CHAPTER 2 #2
“Blah. Blah. Blah,” I mock in retaliation for earlier. “Have fun with that, but just remember—you were young once, too.”
“I’m still young. My ‘sweetness’ has just robbed me of my independence.”
“Good luck, cat daddy.” I hang up before he can hear me snickering.
Pulling some crinkled old newspaper out of the box, I think his misfortune did me some good. With any luck, I’ll be like him in a few weeks or months—so comfortable living independently that I become annoyed with the slightest deviation from my routines.
What am I saying? I don’t plan on being a confirmed bachelor like Jamie. Thirty-seven, never been tied down, and I wouldn’t doubt he still goes to go-go clubs.
My hands still in the box, wondering what that makes me. Am I just holding out for another elusive fairy tale that’s never going to happen? Does Miles only seem appealing because I’m that desperate to have a happily ever after?
No. Absolutely not. I’m just…easing into accepting that it’s okay not to hang on to relationships that aren’t working like a felled rider who refuses to let go of the reins. Having a drink with a guy doesn’t mean I’ll dive into another doomed relationship.
Setting the packing materials aside, I find something lumpy and solid wrapped in more paper.
I have no idea what’s in this box. Mom must have been serious about turning my old room into a crafting room if she shipped me my childhood memorabilia.
It makes sense. I do have a maybe-forever place now.
Why shouldn’t I house all my worldly possessions here?
I know Jamie insists that we’re still young, but I can’t say I’ve ever felt more like an adult than these past few months.
I literally have no one to rely on but myself now.
Winston and I may have lost our spark, but there was a comfort in being able to split day-to-day tasks with another person.
I took care of the laundry. He took care of the meals.
I paid the utility bills. He did the grocery shopping.
Holding a piece of my past in my hands and knowing there’s no one to share it with hits differently suddenly.
I’m not lonely, so why am I even thinking about things like that? Shaking my head, I peel the paper off, knowing I did the right thing where Winston and I were concerned. Maybe it’s just all the changes I’ve made this year that have a twinge of regret creeping in.
I ended a stable relationship with a decent man, left my job of ten years at Brook Army Medical Center, and then bought a freaking house. That’s…a lot. For me, anyway. Being in relationships for the past decade was a good cover up for my indecisiveness.
Sometimes at night, when it’s quiet and I’m alone with my thoughts, though, I get this sickening feeling that none of the decisions I managed to make this year will save me from failure.
Am I going to get my hopes up the next time I have a nice conversation with an eligible man and end up in another lukewarm courtship that goes well past its expiration date?
I mean, I hope not. That was the reason I made so many changes: to break away from my bad habits. Because clinging to relationships as a sense of security is a terrible habit. Before Winston, there was Caleb. Before Caleb, there was David.
But you have to keep trying. Right? Either that or be like Jamie. God, I love him, but I’m not built like he is. I tried the hook-up thing in my early twenties, and it wasn’t for me. Yet, what the hell did the alternative get me? Playing house?
Maybe it’s what Winston said before I left that has me so rattled. I know without a doubt that he didn’t feel the chemistry anymore either, but he still looked upset when I told him I wanted to end things.
‘Did you ever think that maybe you’re not capable of falling in love?’
His question still haunts me like an agitating jingle you can’t shake from your brain.
He knew my entire dating history—that’s the kind of stuff you joke about and divulge over the years when you think it’s all behind you.
When you trust someone. They’re mistakes you revel in knowing they were the road that led you to the person you’re with.
I never thought he’d use that information as a weapon to rattle my self-image.
Maybe I’m not capable of falling in love. Maybe a false sense of security is all I’m capable of falling into.
The packing paper falls away, revealing a ceramic coffee mug. Why did Mom send me a coffee mug?
Turning it, I stare at a familiar logo on the opposite side. The Sunshine Diner.
“Oh, my gosh.” I let out a laugh, instantly seeing flashbacks of drunken breakfasts with Jamie in college.
What a blast from the past. I didn’t even know I had this.
I should send it to him for Christmas. It’s a relic now.
That place closed a long time ago; I would know.
He went on to see the world, while I never left San Antonio.
The thought of ever moving back home to Kansas makes me shudder as much now as it did back then.
Not only are there fewer opportunities there, but I’d be subjected to being near my parents, the most in-love couple on the planet.
I don’t want another reminder that the candle is burning, and I might die alone if I never meet someone.
Setting the mug aside to take to the kitchen later, I fish a mini photo album out of the box. The plastic pages stick together momentarily when I open it, but give way.
Oh, wow.
There’s Jamie’s stupid face and those old, round-rimmed glasses he used to wear. He wouldn’t be caught dead without contacts now. I guess I won’t be completely alone after all. Except being stuck in the same retirement home with Jamie might be too much for me.
“Blackmail photo,” I declare, turning the page.
There are others of us goofing around with our nerdy friends. One of Jamie, looking up, enamored, at a go-go dancer that he still wouldn’t stand a chance with.
Jeez, it seems like a million years ago. I remember driving through this neighborhood back then. It’s still surreal to believe I’m now living in it. I spent all my years in San Antonio living on the opposite side of town, east of the Army hospital.
Turning the page, I expect to find another silly photo.
At first glance, it might appear so to Jamie, who I assume took the photo.
It’s me, packing up my nearly empty room in the duplex we rented together after we moved out of the dorm.
The look on my face is unenthused by his intrusion, but the sight of my mattress on the floor behind me reminds me it was so much more than that.
The memories hit like a tidal wave and keep coming.
It would be a big, fat lie if I said I never thought about Chris Mightener after I graduated that semester. It would be an even bigger one if I said I didn’t think about him for a long time after that. God, I had it so bad.
If Winston thought our calling it quits was heartbreaking, he should see this photo.
I looked absolutely miserable, and it had nothing to do with college ending.
I can’t even say how I made it through my finals that last semester, knowing my time with Chris was coming to an end.
I was so infatuated with him that it’s still mortifying to think about.
He was everything to me, and then he was just…gone.
Flipping the album closed, I stare at the box dumbly, the ambition to unpack it now gone. I feel like I suddenly have an answer to Winston’s uncomfortable question. I was capable of falling in love. Once. Falling hard.
Obsessed, Remy, my conscience corrects. You were obsessed.
I can’t even argue with myself on that one.
I knew it then, and I still know it now.
My first year of graduate school was a depressing fog of going through the motions.
Just when I thought I had gotten into a new routine that didn’t include seeing Jamie every day and having Chris sneak through my window at night, I heard about the accident.
It was covered quite a bit in San Antonio, considering Chris was a Panther alumnus—they were proud of him.
I don’t know if they were proud of him after that, however, but news is news.
Setting the album back in the box, I cart it to my bedroom, deciding it can sit in the back of my closet for now. Everyone keeps a few things stored in boxes in their house, right?
Drunk driving. Critical condition.
It still makes me sick remembering the words I read in the paper.
They even showed his smashed-up flashy sports car on the news.
It was so crumpled and distorted; I don’t know how he survived it or how they got him out.
I can’t imagine what he looked like or the injuries he sustained.
I sigh and set the box down, scooting it to the back of the closet with my foot.
The age-old questions come back like a nightmare.
I went over this in my mind a thousand times back then.
Why was he drunk? Why was he drinking and driving?
He was so strict about keeping his nose clean back when I knew him.
I assumed maybe he was celebrating or trying to keep up with his new teammates—anything that took the blame off my precious image of Chris.
Finally, I decided it didn’t matter. What I thought, what happened, what we were or weren’t—none of it mattered.
All that mattered was that he lived. I only know because I never read about him dying.