Chapter 47
forty-seven
“Which song is your favorite?” I point to Cait’s shirt.
“Don’t know. Never listened to them.”
This information cuts me like a serrated knife. Instead of letting it show in my expression, I say, “Mint Car.”
“Mint what?” she asks before taking another sip of her water.
“It’s my favorite of their songs.” I’m hoping for a reaction because they played it live in concert the first time we kissed. But still, it’s clear from her expression the name means nothing.
“You should check them out.”
“I’ve been meaning to.” She pauses, appearing uncomfortable. “So, pizza . . . I want to pay you back, but will you take a rain check for another day? I have a lot of work to do here.”
“You want help unpacking? I don’t want to brag, but I’m the master of organizing kitchens.” I wave my hand over the boxes.
“I couldn’t possibly. I feel guilty about today as it is.”
“I did want to help. I do,” I say quickly, correcting myself. “Promise. Neighbor.” I smile, hoping one last time I can get her to smile back.
“Neighbor,” she repeats, but the word doesn’t fit. We’ve been so much more. “So?”
I’m trying to remember where this conversation started. It dawns on me. She wants me to leave. “Right. Another time. No problem.”
I stop at the door, needing to see her again to believe I spent the morning with her, and it was everything I never wanted. Nothing about today was what I hoped it would be. It was wrong, uncomfortable, and most of all, disappointing.
“Cait?” The truth is on the tip of my tongue again. But now that we’ve spent some time together, I know the truth will scare her away. So I hold back, if only to get to see her again. It’s greedy, but I never thought I’d have this chance.
“Yeah?”
I dig into my pocket. “Your keys.” I lift them. A diamond-shaped Rush Street Apartments key chain hangs from the ring.
“Thanks. And thanks for your help.” She accepts them.
“Call me if you need anything. Number’s on the key chain.”
“I will.” She shuts the door in my face before she finishes saying the words.
I count the steps back to my apartment. There are one hundred steps between us. She’s closer than she’s been in years, but I’ve never felt so far away.
Back inside my apartment, I head for my bookcase.
I remove a stack of vintage CDs I’ve collected but haven’t touched in ages, except for one.
Flipping through, I find it and open the plastic case.
On one side is the greatest-hits CD for a post-punk band that was popular long before we met—The Cure.
On the other side is the paper jacket with the lyrics and a silver key.
I use the key to open the second bedroom door, making dust particles swirl through the air. I pin back the curtain and open the window to allow fresh air inside. The weak October sun beams in, brightening the room. I’ve gone a year without being in here—Cait’s old room. A record.
It’s how she left it on the last day. Her dirty clothes are piled in the hamper, necklaces hang on the wall from nails, and her dressing table is meticulously organized with perfumes and makeup.
On her desk, near her old Apple desktop, I find a CD player.
The lavender thing was a relic when she bought it at a flea market.
I pop the lid, set the disc inside, close the top, and press the Play button.
The music causes me to stumble backward until I find her bed. As I have so many times before, I lie down while listening to the lyrics.
Behind my eyes, images of the three years we spent together drift past, like the day she moved in and became my roommate, and then our first kiss at the concert.
There were family holidays, college parties, our friends, the fights over little things and big things, the dreams we had for the future.
It all coalesces into such a storm of emotion, I find myself tugging at her pillow and curling into those moments, wishing I could have more.
This bed used to smell like her. I slept here for months after she left, so it wasn’t long before her scent faded. The room turned stale and devoid of life, as though everything here wilted like a dying flower without her to nurture the contents. The same could be said for me.
There was a small period of time in between when I thought I could forget her. I traveled and attempted to date. Those things only made her a neon flashing sign in my head. No one could ever compare. And if I was traveling the world, it should be with Cait.
My business partner, Shelby, says I never gave anyone a chance.
Maybe that’s true, but again, how could I when Cait was still out there?
There was no real closure to our relationship.
One day she was here and everything was perfect, and the next, she existed without me.
The concept seemed impossible. If I couldn’t function before, there’s no hope for me now that she’s living in the same building.
“Fuck!” I scream.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” a voice hollers from the other room. Shelby appears in the doorway, her arms crossed.
“Fuck, I forgot our class.”
“You’re damn right you did. Which on any other day would have been fine, but since that fancy fitness influencer was expecting to interview you today, I’d say that’s a big fuckup. And you left your door unlocked again, you big stupid-head.”
I open my mouth to speak, but she raises her hand. I’m so tired of meeting with these influencer chicks. There’s a new one every week I have to meet for coffee, and all they want is to shove their tits in my face, when all I want to do is dream of Cait.
All I can do is I moan. I’m so fucked up.
“And don’t even tell me we’re back to this again. You told me you emptied this room a year ago.” She sits on the end of the bed, appearing disappointed.
“I said I was thinking about it.”
“Why do you do this to yourself? Can’t you see it’s torture? And you know every girl in the 312 is dying to sleep with you. No chick from college is this awesome.” She swings her hand around.
“Thanks to my asshole brother, that chick is now living upstairs.”
“Shut up.” She launches herself toward the door.
I leap off the bed to grab her arm, dragging her back into the room and onto the mattress. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“I want to see her.” Shelby tries to wiggle free. She knows I’ve been pining after someone for a long time, but doesn’t know the details.
“You’re being unreasonable, especially if it affects our business,” she says.
“It won’t happen again. Promise.”
“Prove it.” She hands me a business card.
“What’s this?” I turn the card around and read the front.
“The fitness influencer thinks you were sick today, so she wants to arrange a new time to chat. And you’d better pour on the charm.”
“Fine.”
“And can you please turn off this old-ass music?” she says as she heads out of the room.
I turn off the CD and follow, making sure she stays put. She’s in the kitchen raiding the fridge, piling random items on the island.
“What are you doing?”
“The least you can do is make me lunch. I’m starved.”