Chapter 37. Seth
Molly Marks once said, after that first night we slept together, that I would always love her more than she loved me.
I guess she was right.
I turn away from her and lunge for the front door. Cold desert wind whips against my face and makes the tears beading on my lashes sting as I stagger out into the yard.
I hate that I’m crying. Not because there’s any shame in it—I’m a crier, God knows—but because I thought I’d be tearing up with joy right now. I thought Molly would be in my arms, wiping the drops from my cheeks and teasing me for being so emotional.
The string quartet is still there, instruments poised, watching me for a signal, like there might be a redo.
I tip them and tell them to pack up.
The devastated way they look at me is humiliating.
I walk around the house to the fire pit and fumble in my pocket for my phone. I need to talk to someone.
I call Dave.
It rings a couple of times, then goes to voicemail. Right. It’s getting late on the East Coast, and he’s probably bathing his kids or cleaning up the kitchen with his wife, who loves him. A phenomenon it is looking likelier and likelier that I will never experience.
I don’t leave a message because Molly has ingrained in me that voicemails are annoying. Presumably, they are even more annoying when the person who leaves them is crying.
I guess I’ll just sit out here all night with my throat aching and the wind pushing smoke into my eyes, alone.
But then my phone vibrates.
I’ve never been so glad to see my brother’s name.
“Hey,” I say.
“Yo!” he says excitedly. “How’d it go?”
My composure completely breaks down at the sound of his voice.
“Dave,” I sob.
“Jesus,” he barks. “What’s wrong?”
“She said no. And she broke up with me.”
I clench, waiting for him to say she doesn’t deserve me, or that he knew she would do this, or that he’s going to kill her.
But he just says, “How soon can you get to Nashville?”
The idea of being there with him and my family is like someone turned on the lights of a Christmas tree in a dark room, making it glow.
That. I need that.
“I could probably get there by tomorrow night,” I say.
“Book a flight. Right now.”
He’s terse, as always, and it’s comforting. The commanding confidence of an older brother who knows exactly what to do.
“Okay,” I say.
“Hey, Seth?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to get through this. It’ll never feel as bad as it feels tonight.”
His kindness cracks me open.
“I love her so much, Dave,” I sob.
“I know, buddy. I know.”
“What do I do?”
“Cry it out. Drink some water. Go to sleep. Text me with your flight info and I’ll pick you up.”
I nod. This is all sensible. These are things I can do.
“Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?” I ask.
“Do you want me to?”
I certainly don’t want to do it myself. They love Molly. They’ll be crushed. And then they’ll be furious at her. And for some reason, I can’t stand the idea of that.
“Yes, please,” I say.
“Then I will.”
“Okay.”
There’s a pause.
“You don’t deserve this, bud,” Dave says.
Tears slide down my cheeks. It’s not about what I deserve, or what Molly does, but it’s nice to hear those words.
“Okay. I’m going to go now.”
“Get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I imagine myself sitting on a stool at the island of Dave’s kitchen, the boys yelling about LEGOs over my shoulder, eating leftover green bean casserole. It’s something to hold on to. I just have to keep it together until then.
And you know what?
I will.
I’m not going to sit here shivering. I’m going to go through the motions of being a functional adult and see if they make me feel like one.
I walk inside through the kitchen. It’s an ungodly mess. Which is good. If there’s one thing I know how to do on autopilot, it’s clean.
I roll up my sleeves and throw myself into the solace of soap bubbles and scrubbing.
It takes forty-five minutes to clean up, and Molly never materializes. When I walk into the dining room to begin clearing off the table, she’s sitting there, slumped in a chair with her eyes closed.
“Are you awake?” I ask, because her back is to me.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Do you want food? Or should I put it away?”
She still doesn’t look at me. She just shrugs. “Toss it.”
“I’m not tossing out an entire Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Fine,” she says. She stands up and turns around, and she looks like hell. My impulse is to take her into my arms, despite everything.
But I don’t.
Instead, I watch her pick up a fork and stab it listlessly into the gratin pan. She eats two bites of cheesy potatoes and swallows them like she might gag. Then she digs into the breast of one of the Cornish game hens with her fingers, rips off some meat, dabs it into cranberry sauce, and eats that. She plucks a single green bean out of the serving bowl and forces that down too.
“Okay,” she says. “Do what you want with the rest.”
This display pisses me off.
“Why are you acting like a child?”
“Because I am one,” she says tonelessly. “I’m an emotionally stunted person. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
I don’t argue with her. I don’t have the energy. Instead, I clear the table. I wrap up the leftovers and shove them into the fridge. Maybe I’ll eat something later, if I feel less like vomiting.
She comes into the kitchen. She’s hobbling like she’s in pain.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who physically hurts.
“Sorry,” she says, without clarifying what she’s apologizing for. Breaking up with me? Eating petulantly with her hands?
“Yeah,” is all I say back.
“Thank you for cleaning.”
“Well, you cooked.”
She crosses her arms and hugs herself.
“I’m going to go to bed.”
It’s 7:00 p.m., but I don’t argue with her.
“We’ll leave first thing in the morning,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. I’m already dreading the two-hour drive back to Los Angeles.
“I’m booking a flight to Nashville,” I say. “Do you still want me to get you a ticket to Chicago?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Fine. I’ll sleep in that other bedroom. Good night.”
“Night,” she says.
I grab the bottle of red wine and take it to the smaller of the two rooms. It has twin bunk beds, which feels demoralizing enough to fit the occasion.
I wash Advil PM down with the wine, wincing for my kidneys, and pass out so fast I wake up with my uncharged phone on my chest, ravenous and with no idea where I am, at 5:00 a.m.
The whole thing comes back to me. My eyes ache from crying.
Fuck this. Fucking fuck this whole thing.
I pillage the refrigerator, still wearing my clothes from last night. I eat my Thanksgiving dinner cold, in the dark, directly out of the serving dishes, and then throw the rest in the trash. I don’t bother making coffee. I’m wide awake on despair.
I take a shower. Molly is up when I emerge, sitting with her knees tucked under her on the couch. She looks as gray and drawn as I’ve ever seen her. I don’t think she slept.
Her overnight bag is sitting by the door.
“Ready whenever you are,” she says.
“Let me just grab my stuff.”
I go back into the tiny room to get dressed, and notice that I left the ring sitting on the desk, next to my sweater.
I don’t want to touch it, but I can’t just leave it in some random person’s house in Joshua Tree. I throw it into my suitcase, shove in the rest of my shit, and walk back to the living room.
She’s already outside, packing up the car.
“Got everything?” she asks, when I put my bag in next to the cooler.
“Yep. My flight’s at twelve thirty out of LAX. Can you drop me at the airport?”
She nods.
We drive back in complete silence.
At the airport, she doesn’t get out of the car.
She just looks at me, with bloodshot eyes, as I step onto the pavement.
“Bye, Seth,” she says, like it costs her everything she has to speak those two syllables.
“Bye.”
As it comes out of my mouth, I realize this is probably the last time I’m ever going to see her. So I lean over and kiss her cheek one last time.
“You win the bet,” I say into her ear. “Romance is bullshit.”
She starts crying.
I don’t care.
I grab my bags from the back and walk away. I glance over my shoulder when I reach the doors to the terminal.
Her car is already gone.