothering me. Everything is okay. It’s just a ruined life, nothing to see here.
“That fucking bastard,” Lillie says, her minivan giving a little beep beep behind her, the back hatch opening slow and creaky. Then, she throws her arms around me, hugging me tight.
Lillie always smells like what I imagine a grandmother does—something like lavender or rose. Unlike a grandma, her hair is always self-dyed, right now a soft, hazy purple that mingles with silver and darker hair underneath.
“Don’t worry, babe,” she insists, pulling back and pushing her glasses up on her nose. “You’re coming with us.”
Wordlessly, Sid—tall, dark and tattooed—and Grayson—shorter, blonde and wearing a New York Giants jersey—are already picking up my things, loading them in the back of Lillie’s minivan like it’s a competition. Tetris with two players.
“Put the record player in first,” Georgie says, appearing beside me silently and hefting the thing up like it weighs nothing. “You can pack the clothes in tight to keep it from knocking around.”
I’ve never told Georgie—tall, with a dark, sleek ponytail and slim build—that the record player is my most important possession. She has, apparently, just gathered that information because she’s always quietly observing.
Then there’s Bianca, taking up the hug the moment Lillie lets me go. “It’s going to be okay,” she says into my hair, and I’m just exhausted enough to believe her.
Bianca ushers me to the minivan while the rest of them pack my things in the back.
Maybe it should be embarrassing—the fact that all my belongings fit in the suitcase-sized trunk of a Chrysler Pacifica.
Or maybe Alex kept some of my stuff for himself.
There’s no time for me to go through everything to make sure it’s all there.
And what about the things we bought together?
Going half-and-half on the nice espresso machine?
The cordless vacuum, towel warmer for the bathroom?
So much pressure from Alex to make our lives a little nicer.
And so much pressure from me to split the cost on everything.
I never wanted him to feel like he had to support me.
Ten minutes later, Lillie is cursing and waving her hand out the window as we make our way through city traffic. We almost never drive, but all pitched in on a parking spot for Lillie’s minivan outside the house. It came in handy for trips to Ikea, huge grocery hauls, or thrift store finds.
Lillie and Sid were always dragging in some hefty piece of furniture—a mahogany desk or dresser—swearing they would sand it down and polish it up, maybe even flip it for a few hundred dollars, only for the thing to sit as it was, scuffed and dull, an additional lovable misfit in a house full of them.
Thinking about my friends, about the life I shared with them before moving in with Alex, makes my stomach twist.
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I say from my spot in the second row of the minivan, burger and fries steaming in my lap.
Bianca is texting furiously beside me. Knowing her, it could be anything—to our landlord about me moving back in, to her family lawyer about what kind of action I can take against Alex.
I’m already exhausted just thinking about getting home. They will want to discuss revenge. They’ll want to talk about it, to theorize about what the hell happened. Why he would flip like that. Sid will probably make a joke about Jekyll and Hyde.
But I’m not thinking about Alex. I’m thinking about what the hell I’m going to do next. What this means for me.
Sid—who always gets the passenger seat on account of his long legs—twists around and stares at me, his eyebrow piercing dipping with his dubious expression.
“Serena.” He says my name like an admonishment, then pops a fry in his mouth, chewing for a moment before swallowing and going on, “You’re coming back to live with us.”
“I won’t be able to afford the rent.” I close my eyes as I say it. The car goes quiet, and when I open them again, everyone but Lillie is staring at me.
“Why not?” Georgie asks from behind me. “You’ve been working so hard the past few months.”
There’s a twinge of regret in my chest. Yes, I’ve been working hard, and pouring most of that extra money into a shared savings account with Alex. One that I wouldn’t even know how to access if I could. Alex set the account up and I don’t know where the money is.
But I don’t want to admit that I’ve been stupid enough to trust him with my money. Instead, I say the thing that feels much bigger: “I’m going to lose my biggest client now.”
Once again, the car goes quiet, and I don’t even have to glance at my friends to know they all know what I’m talking about. They’re all thinking about Travis Oakley.