Chapter Thirty-Six
Seeing Oban and talking with Moira lessens the tension I’ve been carrying with me since New Year’s.
I survived prolonged contact in his hometown, with his mom; maybe I can get over this.
Maybe there is a future where this whole episode becomes a mere footnote in my life.
Reassuringly, when I get back to Liverpool, the weather continues to mimic my mental state: cold and gray, but now with the occasional tantalizing hint of something different and better just over the horizon.
The first something better comes in the form of Josh—specifically, comes in the form of me getting off my high horse and accepting that he was just looking out for me and that me screaming at him was probably not the response of an emotionally well-calibrated adult.
Losing Lachlan’s friendship is devastating, of course, but losing Josh’s has felt like losing a limb. It’s time to apologize.
“I can’t believe it,” he says at the end of my long, slightly unhinged rant.
“Nah, you had him pegged from the beginning. I should have listened to you.”
“I only said all that because I wanted to make sure you were protected. I thought I’d be wrong, I genuinely did. I wanted to be wrong.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was all a game to him. Maybe he was just playing me, pushing me to see how far he could go. Maybe he’s back with Claire now. Game over.”
“If that’s the case, then good riddance.”
“Yeah, but Josh, I did it again. I fucking did it again, convinced myself that I didn’t need to say anything, deluded myself into thinking that it would all work out fine. Took the passive road through my own fucking life. And now, once again, I’m crying into my wineglass in an empty apartment.”
“I hate to get all ‘teacher’ on you, but you know, some students need to hear the lesson a few times before it sinks in.”
“Well, Mr. Newman, what homework can you assign to make sure I’ve really learned it this time?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Come home.” His voice cracks. “Come back home. Write this off as an interesting experiment and come back to Boston.”
“Tail between my legs? Throwing in the towel the second things get hard? I can’t keep running away when things go wrong in my life. That’s the coward’s way out, for one, and for two, do you know how expensive it is to do a transatlantic move twice in twelve months?”
He laughs, then sighs. “I know. You’re right, and I’m proud of you for being brave. I was being selfish. It’s just hard not to be able to shake you around the shoulders a little bit when you’re being stupid. FaceTime doesn’t quite cut it.”
“I’m sure Apple is working on that technology.”
“Well, we’ll have to make do until they nail it.” He clears his throat. “Hey, you’re going to be okay, you know that, right? You’re going to be fine.”
I sniffle. “Yeah. Thanks, mate.”
“ ‘Mate’? Oh God, she’s gone native.”
I slip into my terrible British accent, voice still garbled with tears. “Yeah, innit. I’ve got to ring off now, pop to the shops, tea and biscuits, et cet-tra.”
“Flawless. Like talking to Dame Judi Dench herself.”
We say goodbye, and I allow myself to believe, just for a moment, that Josh is right: I am going to be okay.
Whereas before, the road ahead was pitch-black and full of terrors unknown, with Josh back onside, it’s like now there’s a flickering streetlight or two to guide my way.
This ignites the smallest ember of positivity in me, an energy I haven’t felt since before the club.
I want to do something with it before it’s gone, snuffed out by the great wallowing hand of my misery.
Luckily, I have a guide for just this occasion.
When I look at Erica’s List this time, the warmth of my better mood radiating in my chest, I’m inspired to take the whole thing in.
I need to stop fishing for the easiest box to check off and get back to the list’s original purpose: a holistic guide for reinventing myself.
I’m going to do all the things. Check all the boxes.
Fan this spark into a flame and relaunch my erstwhile phoenix ambitions.
Abby 2.0, here we go. Or maybe 3.0. Fuck it, whatever reinvention I’m on at this point.
I’m Grabby Abby now: taking life by the balls.
The first item I see is “Take an improv class,” and the whole reinvention nearly meets its end right there and then.
Maybe I’ll check off all the boxes except one…
Then I see something far more enjoyable: “Host a dinner party.” When I first read that one, way back in June, I had a vision for one of those fabulous evenings you see in movies: beautiful platters overloaded with perfect food, people topping up each other’s wineglasses, candles slowly dripping onto a scrubbed wooden table as conversation stretches deep into the night.
That’s obviously not going to happen right now, not least because I’m certain hot wax would destroy the weird plastic-y material of the Ikea table in my tiny kitchen.
But a cornerstone of this reinvention is going to be accepting that not everything has to be perfect, not everything will be as it is in my dreams. And I know one person who would appreciate my cooking right now, even if it comes to her not on beautiful platters but in a bunch of Tupperware.
I shoot Amina a quick text: “Are you free on Saturday?”
She texts right back: “No, Hamza’s taking me on an impromptu trip to Tokyo.” Then she sends the rolling eyes emoji, and I laugh.
“I’m coming over at three. Do absolutely NOTHING to prepare or there will be consequences.”
“Don’t put on trousers, got it.”
For the next few days, I come home from the training center and then the real work begins.
Mom grew up in the Midwest, so luckily I was schooled in the fine art of casserole prep.
I clean the local kitchen supply store out of its stock of 9x13 pans and fill them with lasagna, mac and cheese, and any type of potato dish I can think of (then I remember the size of the average freezer in the U.K.
and scale back my plans considerably). I bake dozens of cookies and buy every tea bag that promises to be “calming” or “soothing.” I splatter the ceiling of my kitchen with tomato soup after an unfortunate blender mishap, but such is the state of my frenzy that I don’t clean it up.
Then on Saturday afternoon, I load everything into a bunch of shopping bags and splurge on an Uber out to Amina’s.
When she opens the door, she’s a complete and total mess with unwashed hair, a stained T-shirt, and an exhaustion that seems to be wrapped around her like a second skin.
The house is chaos personified—she has done absolutely nothing to prepare for my arrival, and I am genuinely touched by this.
After all, if love means never having to say you’re sorry, friendship means never having to say you’re sorry for the state of your bathroom. I hold up my bags: “Coming in hot.”
She stands aside to let me through. “You’re about three months late with the Christmas prezzies,” she says, but I can see the intrigue in her eyes as she follows me to the kitchen. “But what has tardy Father Christmas brought us, then?”
“Three or four weeks of frozen food for you and Faizan and roughly twenty minutes’ worth of cookies, if past experience is any indicator of future consumption rates.
But more importantly, I bring you the gift of time: I’m going to be here until ten, so for the next seven hours, you can use me however you please. ”
It’s a mark of Amina’s frazzled state that she doesn’t even try to make a sex joke.
I continue. “Cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, or watching Hamza so you can go out and, you know, get a haircut maybe. Just a suggestion.”
She pats the top of her head. “I was going for Bird’s Nest Chic.”
“And trust me, you’ve nailed it. But seriously, whatever you want. I can also just sit here and watch bad TV with you in silence, if that’s what’s required.”
Amina takes it all in, the food, the treats, everything. It’s the closest I’ve ever seen her come to crying, though of course she doesn’t actually shed a tear. “You’re sure you’re okay to watch him?”
“Yeah, of course. Just show me where you keep the whisky and remind me how much to give him if he cries.”
She just blinks at me.
“I’m kidding! Come on, you’re better than that. I have six nieces and nephews; I know my way around a baby. I promise not to drop, shake, or harm him in any way, though I cannot guarantee that he won’t come out of this with a terrible American accent.”
“A fate worse than death,” she mutters.
“So what’s it going to be to start with?”
Her decision is immediate. “A bath. A long, hot bath. Give me three of those biscuits and if I’m not back in an hour, don’t bother coming for me as I have transcended to another plane of existence.”
I riffle through one of the bags and grab a lavender-scented bath bomb and several issues of LOOK! magazine. “Knock yourself out.”
She bounds up the stairs but stops halfway and comes back to pop her head into the kitchen. “Oh, and the baby is over there, sleeping in that thing.” She gestures in a vague direction.
I laugh. “Important, thanks.”
And for the next seven hours, I don’t think about the state of my own life.
I don’t think about Lachlan or heartbreak or my job or everyone at home and how much I miss them.
As I sweep and mop and change diapers and fold the laundry and rock the baby to sleep, I focus only on making life better for the little Akhtar family.
It’s a step, a small one. Just like going to Oban was a step.
Reconnecting with Josh was a step. Inch by inch, I’ll crawl my way out of this mess.