Chapter 41
forty-one
Georgia
Inhaling the clean scent of lemon and cedar, I squirt another spritz of wood polish onto my washrag and run it over the dining table one last time.
Then I step back to admire the gleaming surface in the morning light shining from the windows.
The final touch is running the mop over the floors, backing myself out of the room so I leave no trace of footprints.
Then I head out the door, tucking my mop and cleaning rag into a hidden corner of the garage, and get in my car.
The house is done. No more contractors, no more construction dust or plastic covers on the furniture, no more Cash. I never thought I’d miss the house projects, just like I never thought I’d have to miss Cash. But we’re over.
It happened so fast I actually woke up the morning after our argument forgetting I might not have a boyfriend anymore.
Only when I picked up my phone and saw his text—the one where he gave me a list of contractors who could take over the jobs he left unfinished—did I even remember; did I even understand it was for real.
We weren’t taking a break, we were done.
We didn’t have an argument, we broke up.
Clean, instant, shocking. A replica of falling in love with him.
I thought life would revert to the way it was before, but I was laughably mistaken. You can’t go back to knowing what it was like to never have been loved by Cash Hartnell. All that’s left is to feel bereft.
At least life is simpler now. Maybe it was exciting to think about the possibilities open to me after graduation: all the cities Cash might end up in, all the cities I might find a job, and whether those two might coexist. The freedom to settle into Aunt Julie’s house and stay in Shafer or sell it and use the money to buy my own place wherever my future job might take me.
But that kind of freedom never suited me, anyway.
There’s comfort in knowing exactly what life will look like. I’ll sell the house, move back to Jersey, and find a job. Like I’d always planned.
I give the house a final admiring glance as I roll down the street, mentally wishing her luck the same way I would to a friend. It’s a big day for this place, my real estate agent armed with a long list of showings. Aunt Julie’s house might find her new owner before the day is out.
In the car, I call Maisy, who answers on the first ring.
“I’m free!” Her gleeful voice sounds through the car speakers.
“Woo-hoo! You’re just racking up graduations this spring, aren’t you?” It’s the first time we’ve spoken in over a week, though we’ve been texting almost every day, carefully avoiding her brother’s name and focusing instead on how she completed her PHP yesterday. “Are you home already?”
“Home and settled back in. God, I missed my alone time.”
“And I hate to cut into it, but I insist on taking you out for a celebratory dinner.”
“I’d never argue with that. But, um…is next week okay? This weekend is…”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” I insist, my voice embarrassingly high and cheery as I remember what this weekend is.
Two nights ago, Cash was drafted in the first round, the wish he’d waited so long to believe in finally coming true.
And now there’ll be parties and toasts and dinners out as the football guys and the people who love them gather to celebrate.
My chest strains with longing. “Just text me when you have a free night, and we’ll make it happen. ”
A long pause stretches between us. “Have you talked to him?”
She knows I haven’t—Cash would have told her. She’s asking if I plan to. “No.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to hear from you.”
I shrug, playing at nonchalance for an audience of none. “Maybe. For now, can you just tell him I’m happy for him?”
“You got it.”
After we hang up, I push away thoughts of him and replay the day’s agenda as I head downtown.
With graduation three weeks away and finals looming, I’m treating myself to a solo day out: window shopping, checking out the little architecture museum, and trying the locals’ favorite Shafer Red Hot ice cream flavor.
All the things I intended to do before life got busy with Maisy, with Cash, with his friends.
It’s unreal the way my months here have flown by.
Now I understand why so many kids despair at college ending; this semester has been the best season of my life since I was a little kid.
Last night, suddenly unexcited about spending the day alone, I almost texted the group chat with Lenni, Jade, and Ruby to ask if anyone wanted to tag along but stopped myself.
It’s okay to enjoy things alone. Besides, they’re as busy celebrating the draft as Maisy is.
My mind drifts to the future as I wander the museum.
In a few weeks, I’ll be back in the familiarity of the East Coast with a sizable bank account—Susanna swears the house will sell quickly—that will give me the freedom to be choosy about how to begin my career.
Searching my heart, I try to recapture my longing to return to my old life and the comfort it promised, but thinking of my old life only leaves me feeling cold and bleak.
What’s waiting there for me? Nothing beyond clothes, shoes, and a few old photos shoved into a small storage unit. Life feels achingly empty without Cash.
I’m sullen by the time I sit down with a cup of Shafer Red Hot ice cream—which turns out to be pink—and check my phone for the time, but I still have four hours before the showings are complete.
My only message is from Susanna informing me of the young family who oohed and aahed over every room in the house and their youngest daughter’s enthusiasm over the “princess room.” I smile, recalling the same reaction I had fifteen years ago.
The last few hours of my outing are spent mindlessly browsing shelves at the city library and metaphorically twiddling my thumbs. By the time I unlock my front door, the letdown of my day has turned into an ache I can’t explain.
I wander from room to room, poring over my favorite details, wondering how many strangers walked my house and loved the same features while I was out pretending to have a good time.
Coming back down the stairs into the foyer, I catch the outline of faint shoe prints on the wood floor, and the sight stops me in my tracks.
Mourning hits me hard and unexpected. This house isn’t mine much longer.
Probably something every homeowner feels during the selling process, though it’s the first time I’ve felt like a homeowner in anything more than a technical sense. I tell myself it’s normal.
Just like I’ve always told myself not to be afraid of hard feelings.
Not to be afraid of being alone, of missing my parents, of wondering what might have been.
It’s not those feelings that drag you down, it’s wishing they didn’t exist. But my old wisdom brings no comfort.
I’m not afraid of going back to how it was before or of being alone; I’m afraid that I can’t go back.
Now that I know how it feels to be in love and be surrounded by friends and have a home full of your own history, now that I know…
oh, fuck it, now that I know it feels even better than all the love songs and rom-coms promised it would, forgetting is impossible.
I don’t want to forget him, anyway.
But once I sell this house, forgetting will be the only way to survive.