Chapter 4
four
It’s night two of attempting to sleep on Aggie’s lumpy couch. It smells like Cheetos and sweaty feet.
Tonight it’s not insomnia I’m suffering from, it’s that I can’t stop thinking about Evan.
It’s not because he’s attractive. It’s not because he annoys me.
It isn’t even because he flirted with me.
It’s because he made me angry enough to imagine I could take control of a situation and fight back.
That’s something I can’t ignore, because it’s a first in my short recollection.
Yes, I ran away from my home and family to move to Chicago, but that wasn’t an act of control.
It was an act of survival. There was no way I was ever going to find out who I was before with my parents forcing me into the cookie-cutter shape of the daughter they wanted.
During my two-year recovery, I lived under their watchful eyes, under their rules, and withered as they drilled me with their unattainable goals.
I was drowning. Everything within me screamed for a new life I could discover on my own.
When Evan called me uptight and prissy, those words hit a nerve. Those are words I would use to describe my parents. Perhaps I had overcome those traits and loosened up before when I was in college and on my own. I can’t be sure, but when I imagine myself free as a bird like Aggie, my pulse dances.
Maybe I owned a porcelain giraffe collection.
If I had, my parents would have called it tacky and childish.
It doesn’t matter what I do, or what I’ll ever do, I’ll never be good enough for them.
It’s sad someone my age obsesses about these things, but in the after, they’ve been an overbearing part of my life.
My phone chirps with a text message, tugging me from my antsy mood. I lift it from the coffee table. The time reads one a.m.
Evan
Your water is fixed.
Normally, I would place the cell back on the table and ignore the message, because this is what I do—allow texts to mellow.
I deconstruct and look beyond the words to identify underlying meanings before deciding a response.
But tonight, I stare at his words, refusing to let go.
I snag my bottom lip with my teeth when a sassy response is the first thing that comes to mind.
My fingers fly over the buttons and I type: It’s about damn time.
My thumb hovers between one of two emojis. Which to pick? The angry purple devil or the smiley face? Adding the second would change the context, like all is forgiven, or worse, like I’m flirting. And given the clear messages I’ve been sending, I shouldn’t be flirting.
For the first time after I stop thinking, select one, and press Send. There’s a bloop as the internet gods deliver the message to Evan, and as soon as they do, I regret my decision. Stupid smiley faces.
Three bouncing bubbles appear below my text. I grip the phone, waiting.
Evan
Shouldn’t you be out partying with your blond leprechaun?
I smirk at the visual.
Cait
Aggie would be thrilled to know her St. Pat’s costume made an impression. But no, ATM, I’m *trying* to sleep on her uncomfortable couch because she has running water.
Evan
It’s hard to forget a leprechaun vomiting outside my window. And you should’ve taken me up on my offer. My shower is your shower. Then you could have slept—
The text cuts off, but my mind has already filled in the blanks. The bouncing circles return, and he finishes his thought.
Evan
On my super comfortable couch. :)
What a smartass.
I type a response but don’t press Send. My heart races as I stare at my words hovering there. I would prefer your bed. My words are brazen. Too brazen. I swipe my tongue over my dry lips.
For a reason I can’t explain, tonight I’m fearless.
Aggie’s ceiling stars make me believe I can be confident without consequence.
They trick me into believing I’m carefree like Aggie.
They rationalize that I can flirt with a guy, have fun with a guy.
And right now, I’m wanting Evan to be that magical guy.
I know what he’s seeing on the other side—the bouncing gray circles. I could continue to flirt, but my neurotic apprehension whispers that no one could ever want me. It nitpicks at any uplifting thought, especially the sneaky ones that slip through its barrier.
Immediately, the wide net of hope I cast reels back, abandoning any positive encouragement. There’s not much struggle. It happens as easily as blinking or breathing. Before I can fight, I delete my text.
The cell feels too hot in my hands. I need to get rid of it. My blanket falls away when I sit up and toss the cell across the room. It slices through the air, landing in the serape-covered chair beside a glittery mermaid pillow.
Now responding would take real effort, like defying the unyielding darkness of my mind or forgoing the comfort of my lumpy sofa. I snuggle under the covers, tugging them tighter around my neck, and squeeze my eyes shut.
As soon as I settle and find a comfortable position, the cell buzzes. From across the room it’s muffled, but my ears tune in to the vibrating case hopping across the cushion. I tighten into a ball.
When it buzzes a reminder two minutes later, I inhale deeply and open one eye. The cell’s face lights, illuminating the ceiling. Evan’s texted again.
Mentally, I curse him, wanting to know what he said, but if I read his message, I’ll text back. So I stay where I am. I won’t engage.
Becoming involved with anyone isn’t an option.
Becoming involved with someone who lives in my building would be catastrophic.
I’m terrible with awkward confrontations, and imagining facing Evan in the wake of imminent disaster causes me to shiver with anxiety.
I tighten my grip on my quilt and tug it over my face until my breath warms my dark cocoon.
My anxiety often blurs any chance of logical thinking. Or maybe it’s overthinking? In this case, it discourages me from relationships or possible one-night stands. I nervously tap my foot on the arm of the sofa and come to a conclusion.
I still have too much to resolve before I can invite anyone into my unsettled life.
With the decision made, I want to sleep, but I lie awake for hours. I peek out from beneath my covers and count the stars on the ceiling again. There are 233 this time. I count them until I’m certain of the number—definitely 236.
In the morning, I buy Aggie breakfast to thank her for allowing me to crash at her place.
With a backpack of overnight clothes, I head home.
Today, my apartment door’s locked. Thank goodness.
I allow myself inside and slip on the chain lock.
As soon as it clanks into place, I lean my back on the door.
Finally. I’m alone.
I head for the shower, eager to wash away the stench of Cheetos and feet. Mercifully, it works. Beneath the pelting heat of the water, I find myself crouched on the tub’s floor, inhaling steam.
I’m two sides of a coin. On one side, I’m a shiny mask of professionalism, searching for perfection and success in the after. This is what the outside world sees.
The other side of the coin is dull and corroded. Behind closed doors, I’m searching for my past memories, unsure about every move I make. And worse? I’m insecure and lonely beyond reason.
What if I can never get myself together? What if I never remember before? What if I’m not good enough at my job? What if no one ever loves me? What if I’m this lonely forever?
That last question breaks me.