CHAPTER 3
Palmer
I unlock the front door and slip into the quiet comfort of my home, alone. After five years, it’s a habit to call out to Clay to let him know I’m home (not that it ever got him off the couch or video game to say hello), but I catch myself.
There’s no one here to say hello back. Or, in Clay’s case, grunt in acknowledgement.
For not having gone on a date in over five years, I would say this first one was a success. He was every bit the definition of Prince Charming meets All-American Boy.
The dreamy, swoopy blond hair: check.
Dazzling smile: check.
Pulled my chair out for me: check.
Could carry on a conversation: check.
He kissed my fucking hand, for Christ’s sake!
Hot and chivalrous.
Honestly, I needed that win. I needed to know that I am wanted and desireable, and tonight proved just that. Not only am I wanted and desirable, but hot guys want me.
Suck it, Clay.
Maybe it’s a lack of self-preservation or the innate desire to be fucked by a man who actually wanted to, but I did have every intention of bringing him home going into the date and, really, throughout most of it.
It wasn’t until I got the text from Chase—about halfway through dinner and two glasses of wine in— that Clay was actually gone, that I realized I wanted to go home—to my home—and not have to deal with anyone else or their bullshit. As we said our goodbyes, Sawyer had kissed me.
Don’t get me wrong, it was good. Better than I’ve had in a hot minute. But it just didn’t quite compare to the thought of the pending peace and quiet that awaited me at home. So, we made out for a few minutes (a girl still has needs) and made some vague plans to get together in the future.
I doubt it’ll happen, but I guess at least the plans are there if I want them.
Standing in the foyer, it dawns on me just how quiet it is. I knew it would be, but I guess I hadn’t realized it would be this quiet. It’s kind of creepy…
Nope. No, not going down that rabbit hole, because there’s no coming back from it, and I’m not about to ask Chase and Lindy to come look under my bed so I can sleep.
“I am an adult,” I verbally assure myself as I take out my phone and set the playlist to shuffle. “There are no monsters and/or serial killers hiding in my house.”
Sabrina Carpenter blares through the small speaker, and for once, I think Clay might have been right: We definitely should’ve gotten some sort of Bluetooth sound system. Instead, I tuck the phone into my bra and walk toward the bathroom to wash my face.
Rounding the corner, I see dirty socks under the vanity. They’re always laying around somewhere because Clay can’t be bothered to use the hamper a foot away. It’s like the world’s shittiest scavenger hunt.
I bend quickly to pick them up and move them into a pile on the bed when I notice two boxes of Legos he’d insisted he absolutely had to have for his birthday that he never put together, because “when am I supposed to have time for that, P?” I snag them from the closet and move them to the bed.
Taking a quick scan, I see several of Clay’s dress shirts hanging in the closet, interspersed with my own.
“Of fucking course,” I say to myself, ripping them down off the hangers and throwing them onto the bed.
The inconsiderate motherfucker left several things so I would have to talk to him.
It’s probably part of his big master plan to move back in or sleep together or…
I don’t even know, something. Whatever it is that tickles his fancy at the moment.
The man’s a dick, not stupid. If he wants something, he’s going to find a way to make it happen. This must be the solution to what he considered the problem.
But he doesn’t get to decide how this goes anymore. I do.
I march defiantly to the kitchen and grab one of the boxes I had left for Clay earlier then start going from room to room to see what else he conveniently forgot.
On the dining room table, I find his dirty coffee cup and a stack of work papers I’ve been asking him to pick up for at least the past two weeks.
An array of jackets and sweaters are draped over the chairbacks despite the fact that there is a coat rack literally on the other side of the wall.
I shove them all into the box, dirty cup and all, then plop the box next to the front door and go grab another one.
In the spare room, of course he’d grabbed the things that were important to him (i.e.
his gaming console and computer) but left a mountain of empty pop cans and dirty dishes.
No wonder I couldn’t find any fucking plates.
For a second, I consider going to grab a trash bag; instead, I stack the plates and garbage into the box, sweep the crumbs off the desk, and haul it up front to join the other.
It takes me three more boxes to clear out the rest of Clay’s things including, but not limited to, his toothbrush and entire underwear drawer.
By the time I finish, I’m furious. This isn’t anything I’m surprised about.
It’s normal for Clay, but it makes me so angry.
Why I would suddenly expect a change of behavior from the man when this is exactly what he’s given me for the past four years and nine months (he was a perfect gentleman for the first two months), I’m not sure.
I guess I just thought that maybe, for once, he would do something that wasn’t all about him.
I should have known better.
Tears of frustration roll down my cheeks as I plop myself and the last box onto the couch in the living room.
On the coffee table, there’s a stack of papers where I had previously left the things for Clay to go through.
I turn them over and see that they’re the pictures of Clay and I that I’ve had up on the wall, chronicling our love story from the beginning.
Flipping through the photos, I don’t see the smiles and happy memories.
Instead, I see the arguments we’d had right before the shutter would click.
The way he would intentionally ruin a moment that felt big for me.
The way he made me feel stupid for being excited.
The tears I would dry up long enough to take the photo then shut up because it was easier to just do it his way.
I stop on the very first photo of us ever taken together. The girl in the picture is wild, carefree, and happy. Her smile is infectious, and her eyes sparkle. I don’t recognize her anymore. I haven’t seen her in a long time.
I was wrong.
These photos aren’t documenting our love story.
They’re the countdown to losing myself to the woman I am now.
A woman filled with anxiety and self-loathing, who believes she deserves the bad things that happen to her.
A woman who sits on her couch looking at photos of her failed relationship, the same couch where she was cheated on, and wonders what she did wrong.
My actions blurred through the tears, I tear the photos into unrecognizable pieces and dump them into the box with the rest of Clay’s leftover shit.
He’s taken so much from me. He took my confidence, my smile, my belief in me and the good in other people. He doesn’t get to take anymore.
Finally, I stop with the leaking tears and open the dam. This is the last time I will let myself cry over him.
* * *
The next morning, I call my best friend, Lindy. She picks up after the first ring.
“Hey, girl! How was the date with the hot guy? Was there sex? Puh-lease tell me there was sex. I need to live vicariously through you.”
“We made out at the end of the date, but I decided to go home alone. Definitely a good first experience back at it though!”
“Hmph,” she huffs. “And here I was hoping I’d get some sort of raunchy retelling.”
I laugh. “He was a good kisser: not sloppy but threw in a bit of lip bite that I was definitely not expecting from him.”
That piques her interest. “Oh?”
“I mean, his name is Sawyer for fuck’s sake, Lindy, and he literally looks like Hollywood’s rendition of Prince Charming.
He was giving vanilla vibes through and through.
I didn’t ask, but prior to the kiss, I was ninety-eight percent sure he would say that his favorite position is missionary with the lights off. ”
It’s her turn to laugh. “Yeah, homeboy’s not just vanilla flavored. He’s full-blown wedding cake.”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
There’s rustling in the background then mumbling. “Hey, PJ, I’m going to put you on speaker. Chase wants to know how your date went.”
Chase’s voice comes on the line. “Sooooo? How was it?”
His voice makes me giggle. “Dude, you sound like you’re lying on your bed kicking your feet, waiting for the hot gossip.”
He feigns offense. “And who says I’m not?”
Shaking my head, I answer, “It went well. The conversation was good. I just didn’t really feel like bringing him home.”
“Yeah,” Chase agrees. “I get that.”
“How did things go for you?” I ask.
Chase’s voice takes on a humored tone. “Oh, the way things typically go with Clay. It was fine. I’ve got your extra key and can get it to you whenever you come over next or just have Lindy bring it to you next week. Whatever’s easiest. Did he leave a bunch of stuff behind?”
“How’d you know?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Yeah, I’ve got like five boxes filled with his shit.”
“Seriously?” Chase seems annoyed. “I did a sweep of the house and thought he had gotten most of it. I’m sorry, PJ.”
I shrug. “It’s okay. Most of it, you wouldn’t have noticed or known. I may or may not have filled up a box with his dirty dishes and trash from his gaming station, so I don’t expect you to have homed in on that.”
“Damn,” he says, his tone filled with admiration. “Petty PJ is p… I don’t know a p-word that fits there.”
“Perturbed? Pestilent?” Lindy offers.
“No, that’s not it,” Chase contemplates out loud. “I was going to say pissed, but that didn’t really work either. According to , pimping would be an appropriate word also.”
“What are you trying to look up?” I question.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I just thought it’d be funny to make the words all start with the same sound.”
“An alliteration?”
“Sure, we’ll go with that. I’m going to go with ‘puh-kicking ass and taking names.’”
Chase cackles at the chagrined groans from both me and Lindy.
Rolling my eyes, I continue. “Anyway, I need to take the boxes over to—well, wherever he’s staying today. He’s supposed to be texting me the address. Lindy, do you want to ride along for moral support and to slap me if I start considering anything more than just dropping shit off?”
Lindy begins to answer, but Chase cuts her off. “Absolutely not.”
I can hear Lindy start to argue, but he stops her.
“I have no doubt you two can handle anything he throws at you, but he was in a mood when we were there earlier. I’m not saying he would do anything, but—I just would feel better if I went with you.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I respond.
He ignores my refusal and keeps talking. “It’s no big deal, Palmer. I can be there around 11:30. That work?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“What do you think?” Lindy retorts.
“Then yes, 11:30 works. See you then.”
* * *
At 10:55 am, I get a text from Chase.
Chase: Hey Peej, I am so sorry, but I am caught up in the middle of something at work that I can’t step away from.
Palmer: No worries! I can take the stuff over by myself. Thank you for offering to help.
Chase: Who said I wasn’t going to still help?
Chase: I’ve got a guy I work with who can come with you. His name is Bailey Diaz. I promise he’s not a crazy axe murderer, just crazy lol (kidding kidding). He’s a good guy and was willing to help when I asked. Pretty sure I’ve mentioned him before?
I hesitate. I don’t know this guy, and this seems like an awful lot to ask of someone who I don’t know.
Palmer: Maybe? Don’t worry about it! I promise I’ll be okay. Tell him thank you for the offer though :)
Chase: Yeah, he’s not accepting no for an answer on this one either. Diaz was there when Clay was packing up his shit and Clay seemed freaked out by him. Kinda wish I had it on video.
Palmer: lol okay, as long as he knows what he’s getting into.