Layla – Present
I grip the stacked trays of sandwiches and take the staircase to my apartment.
Max’s boots thump down the stairs in front of me.
I don’t have to look up to know he’s wearing his denim dungarees and one of his well loved plaid shirts.
He turned sixty-four last Tuesday. I brought him a cake from work, and Ben and I ate it with him in his apartment, surrounded by his family.
What a difference a week makes.
I tighten my grip on the trays and sniff away the never ending stream of tears that seems to be my new normal. I have another flight to go before I reach my apartment, and at this pace, I won’t get there before midnight.
“You okay, Layla?”
I give Max a quick courtesy nod. He might be one of the nicest landlords in existence, but delving into the truth of how I’m feeling isn’t going to happen.
“Today was the day, wasn’t it?”
I nod again.
“Do you want help with those?”
I stare down at the sandwiches. “No.”
I start to walk, and instead of moving past me down the stairs, he pivots, falling into step beside me.
When I reach my apartment, I struggle to balance the sandwiches while trying to fit the key into the door. It slips from my grip and falls onto the Star Wars themed welcome mat Ben bought. Max leans down to pick it up.
“Let me.” He’s already taking hold of the key.
I want to tell him to leave me alone, but instead I bite my tongue and wait until he has the door pushed open so I can slip past him. I set the platters down on the coffee table and kick off my shoes. Max lingers in the doorway, his fingers tapping along the wooden frame.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He sighs. “If you need anything at all, let me know, okay?” He lowers his head, then looks up at me again, like he’s trying to show me how serious he is.
“Okay.” I choke out.
When he finally closes the door, I slide the lock into place and lean my back against it.
The sun coming through the windows on the far side of the room is starting to dim, the amber glow lighting up the three framed football jerseys hanging on the wall beside the bedroom, each one signed by Ben’s favorite players.
Our pale blue couch beneath them has Ben’s wrinkled T-shirt draped over the armrest. The mug he was drinking from the day he died still sits half full on the coffee table.
I sniff the inside of his jacket as I slide down to the floor, curling into myself. I cradle my knees to my chest and stare back at our home. I don’t move until all the light has filtered out, and I’m left alone in the dark.
My eyes feel heavy. My whole body does.
I turn on the faucet and cup my hands beneath the stream. I hold the water for a few moments, then lean down. I reach for the towel, and then the realization hits me.
Ben would have used this towel.
When I set it down, I see him everywhere.
His toothbrush rests in the holder next to mine.
His aftershave on the shelf above it.
His razor next to that.
His body wash.
His deodorant.
He’s everywhere. In every small thing.
Tying my hair up, I walk into our bedroom and push open the closet doors. I grab a bunch of his clothes still hanging on the hooks and throw them onto the bed. I climb in beside them, hugging them to me, as if they could ever be a replacement for him.
I let my tears fall into the fabric of the clothes he once wore. I cry, and I cry, and I cry, until somewhere among the tears, I finally fall asleep, holding onto the last pieces of him.
Hoping and praying that when I wake, none of this will be real.
It can’t be real.
***
Ben’s clothes are all over the place. Some have fallen onto the shaggy rug beside our bed. I’m still wearing his jacket, but now I’ve added more of his clothes underneath. I rub my eyes and roll over to check the date on my cellphone.
Thanksgiving.
I have six missed calls from Clark and Georgia, even one from JJ. Along with multiple texts I haven’t responded to. Guilt trickles in as I scroll past them, keeping them unopened and unanswered. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
I stop when I see one from Dad, his annual Thanksgiving text. I click on it.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Lays.”
No, how are you doing?
No, how are classes going?
Nothing that would risk any sort of conversation developing.
He doesn’t even know I’m married.
He never even knew I was dating.
My stomach makes a loud gurgling sound as I flick on my bedside lamp.
I stumble into the kitchen, then yank open the freezer door.
I probably should have gotten some groceries in.
The sad tub of freezer burned mint choc chip ice cream is sitting alone on the top shelf.
I run my fingers through my hair and dial the pizza company.
Slumping down on the couch, I grab the remote from the coffee table.
I stop when I see a show Ben and I used to watch together.
I turn the TV off. I don’t feel like watching it anymore.
“Don’t worry,” I say into the empty room. “I’m not watching it without you.”
My legs carry me back into our room. I feel around the top shelf of the closet until my hand knocks off something hard.
That’s it.
I pull the box down and sit on the floor, crossing my legs.
I lift the lid. I haven’t looked through this in years, four years to be exact.
When Dad stuck me on a plane to live with my aunt in Louisiana, he had thought it would be a good idea for me to attend regular therapy sessions.
To help me “heal” from everything that happened in Rockport.
Therapy didn’t exactly help me back then. I’d blame my unwillingness to open up if I didn’t know for a fact that my therapist, Lisa, was breaking every ethics code possible to relay everything I said in our sessions back to Dad. I swear, sometimes even the advice she gave sounded like him.
The only true positive that came from a year with Lisa was journaling. She encouraged me to write everything I was feeling down. And after a while, I actually ended up finding it helpful. So I kept it up.
I’ll just never tell her that.
Back then, I wrote mostly about my feelings for my first boyfriend Jacob, something I absolutely never would have shared with Lisa. I wrote about everything that happened the night we last saw each other. My hatred for my brother Rhett. For my dad. And how much I missed my best friend, Amie.
After a couple of years, and after I met Ben, I started writing about him. Most of my big memories with Ben are written here.
I flick through some of the earlier entries. There’s a lot of anger on those pages. At Dad. At Rhett. And there’s a lot of hurt, and pain, and heartbreak for Jacob. I close those and put them back in the box where they belong.
Then I pull one out with a more recent date.
The day I met Ben.
A loud knock at the apartment door stops me before I can turn the page.
The delivery guy scrunches up his nose when he sees me.
I take the pizza and hand him the cash. I sniff my jacket. It no longer smells like Ben. It smells… pretty gross, actually.
When was the last time I showered?
I carry the pizza with me to the bedroom floor and sit on the fluffy rug. I bite into the first slice, Hawaiian, with extra pineapple.
Ben’s favorite.
I read the first line of the journal entry twice.
If the memories are all I’m left with, then I will hold on to them. I’ll keep them vivid and alive. I won’t let them fade.
I can live like this.
In fact, it’s the only way I think I can live.
I can’t imagine a future without Ben.
I don’t want to.
So instead, I’ll stay here. In the past.
Our past.
Forever.