Chapter 2
Sophie
Cal: Sophie, if you ever need a place to crash, you can always come to my place.
I reread the three-month-old text from my brother and hope his offer still stands. Not that I could call to confirm, since he was off somewhere saving the world while my life was falling apart. Typical. I quickly wiped the tears forming in the corners of my eyes.
I shift the duffle bag full of everything I own higher on my shoulder and adjust my grip on the roll of canvases.
My grandmother’s old art supply box weighs down my other arm—my prized possession, even if it’s been gathering dust for months.
I start up the stairs, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb Cal’s neighbors.
It has to be close to 3 a.m., but I couldn’t sleep in my cramped house anymore.
Not while my boyfriend—or, as he insisted on being called, my emotional co-creator—was fucking one of our roommates in the next room, possibly two of them.
To be fair, he had invited me to join, but I’d told him a thousand times I wasn’t into that.
But according to him, “monogamy is a tool of capitalism,” and my refusal was “a trauma response rooted in ownership culture.” Also, I was apparently failing to honor his “universal desire to have his body worshiped by multiple lifeforms.” I had my bags packed by the time he reached his “spiritual climax affirmation.”
It’s called a fucking orgasm, dude—not that he’d ever given me one.
So I drove the ninety minutes from Santa Cruz to San Francisco, circled for twenty minutes to find street parking, and lugged my entire life inside. By the time I hit the landing in front of Cal’s apartment, my arms were burning, my heart was broken, and I had exactly zero regrets.
I punched in the door code—our mom’s birthdate—and went inside.
It was pitch black, and my heart sank a little as I confirmed I was alone.
But what had I expected? Cal was in Cambodia for twelve weeks, and I hadn’t seen him in six months.
Not since we met for dinner and he tried to talk me out of my current living and romantic situation, saying he was worried about me.
What was new? Everyone had been telling me what to do since I was ten years old, and people figured out I could draw a little better than the average fifth grader.
I told Cal that he didn’t need to worry, that I could make my own decisions.
I was in love with Marshall and enjoyed communal living with a rotating door of roommates in a two-bedroom shithole cabin in the Santa Cruz mountains, and I wasn’t attached to material things like he was.
He just nodded and told me that if I ever changed my mind, his place was always available.
As I stand in his darkened apartment, I must admit that I am looking forward to enjoying some of his material things: consistent hot water, a dishwasher, and most of all, his king-sized bed with its ridiculously high thread count sheets.
I consider taking a shower, but suddenly I’m overwhelmed with fatigue. I think the rush of anger and adrenaline is draining from my body, and everything is catching up with me. I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ll crash in Cal’s bed tonight and sort everything else out in the morning.
I stumble into Cal’s room and don’t even have the energy to dig out my pajamas that I’d stuffed into my duffel. I strip down to my underwear and pull on Cal’s hoodie, which he’d left at the end of his bed, and climb in.
I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.