Cera
TWENTY-SEVEN
The Forty Days: Lent sets aside forty days for the wilderness, for giving something up and going without until you can stand inside the lack. She let the apartment, the job, and every solid thing go, and learned she could breathe under nothing.
The apartment is picked over. It's the sad stage in between living and moving that makes everything look sort of depressing.
The couch sold first, then the coffee table and bookshelf. The walls show pale squares where frames hung. Boxes stacked against the baseboard hold everything I'm keeping, which isn't much. Three donation bags sit by the door, already tied shut.
I stand in front of the dresser and try to remember why I wanted it so badly.
It's mid-century, solid oak with six drawers and clean lines. I saved three paychecks for it because I thought it would bring Zen to our apartment. It didn’t, and now I'm ashamed just looking at it.
I've got it on Marketplace for a hundred bucks, a fraction of what I paid.
It's the last big thing to go.
My phone buzzes. Caroline, the buyer, texts that she's pulling up in my parking lot.
I grab the roll of tape and secure the bottom drawer. The woman knocks, and I open the door.
She's maybe twenty-five, ponytail, running shorts, the kind of easy confidence I used to have before everything broke.
"Cera?"
"Hey, Caroline. Come on in."
She walks to the dresser and runs her hand down the side.
"It's perfect."
"It held up. Careful with the top drawer. It sticks a little."
She nods and grips one side. I take the other. We tilt it back and shuffle toward the door. The thing weighs more than I remember. My fingers dig into the wood, and we angle it through the doorway without scraping the frame.
The hallway is narrow. We pause at the top of the stairs because we can't get it in the elevator. I remember that from when I bought it.
"On three," she says.
We lift in sync and start down. The dresser shifts between us, and I adjust my grip. My shoulder burns by the time we hit the landing.
"You moving far?"
"India. Leaving in two days."
She glances at me, surprised but not prying.
"Wow. That's cool."
"Yeah. Six months at an ashram in Rishikesh. I'll come back certified to teach, but mostly I just need to clear my head and live simply for a while."
We navigate the last flight. My arms shake when we set it down near the building's front door.
"That's amazing. I've always wanted to do something like that."
I straighten and catch my breath.
"I have, too. It took everything shaking up in my life to push me, but I think everything happens for a reason. It's definitely a bucket list thing."
Her friend pulls a truck up to the curb. Together, the three of us muscle the dresser into the bed. The driver hops into the back and straps it down.
She hands me five twenty-dollar bills.
"If you're selling anything else, let me know. We just got our first place together, and we need things."
"Everything left is going to Goodwill in the morning. But if you want first pick, come back up and take a look. It's all got to be gone by the weekend."
She follows me. I point out the lamp, the side table, and the mirror still leaning against the wall.
"Will you take forty for the lamp and side table? I love the mirror, but I can't think of a wall for it."
"Sure, that's fair. I love that lamp. Good luck with your new place."
When she drives off, I stand on the curb and watch the truck disappear around the corner.
The dresser is gone.
I remember buying it, how proud I was, how I thought having it meant I was building something stable. I polished it every week. Kept it organized. Treated it like proof I was okay.
Now someone else will use it and never know what it cost me.
I walk back upstairs. The apartment is almost completely empty. Just the mattress on the floor for me to sleep on until my flight leaves, the bags for Goodwill, the boxes that are getting picked up for the storage, and a stupid bocce set that Cas says he's picking up.
I run my palm over the spot where the dresser stood, the carpet still dented from the weight.
I would rather have peace than things. I spent my entire adult life filling it with things, making up for the emptiness I experienced as a child. A lot of good that did, leaving me exactly where I was, only with more shit.
Two more days.
My phone buzzes on the counter in the kitchen, echoing more than normal with no furniture to soak it up. I pull it out and see Cas's name on the screen.
My eyes roll involuntarily. I've had to tell him no twice when he's asked me out. The guy can't understand why I have no interest in going down that road with him. I even switched dry cleaners to avoid any accidental run-ins.
I did let him know I was moving and getting rid of everything, so of course he has something he realized he can't live without.
"Hey."
His voice sounds the same. Warm, easy, the kind of familiar that used to make me lower my guard.
"Cera. I was hoping I didn't miss you. I've been so crazy this week. Sorry, I didn't get by. Can I still come get that bocce set?"
"No worries. I'm here until Saturday. The bocce set is here until Goodwill comes tomorrow."
"India, huh?"
Jesus Christ. We already had this conversation over text.
"Yep."
"That's great. I'm happy for you."
I don't respond, letting him fill the silence if he wants to.
"Can I come by this afternoon?"
"I might have to run out," I lie. I have nowhere to go. "If I do, I'll leave the door unlocked. There's nothing in here to steal."
He laughs. "Except my bocce set."
"Right. Except that. What time do you think? I'll try to make sure I'm here so I can say goodbye properly." Another lie, and a jab at his inability to give a proper goodbye when breaking up with someone after two years.
"Maybe when you get back from India, we can get together."
I close my eyes. Take a breath. I'm so tired of this.
"I don't think so, Cas."
The line goes quiet. I can hear him breathing.
"I really am sorry for how it ended. For all of it."
"I know. Me, too."
"We had good times, though."
"We did. And they're over."
"You really mean it."
"I do."
Another pause.
"Okay. I get it. I hope India's everything you want."
"Thanks, Cas."
"I'll be by around six today. Would love to see you, but if I miss you, take care of yourself, Cera."
You will definitely miss me. I just remembered I'm planning to go on a walk right around that time.
"You, too."
I end the call and set the phone on the counter.
I pick up the packing tape and finish sealing the last box. The woman who would have accepted half a relationship is already gone. She left before I did.
Six months later
The humidity slaps me the second I step out of the terminal. My clothes stick to my skin, and the noise of the arrivals zone hits like a wall. Announcements crackle overhead, people shout into their phones, and luggage wheels clatter on the pavement.
The heat is the same. New Orleans in September is thick and wet, nothing like the dry air of Rishikesh that smelled like jasmine and rain.
I scan the crowd for Locke and spot him leaning against a post near the rideshare pickup. He sees me the same second and pushes off, walking fast.
He folds me into a hug before I can say a word. His arms squeeze tight, and I drop my bag and hug him back.
When he pulls away, he holds me by the shoulders and looks me over.
"Look at you. Annoyingly serene. I hate it here."
"I missed you too."
He grabs my suitcase and wheels it toward the garage.
"I'm serious. You look disgustingly healthy. What did they do to you over there? Brainwash you with mantras and quinoa?"
"Rice. A lot of rice."
"I'm already trying to find a spot in my schedule to go back. It's fabulous, right?"
"I can't put it into words. Thank you for pushing me."
"I wonder what it would be like to be over there for six months. I'm envious and so happy for you that you were able to do that."
We hit the elevator, and he presses the button for level three. The doors close, and he glances at me again.
"I kept all your letters. Thank you for writing me."
That catches me off guard. I sent one every few weeks, handwritten because the ashram didn't allow phones most of the time. I didn't expect him to keep them.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I loved reading you come back to yourself."
His voice softens, and I can sense what he's not saying. He watched me leave broken, and now he's seeing me put together again.
"The handwriting changed," he continues. "First few pages were shaky as hell. By the last ones, it looked like calligraphy."
I smile and blink against the sting in my eyes.
"I had a lot of time to sit still."
The elevator opens, and we walk to his car. He pops the trunk and lifts my suitcase inside.
"You're crashing with me until you furnish the new place, right?"
I shake my head.
"No, I'm staying at Bienville House until I get my place set up. I want to ease back into society quietly. Thank you, though. I know the Murphy bed in your office is always a backup if I need it."
He stops and looks at me.
He slides into the driver's seat, and I climb in beside him. The air conditioning blasts cold, and I lean into it.
"Remind me where your new place is again."
"Irish Channel. A little shotgun, a couple blocks off the river."
"Uptown now? Mid-City Cera is officially retired."
"Mid-City Cera let her whole lease go. This one's a fraction of the rent I was paying on Broad, and it's a ten-minute bike ride from the studio where I start teaching next week."
He pulls out of the garage and merges into traffic.
"I love all of that for you. Just yoga and Pilates?"
"And data visualization on the side. Contract work, remote, just to give me some cushion."
"No industrial kitchen? No reclaimed wood floors?"
"Nope."
"And you're okay with that?"
I look out the window at the city sliding past. Familiar buildings, familiar streets, but with a new perspective.
"I've never been so content about a step down."
Locke grins and taps the steering wheel.
"Annoyingly serene. Told you."
He's quiet for a block, then his tone shifts to something more careful. "Have you heard anything from Wells at all?"
"No. And that's how I want it."
He nods, eyes on the road.
"What happens if you run into him somewhere now that you're back?"
I almost laugh.
"Locke. The man doesn't go anywhere. His office, his tower, the elevator in between. He's the last person on this earth who's going to wander into any place that would intersect with my world. And I'm not getting back on the platform, which I will not mention."
"Fair."
"We both laugh, and it surprises me how easy it is.
"My, how things change," he says.
"They really do."
Locke carries the smaller duffle, and I haul the backpack into my temporary home for the next week. The room smells like lavender, and the natural light is perfection.
Locke sets the duffle down and looks around.
"You brought back less than you left with."
"Didn't need much over there."
"And yet somehow you seem more put together than when you left."
I smile and drop the backpack near the bed.
"Thanks for this. For helping coordinate everything."
He waves it off.
"I'm three blocks away if you need anything. Dinner tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Text me. Let me make sure the jet lag and general whiplash of going from there to here doesn't cause a heart attack."
He hugs me once more, quick and solid, then leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand in the middle of the room and take it in, then walk to the window and look out. A woman pushes a stroller below on the sidewalk.
Then I smell it. Cigarette smoke drifts up from somewhere below. For one breath, it becomes Wells.
I'm back on a hotel balcony in Florida, watching him hold a cigarette between two fingers, so still he might have been carved.
He looked at me then, like he was memorizing something, and I pretended not to notice.
We hadn't named whatever it was yet. We were just two people losing a fight neither of us would admit we were in.
The ache rises, and I let it. I don't shove it down or scold myself for still carrying him. The old me would have gone under, spiraled, looked for something to fill the ache. This one lets it come, holds it a moment, and lets it move through and out.
I turn from the window.
The yoga mat sits rolled against the wall near the bed. I pick it up and carry it to the center of the room. The mat unfurls with a soft sound. The edges curl for a second before settling flat.
I slip off my shoes and step onto it barefoot. Namaste.