32. Chapter 32
Chapter 32
Milo
September
As a man who has to somehow pretend to be okay with today’s events, I wish I’d taken some acting classes. Apparently, we’re actually doing this—we’re actually saying goodbye—and I can’t muster anything but mild shock and not-at-all-mild grief.
The Summer of Rose and Milo has come to an end—the dizzying mix of work, writing, and everything Rose a tumble of both pleasure and pain in my mind. How is it already September?
I’ve tried to convince her to continue what we have. But we’re not. And I’m not okay.
We celebrated Rose’s birthday with both of our families yesterday, my heart a cold stone in my throat, feeling the inevitability of the loss of her so tangibly I was searching madly for breath over and over.
It’s a bottleneck of humanity in her apartment right now. My brothers and I have been the muscle in this operation, taking boxes down to the moving truck parked out front. My Aunt Stella offered to provide food for the moving party, so we’re trying to pack up the kitchen around large foil pans of homemade lasagna, rolls, and salads.
“Rose!” Eden shouts, her back to me but the sound piercing my ears anyway. “Where’s the paper for the glassware?” She’s removing cups and plates from the cupboards and piling them next to a box.
Rose rushes in, dirt smudged across the front of her tank top, with Callum at her heels. He turned two a few weeks ago and he’s been clinging to her the past few days, feeling the uncertainty and stress in the air.
When he sees me, he reaches for me. I pick him up and he rubs my ear lobe, snuggling into me. He’s gotten so big, it’s not exactly easy to carry him around, but right now? I do not care. I’m going to savor this as long as I can.
My throat stings. Why are we doing this again? Why are things ending?
“I thought the stash of newspaper was in that bottom drawer,” Rose points to it and our eyes meet. “We’re getting close to being done,” she says with a weary smile.
It’s only taken a couple of hours to pack everything up and load up the boxes, probably because she doesn’t have much stuff. Her apartment in Chapel Hill is a little smaller than this one, so she’s been consolidating and donating.
Rose’s younger sister, Leila, comes in the kitchen, too, squeezing in between the kids milling around and Stella fussing with the food. “Mom’s taking the kids to school in the morning,” she tells Eden. “I asked her to just sleep at your place with all the kids tonight since we’re getting such an early start.”
“Makes sense,” Eden says, yanking out a portion of the newsprint and wrapping it around a tall water glass.
I told Rose I’d be happy to drive the moving truck with her out to North Carolina, but she said she’d been telling her sisters for years they’d make it a girls’ trip. Their mom will take care of all eight of their combined kids at Eden’s house for a few days. Eden and Leila are going to take turns driving Rose’s car and helping with Callum and Thorin in the moving truck. It’s a two-day drive, one way, and once they help her get moved in and settled, they’ll drive the moving truck back.
It’s a great plan. I just wish it involved me somehow.
“You get to go in the big truck tomorrow, Callum,” I say, and he grins. He’s been excited about the prospect for days.
Rose and I have tried to explain to him that I’m not coming, but he doesn’t seem to grasp that yet. I’m having a hard time grasping it, too.
Still, I can’t push her. I like her stubborn nature in principle. It’s gotten her where she is today. But I really wish she could take in the idea that two things can be true at once: she can be a strong, independent woman doing what’s best for her and her son . . . and not say goodbye to what we have.
Rose is dumping eating utensils in another box and since Callum’s in my arms, I lean against the kitchen wall, taking in her beauty. She’s smiling faintly, blowing her hair out of her face. Still, her eyes look hollow.
“I sign on the new house two days after we get back,” Eden announces, pumping a fist in the air. After making some money selling peptide skin care products to her hair clients, she was able to save up enough for a down payment and is moving into her first house soon.
“Hey, that’s the day I have my fancy date with Steven,” Leila says in a sing-songy tone, while her sisters and Stella coo and clap.
Rose turns to me. “Steven’s the accountant she’s been seeing.”
“I know,” I say.
“He’s taking me to The Capital Grille,” Leila says, to which the rest of us say, “We know,” in unison.
We’ve all heard about Steven. He seems to be a good guy, and after Rose met him, she whispered in my ear, “Everything’s working out for everyone.”
I’m happy for the changes Rose and her family are experiencing. But when she says everything’s working out, that doesn’t mean it’s working out for us.
When some of Callum’s cousins run through the kitchen, he pushes off me to jump down and chase them, and I tug Rose close.
“Come kiss me in private,” she whispers in my ear, her soft breath like curlicues tickling my neck.
Frustration broils in my gut. How can she expect us to kiss, pretending nothing’s wrong? Still, I can’t say anything about that here with everyone around. “Private? There is no privacy around here.”
Case in point? Gabriel and Alec are in the doorway of the kitchen again, waiting for Rose to assign them the next thing to take to the truck.
“Hey guys,” Rose says, stepping back from me, but giving me an apologetic glance. “The sofa stays because it came with the apartment. But what about the bookshelf?”
We packed her books up last night, and it hit me all over again.
A couple of hours later, the house is mostly cleared out and cleaned. Callum’s asleep in Rose’s bed, since we’d taken down the crib already. As we say goodbye to the last lingering people, Rose’s smile is thin against her fatigue. She drops down into the kitchen chair and rests her head in her hands.
“I’m going to miss this table, you know.” She knocks against it with her fist before returning to her slouch. “Renting a furnished apartment is nice, but then you have to say goodbye to not only the structure but the furniture inside it, too. It’s sad.”
I nod, my jaw smarting as I bite down hard. There’s a lot I want to say, but I don’t know where to start.
“I’m going to miss the table,” she continues, “because we’ve had a lot of memories sitting here.” Her gaze is soft and tears begin to form in her eyes.
“I’ve written some of my best words here,” I agree, my voice strained from holding back the things I actually want to say.
“You got into a pretty good rhythm. And don’t worry, you’re going to get an agent soon, I can feel it.”
We’d tried to spend every other evening apart so I could write, but that didn’t last long. She’d either invite me over or I’d show up, saying I couldn’t stay away. But it was okay because after Callum went to sleep, I could actually find my creativity and focus. I wrote and she read books. Sometimes she even read my stuff and offered feedback. It was perfect.
It wasn’t like the whole summer was perfect. We had our disagreements. There were tense moments when we argued over conversations we had with family members and times when caring for Callum felt overwhelming and our patience would run out.
In those moments, the way Rose looked at me seemed to convey a sense of I told you this isn’t meant to last forever.
Some lesser-connected agents reached out to me these last few months, offering their services after seeing my success on Turnip. But I turned them all down because I believe in my stories too much to settle. I need someone in New York, someone who can help Zehma become a household name.
Except now, here at Rose’s table in her empty apartment, that all feels like an illusion I’ll be chasing forever. A stupid notion. I should probably go back to those agents and ask them to represent me. Rose’s rejection, the big players at the literary agencies’ rejections—it’s all combining in my head into a glob of unworthiness.
I don’t remember the last time I felt so helpless.
The quiet settles over us in a loud and uncomfortable way. Rose jumps up from her chair and goes to the freezer. When she opens it, I see there’s only one item left in there, a small container of Rocky Road ice cream.
She places it on the countertop, then turns to one of the few remaining boxes in the apartment that contains only the essentials she’ll need to access during her trip. Rummaging through the items, she pulls out a plastic sack, revealing two waffles cones.
“Finally, the mystery shall be revealed!” She says with a laugh. “I’d say you’ve waited long enough.”
“Need some help?” I ask. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch, despite myself, as she fishes out a large spoon from the box and proceeds to scoop up the ice cream into the cones.
“No, no. I got it.” Her eyes sparkle at me before she turns back around to finish scooping.
Thorin must smell the cones because he lumbers up from his bed in the living room and joins us, his gaze trained on each of us in turn, as if to say Which one of you is going to take pity on a cute dog and feed him a treat?
She hands me my ice-cream cone and we eat in silence, our only conversation halfway through being about what a skilled beggar Thorin is. Neither of us can resist searching through the one remaining kitchen box for some dog biscuits for him. When she’s nearly finished with her ice cream, she jumps up and stands near the tall kitchen garbage can.
“I think it’s funny you don’t know about this old wives’ tale,” she says, rooting around the bottom of the cone with her tongue for any last bites of ice cream. “But basically, it’s a superstition that if you eat the tip of the ice cream cone, you’re much more likely to get pregnant.”
I can’t help my laugh.
“What? It’s true!”
“It’s true ?” I mock, cocking an eyebrow.
“Okay, not true necessarily, but it’s a thing.”
“It’s not a thing.”
She lifts her chin. “Well, it’s folklore in my circles, and I happen to take it seriously.” She dumps the tip of the cone in the garbage.
“If you guys consider it a form of birth control, things are starting to make sense.” I’m finished with the whole thing, thank you very much, and I stand to join her near the countertop. Even though my resentment and heartache are rising, I don’t want to miss out on these last opportunities to be close to her.
“Things? As in my family’s voracious fertility?” She laughs and wraps her arms around me, going on her tiptoes so she can gather in closer to me.
“Yes.” Feeling her in my arms is torturous.
“I assure you it’s not a form of birth control for us, but it never hurts to take it seriously. It’s like throwing a bit of salt over your shoulder when you spill it. No harm in doing it.”
“And yet, you have nine nieces and nephews.”
She squeals in frustration. “I’m not saying it’s foolproof! It’s just what I’ve always done, so . . .” She shrugs and brushes her lips against mine.
I freeze and she pulls away, her mouth turning down in a frown. “I love you, Milo.”
Surprise zips through me. We’ve never said it before. Doesn’t it break her rules to say it?
Still, I have to. “I love you, too, Rose.” I know my voice is bitter. “I really thought I could change your mind.” I can’t meet her gaze, but I walk slowly to the table and sit on a chair, my arms hanging down my sides. Finally, when she doesn’t say anything, I look up.
Her face and body are still—her jaw set.
“I shouldn’t have pushed for something you obviously don’t want.” I hate the bitterness in my voice.
She joins me at the table, sitting stiffly across from me. “I told you, I do want it. I don’t want what we have between us to end, but there’s no other alternative, Milo.” The tension here is thick and her eyes are already blazing.
“Sebastian’s good with me transferring to the Chapel Hill location.”
“That’s because Sebastian doesn’t know about the MFA at Greenleaf,” she says. “You can’t give up this once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
I know she’s right, and she knows I know it.
“I can see that you don’t want to give it up,” she urges, searching my expression. “It would be a mistake, and you know it.”
“I can’t lose you, Rose.”
“Please.” She closes her eyes, like she can’t hear it from me anymore. Her voice is a scratchy whisper as she opens her beautiful hazel eyes, blinking back tears. “The plan was a good summer together and that’s exactly what we did. I . . . I care about you so much. But I have to do this on my own.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m scared, okay? Relationships have stifled and harmed everyone in my life. You know this, Milo. My sisters’ long-distance relationships were horrible experiences for everyone involved and their kids got the raw deal, too. I can’t stand the thought of that happening to us, of resentments between us and hatred for each other slowly taking over our lives.” She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, before dropping her hands and looking at me again. “Please trust me when I say that I just have to do this.”
“I’m trying to trust this is the best thing.” I slide my fingertips across my five o’clock shadow, attempting to curb my tangible sorrow. “But I don’t believe that.”
Her sigh, a sound that simmers with pain, devastates me. She sits up a little and pulls a folded-up paper out of the back pocket of her cut-off jean shorts. When she hands it to me, I recognize the unicorn paper. We continued to share letters at work on occasion throughout the summer—yet another thing I loved that’s going away.
The letter hovers in the air between us as I get up to leave. “You can’t open it yet.” Her voice is pleading. “You have to wait until after I leave tomorrow. I hope this will help you understand.”
I feel my mouth twist to one side, but I don’t know what to say.
“Promise you won’t open it until tomorrow?” she asks.
“I promise, Rose.”
“I know you’re upset. I am, too, because I don’t want things to have to end like this. I’m sorry, Milo.”
I can’t say anything more. I’ve said all I can. She knows where I stand. I know where she stands.
And it’s on two opposite ends of an impossible spectrum.
I walk out of the kitchen and into the living area. One side of my mouth manages to perk into something of a smile. “Knock ‘em dead, Rose.”
Her tongue darts out to moisten her mouth as her eyes tighten at the corners. “Well, the whole point is to save them, not knock them dead, as a nurse . . . you know . . .”
I can’t muster a laugh or even a smile. I just turn around and leave.