13. Be More
Chapter 13
Be More
T he boxes are hauled upstairs, and I begin unpacking right away. There isn’t much, Sage is taking most of the dishes and kitchen appliances because Sam has everything we need, and Brian doesn’t. There are the books, of course, a few decorations, an abnormal amount of coffee mugs—some of which were Grandma’s—clothes and other linens, and enough office materials to supply a small business. We donated the furniture and anything else we had that Sage and Brian don’t need. With all of my eggs in one basket, I’m left praying this arrangement works out.
“Y’all have done enough. Don’t worry about it,” I say as the guys begin peeling off tape and unloading the boxes.
But Callum looks at me with a stern glare as Tyler says, “Cori Lorraine, we talked about this earlier.”
I shift my weight onto one foot, poking my hip out. “How do you know my middle name?”
He grins deviously. “Oh, Sage’s told us lots of stuff about you.”
Callum takes a box of coffee mugs to the kitchen, while Tyler opens a box of books. He slides it towards the hallway before opening another box of books. I watch him, amused, as he opens a third, then a fourth, and rolls his eyes. “Don’t you think this is a tad excessive?”
“It’s pronounced impr essive. I know it’s a difficult word, but say it with me slowly. Im. Press. Ive .”
He considers my joke for a moment. “Maybe stick to reading. Leave the joke telling to the professionals?”
I grin until I see Nick studying me with an intense, unreadable expression.
* * *
A fter the pizza arrives, the guys eat and I escape to Sam’s room. Organizing the books is therapeutic, but it doesn’t take me long to reach the last box.
Except, it doesn’t contain books like it appears. It holds journals. I simultaneously admire the memories and glare at the reminder of what a failure I am. Because some journals have poems or novels inside—stories I’ve written poorly, then set aside to forget about. But some are empty because I stopped looking for the inspiration to keep writing.
I pull one out, a light pink cover with the words, “Live, Write, Repeat,” stamped on the front. I know what’s inside without opening it, but I do so anyway, to the halfway mark, finding the last poem I wrote.
I scream and flail about,
Drowning in tears as I shout
Your name, time after time.
My existence feels like a crime.
What are you even looking toward
To leave me here, alone and ignored?
Maybe I should just disappear,
Since you already pretend I’m not here.
From just being me, I’m swathed in shame.
For no matter how loud I scream your name,
Thrash about, writhe, and fret,
All I see is your silhouette.
I’d love to have the confidence in myself one day to again put something out into the world, something made up from what fills me inside. But these journals only serve as a reminder of finding the poetry book in a donation pile. A reminder of Mom and Dad’s indifferent reaction to my published poem at nineteen years of age. A reminder that all I have to give is shadows and emptiness.
And nobody wants that.
I place the journal back inside the same box it’s resided in since that Christmas when I retired my pen and stopped writing altogether. Then I slide the box beneath Sam’s bed. When I die, someone will pull the box back out and shake their head at what a shame it is that I couldn’t write more. Do more. Say more.
Be more.
* * *
I t’s nearing two p.m. when I hear the front door open. Hesitantly, I go out to the hallway, finding Sam, every hair in place and light blue shorts still perfectly ironed. He holds a small gift bag.
“Hey, babe,” he says, taking off his shoes. He wraps me in a hug, kisses my forehead, then hands me the bag. “Did you get everything unpacked?”
“What is this?”
He smirks. “Look and find out.”
I tilt my head when I see his car keys inside.
“You’re welcome. Does that make up for me not being here today?”
“I don’t understand.”
“After you called me, I had your car towed to a shop. Don’t worry, I’m footing the bill. They’re working on it as we speak. Probably won’t be done for another week, though, then I’ll have to take it to the tire shop. So you can use mine in the meantime. I’ll carpool with Dad.”
I’m speechless. The keys, a gag to silence any complaints I might have had about him not showing up today. He’ll fork over a bunch of money for me, and I can’t do anything but accept it.
“I didn’t want you to do that,” I say. “I wanted to pay for it myself.”
“When? Next year? The proper response is, ‘ Thank you, Sam, you’re amazing.’ ”
Suddenly, Nick’s voice floods my head. “Does getting out the things you want to say instead of swallowing them down help you feel better?”
“Thank you. Truly, I appreciate it. But, you know, this isn’t the first time you’ve not shown up and then blamed me for giving you the wrong day or time.” I feel everyone’s eyes on me, and weirdly, that’s why I’m feeling brave enough to say it. They’re the eyes of the people who were there for me today. The people who had to show up because Sam didn’t. “And Nick’s party, you swear you told me about it, but you didn’t.”
“You know, I ended the meeting early to come home to you.”
“Meeting? I thought you were golfing?”
“Yeah, we were golfing while having a meeting. I don’t go golfing with clients for fun, Cori.”
“Okay? So, you left early. You still left me stranded this morning.”
“Did I? Because it looks like you made it here just fine.” He holds his hands up. “But I’m still the bad guy.”
I don’t want to brush it off just like every other time. I want an apology. But I don’t get one. Sam rolls his eyes and storms off to his room. But I guess it’s our room now.
So I follow.
When I walk in, he’s sitting on the bed with his head in his hands.
“I had a shit day, okay? Can we not do this?” He brings his head up to look at me. “I swear you told me Sunday. And I spent all day with that asshole when I would have given anything to help you move into my apartment, and the dick didn’t even take the deal.”
I want to give him a hug and make him feel better. Maybe because I love him and hate seeing him so defeated. Maybe because I don’t see a solution unless I cave.
My emotions betray me. I’m constantly caught between positives and negatives without being able to find a lane to stay in. Sam is a great boyfriend. But he’s also a terrible boyfriend. He’s sweet, but arrogant. He’s caring, but sometimes only does and gives things so he won’t have to hear me complain, like with the car.
But don’t I give in for the same reason? I hate confrontation, and sometimes it’s just easier to let him have his way than to hear him drone on and on. That’s why I hardly eat in his presence—so I don’t have to hear his lectures about nutrition. Why I lay with him before sneaking out to the living room to read—because he whines that he falls asleep faster with me there, but can’t sleep with the lamp on. It’s why I keep my mouth shut when I have something snarky I want to say—because the following argument is not worth my energy.
But I don’t really care that he’s tired and that he wasted his entire day on a hopeless case. Maybe he deserved that client dangling in front of his face like bait, only to be sorely disappointed when he chomped down on it. Maybe that’s what you get when you tell me to wait to move everything in one day and then don’t show up to help.
But do I have any right to be upset? I will be living here rent-free after all. I did convince him to let me pay some of the bills, the equivalent of almost half of the rent at the old apartment, but it’s still not equal to what he pays. I let out a sigh and sit beside him, laying my head on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry. It’s not a big deal, everything worked out. We have amazing friends, you know.”
His arm comes around me, his head on mine. “Yeah, we do. I’m glad they were there to help.”
Maybe we can make this work. I don’t know why I have such difficulty silencing the doubts when this is Sam we’re talking about. If our relationship could survive a seven-year separation, we can survive anything.
Right?