Chapter 74
I’ve returned to work so that I don’t lose my job. I come straight to the motel every night after I get off, sometimes bringing him dinner, whatever has the shortest line in the food court at the mall, or something quick on the drive home, Chipotle or Bear Tooth or BiscuitClub.
“Hi beautiful,” he’ll say when I walk in the door, and then he’ll point out whatever new addition he made to the place to make it feel more homey.
A ceramic-potted cactus on the credenza, a citrus-scented three-wick candle on top of the toilet tank in the bathroom, or cheap blackout blinds suction-cupped to the windows so that we can sleep better without the light pouring in through the thin curtains.
But today when I swipe my key card, it’s not just a plant or a tchotchke waiting for me.
There are dozens of large brown boxes piled on top of each other, some of them on the bed, some of them on the corners of the credenza, many of them opened with household items spilling out—grilling tools and face razors, swim trunks and computer keyboards.
There are so many boxes that there’s only a narrow pathway to access the kitchenette or the bathroom or the desk in the corner of the room.
The desk that Korgy sits at, hunched over his laptop, typing rigorously as the glow from the screen lights up his rabid, strung-out face.
“What happened?” I ask.
“One sec.”
He keeps typing, and typing, and typing, until he lands at the end of his sentence and theatrically punches the period key.
“Whew, sorry, didn’t wanna lose the thought,” he says. “Hi, baby.” He gets up to kiss me and a box topples over.
“What’s going on?” I ask again.
“Gwen texted,” he explains, resetting the box. “Said that she put all my stuff out on our front lawn, and that if I didn’t grab it it’d be at Goodwill in the morning. Didn’t even text me back when I asked if I could at least see Greg when I went to get it.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“You know what, it’s fine. It’s totally fine,” he says, sitting back down to resume his typing.
“She’s in a tough spot and I get that. And she’s taking it out on me, and I get that too.
But I know that eventually whatever needs to be ironed out will be ironed out.
Custody, whatever else…it’ll get figured out.
It’ll all be fine. And in the meantime, it’s fine too.
Better than fine. It’s good. This is good for me.
I need time to settle in to my new life.
My fresh start. This is my second chance, you know?
My opportunity to pursue my own wants, my own needs, my own dreams.”
“Uh-huh…”
“I’m getting back into my novel,” he says, picking up his printed-out copy from the edge of his desk and wagging it in my face. “I’ve been typing on it for the past five hours. Can’t stop. It’s just flowing. Absolutely flowing.”