Chapter 1 #2
The image forms in my mind. Me, showing up on his doorstep.
I’d wear a sundress—the white one with embroidered sunflowers he used to compliment me on.
It wouldn’t really fit me anymore, so I’d probably have to wear breath-restricting shapewear.
I would spend too long on my makeup, trying to hide the permanent dark circles and tired skin I’ve developed.
I’d bring a cake, preferably one I’d baked myself, because that seems more thoughtful.
He’d open the door. His first reaction would be shock.
His forehead would crinkle up, and his mouth would form that small o that is so frustratingly endearing.
Before he could say anything, I’d apologize, giving him some form of the speech I’ve practiced in my head (and in the shower, and in my journal, and in therapy) for the last five years.
He’d forgive me. I’d smile. His eyes would light up the way they used to.
He’d tell me he missed me. We’d make up.
We’d be friends again. We’d…No, even in my fantasy of our reunion I can’t let my mind go there.
We’d be friends. Everything would be as it should be.
I tuck the vision away in the Fantasy Corner—the back corner of my mind reserved for dreams that will never come true. It’s in good company with extraterrestrial encounters and dragon-slaying knights and successful dates.
“What I’m not supposed to do is reach out. It’s complicated.”
Jo scoffs as I rip the packing tape off another box. “Just because it’s complicated doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”
I ignore that comment, as is best when someone makes a good point you’re not willing to admit is a good point.
“And you know that. You’re living that right now,” she adds.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Jo plops down on an unopened moving box, the cardboard sagging slightly under her weight. “You picked up and moved to Boston. You didn’t like your job, so you decided to start over. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you—to make a hard decision and follow through with it.”
“I did that because you did it first. You quit teaching to do something else, and you proved it was possible to pick up and start over.” I also did it because Jo seemed like she was on the verge of a breakdown every time she talked about taking over this coffee shop, especially since her partner is out of the country for work for the next six months.
I was unemployed, she was having trouble hiring staff, so: voilà.
“Still,” Jo says, shrugging. “Doesn’t mean it was an easy decision for you.”
“Well. I’ve made some bad decisions that I’ve followed through on, too.”
I laugh as I say it, but Jo tilts her head, contemplating. “I think what you view as bad decisions are actually just times when you didn’t make decisions and had to live with the consequences.”
“You’re in time-out,” I remind her. “Double time-out.” She hmphs in acknowledgment.
“Yes! Yes! Oh god, YES!”
Jo scowls at the ceiling, then lets out one last “OH, YES! PLEASE!” combined with rhythmic pounding against a moving box. Mercifully, the upstairs noises die down with a final thump.
“UGH,” I yell in the general direction of the ceiling.
“You can’t seriously tell me you’ve never accidentally heard one of your roommates having sex,” Jo says. “Didn’t you have, like, four roommates at one point?”
I did. That turned into two roommates when roommates three and four married each other and moved out. Roommate two then married her high school sweetheart. The final straw was when roommate one—the last woman standing, other than me—moved in with her college boyfriend.
Roommates three and four are parents now, and both roommates one and two are pregnant.
I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make me feel…bleh.
“Two of them were definitely banging in the house, but I guess they kept it quiet,” I tell her. “The other two roommates mostly went to their respective partners’ apartments instead of bringing the partner to our place.”
“You scared them off, huh?” Jo asks.
I freeze, eyes widening. “Holy shit. That’s never occurred to me. Do I give off No Sex in the House vibes?”
Jo’s responding “No” comes too quickly for comfort, but I set it aside for the sake of my sanity.
We spend the next hour moving my belongings out of boxes and onto the floor. I’m not sure that’s an effective unpacking method, but I don’t have cabinets or shelves to properly store anything yet, so neatish piles are the best I can do.
It’s perfect anyway. The apartment is tiny, and there’s no furniture, and I can hear every noise from above, but it’s my tiny, empty, acoustically challenged apartment. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived alone, and it’s a step in the right direction.
I’m about to take a load of boxes to the recycling bin when I hear the door to the upstairs apartments open.
Jo and I switch our attention to my front window, where I have a clear view of the walkway leading to the street.
After a moment, a tall, brunette woman dressed in head-to-toe athleisure walks past, a tote bag slung over her shoulder.
“Oh my god, it’s her,” Jo says. “It’s Thumper.”
The woman’s steps are light and bouncy, and I desperately wish I didn’t know why she was in a good mood.
“The landlord told me my upstairs neighbor was one guy. So, is she a girlfriend or a booty call?” I whisper.
“Girlfriend, maybe? If it’s a booty call, you don’t stick around for an hour afterward, right?”
“Are you seriously asking me? Why would I know?”
Jo ignores me. “Look at the way she’s walking. That must’ve been good sex.”
Thumper makes a right turn when she hits the sidewalk, and we move our heads away from the window and back toward my boxes, wary of her peripheral vision.
A minute later, her car starts up, and I hear it drive away and count to one-hundred-Mississippi before grabbing my stack of cardboard.
The boxes are so large they block my vision, and I stumble forward.
“I’m going to go recycle these, will you grab the door for me?” I ask. Jo obliges, swinging it open, and I slowly maneuver out of the entryway and up the small set of stairs leading to the yard.
Just as I reach the last step, the door to the upstairs apartments opens again, and I try to turn around, but instead, I end up slamming into the handrail. Before I can stop myself, I crumple to the ground, landing on my butt with the cardboard resting on top of my face.
“Oh, gosh!” a man says, footsteps pounding as he rushes down the stairs.
The voice rings a bell in my mind, or maybe the odd, old-lady exclamation does, but I’m too stunned to consider why.
Instead, I groan as I try to lift myself off the ground, my ass throbbing from the impact on the concrete, my head spinning from the crash landing.
“Here, let me grab the boxes,” the voice says, closer now. The boxes are lifted a moment later, and I cover my face with my hands, hiding the blush and protecting myself from the sunlight now streaming directly into my eyes. There’s a soft thud as my rescuer sets the boxes down next to me.
“Jesus, sorry about that,” I say, my voice winded. “Carrying large items isn’t my forte.”
There’s no response.
Rubbing my face one more time, I finally look up to see if my rescuer has fled the scene.
I’m met with a pair of warm, brown, familiar eyes.
We both freeze.
His forehead crinkles up, and his mouth drops into a small o.
I hear a breathless “oh my god” escape me.
A billion seconds pass. An entire history flashes before my eyes. Late-night conversations, early-morning pre-class breakfasts, day trips around Boston, pining, longing, wishing, wishing things were different—
“Emma,” he whispers.
There he is, in all his glory. Adult Harrison.
Real adult Harrison, not twenty-two-year-old almost-college-graduate Harrison.
This new Harrison looks almost the same, dressed familiarly in navy pants and a well-cut T-shirt, but his hair is longer than it used to be, long enough that those dark waves are hanging down onto his forehead in a way that begs you to brush them aside.
He also has more stubble on his jaw than he ever did in college.
And all I will say about that is it doesn’t look bad, even though it does something to my stomach that makes me feel physically ill.
I am unequivocally fucked.
All thoughts of moving and unpacking and starting over fade away and are replaced with a singular need to reach out, to embrace him, to make up for five years of lost hugs, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m taking a step forward and stretching out my arms and—
He takes a step back.
Harrison’s eyes widen as his mouth clamps shut. He looks alarmed by what he did, or at least surprised, but instead of stepping forward and correcting his mistake, he just stands still, staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.
Raised eyebrows · Head turn to the right · Mouth clamped shut | Facial expression | Frequency: low
Taken aback.
Indicates that the surprise is net negative.
The dictionary entry pops into my head before I can stop it, having been locked away in the Fantasy Corner for the last five years.
I used to tally the frequency of Harrison’s facial expressions as part of my Mental Dictionary of Harrison’s Emotional Tells—and while this expression has a preexisting entry, it’s the first time it’s been used on me.
And that’s certainly not an indicator that this will be a positive interaction.
“I—”
“You’re—”
Our eyes lock in a staring contest.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he murmurs, talking more to himself than to me. He blinks rapidly as he speaks, his arms hanging limply at his sides, as if he doesn’t know what to do with them now that he’s turned down my hug. “You’re supposed to be in Tampa. Why aren’t you in Tampa?”
I ignore that question, for the time being. “How have you been?”
He ignores me in return. “Why are you here?”