Chapter 9
There’s a lease renewal sitting on my kitchen counter that the landlord dropped off in case my work assignment was extended. I didn’t ask for it, but I also didn’t decline it. It’s been sitting there for a week.
I don’t turn on a light. I don’t need to see the lease mocking me.
I sit on the couch in my work clothes, and suddenly my knees are pulled up to my chest and I’m rocking.
That’s when the crying starts. No sound.
Just a stream soaking into my blouse. My chest hitches in tight little pulls.
I press my hand against my mouth to muffle the sound, even though there’s no one here to care.
I sit like that for a long time. When my neighbor turns off their loud TV, I know it’s late.
My phone is in my purse on the floor, and I don’t bother with it. He’s not going to text. He opened up to me, and I left. He didn’t chase me then, so he’s not going to now.
When I finally lie down on the couch, I pull the throw blanket over me and close my eyes.
I don’t sleep. I just lose chunks of time without meaning to.
My body is trained for my work schedule, and I wake up at 5:14 still in yesterday’s clothes.
The first thing I do is fish my phone out of my purse. The notification tray is empty. I put it face down on the coffee table.
I’m not going to work, and I’m not calling in sick. HR can figure out what to do when a temp vanishes. I don’t have the energy.
My back hurts from the couch, and my mouth tastes terrible. I pass the bathroom and end up at the refrigerator with the door open. I’m looking at a container of leftover teriyaki chicken from last week. I can’t remember why I came over here.
I’m a stranger in my own kitchen, looking at a stranger’s food. I close the fridge.
Whatever this is, I can’t name it yet. I’m not allowed to be this empty over a man I’m not even dating.
But I am.
I go back to the couch.
The day disappears in pieces. My thumb taps the phone awake every twenty minutes, looking for a text that never comes. I drink half a glass of water and forget I drank it. Food isn’t happening.
Every time I pass the lease on the counter, I tell myself to toss it in the trash. Even that’s too much effort.
It gets dark. I leave the lamp off.
I finally shower on Friday morning because I’ve started smelling like a person who needs a family intervention. I stand under the water until it goes lukewarm. By the time I’m in clean leggings and a t-shirt, I’m feeling a little more human.
I dial the staffing agency, and a woman named Janet answers. She has a warm voice but sounds like she’s doing three things at once. I give her my name and my contract number. She pulls up my file and makes a sympathetic noise.
“We were sorry to hear about the Harrison placement ending early. They gave you great feedback.”
“Yeah, it didn’t work out.”
“Understood. So, where are you thinking next? We’ve got openings in Raleigh, a great one in Atlanta—actually, there’s a law firm in Savannah that specifically requested someone with financial services experience…”
“Charlotte.”
It comes out before my brain can stop it.
“You want to stay in Charlotte?”
“Yes.”
“Let me check.” Her keyboard clicks. “There are a couple of possibilities. Give me a day or two. I might have something perfect for you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I hang up and stare at the wall. I’ve never requested the same city before.
He doesn’t call or text. I tell myself this is what I wanted.
Knowing that doesn’t stop me from picking up the phone at 11:47, again at 12:33, and at 1:14. Nothing every time.
Around 2:30, I decide I need real groceries. I’ve been living on stale crackers and peanut butter from the bottom of the jar. There’s probably only one more spoonful.
The grocery store is a few blocks from my apartment. I know the route cold.
At a stoplight three blocks from the office, I realize where I am. I’m two turns from his building, on the route I take to work. I’m on autopilot. The store’s the other direction.
The light turns green. I don’t move until the car behind me honks.
I turn around at the next block and drive to the store, white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire way. I sit in the parking lot for a long time, and my forehead lands on the steering wheel at some point. I let it.
Walking into the store seems like too much effort, so I order groceries from the store’s app. Thirty minutes later, I move the car into one of the grocery pickup spots and a worker brings the bags out. I only have to pop the trunk. This might be rock bottom.
When I get home, instead of fixing something filling, I take a bag of pretzels to the couch with me.
I eat four of them before setting the bag on the coffee table.
I don’t pick up my phone.
Rachel’s name flashes on my lock screen thirty minutes later. It’s a text. I almost don’t open it, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I did a terrible job of keeping her at arm’s length.
Rachel: What happened with you and Bren?
Ugh. I could give her some non-answer about how it wasn’t the right fit, you know how temp work goes. I could block her number and let her become one more name I forget in six months.
More dots appear. She’s still typing.
Rachel: He’s a fucking mess. I’ve never seen him like this. He looks like he hasn’t slept and is barely talking to anyone. Kevin asked if he was sick and he said he was fine. He’s so clearly not fine.
My chest tightens, and I set down the phone like it’s burned me. I don’t want to care.
A few minutes later, it pings again with another text, and I pick it up.
Rachel: Also, I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I’m going to just say it. We all knew about you two. We weren’t blind.
My hands are shaking just enough that it’s difficult to read the next message.
Rachel: And we were rooting for you guys because Bren’s had a rough go of it. I wasn’t working there when his wife died, but Kevin says Bren used to be a happy guy. He changed after he lost his wife. But when you showed up, he started smiling again. He was crazy about you, and we all saw it.
I’m nauseated as I read the message four times. Each time hurts in a different way.
She sends a final text while I’m debating if I’m going to throw up.
Rachel: You don’t have to tell me what happened, but whatever it was, you weren’t just a temp to him. And you weren’t just a temp to the rest of us.
I set the phone down. I’ve spent weeks telling myself no one would care when I left. But the whole office knew about us, and they were happy.
My stomach settles slowly, and I notice my jaw unclenches. Two days of holding it without knowing. Bren can’t survive losing anyone again, so he won’t let anyone stay. I can’t survive nobody wanting to keep me, so I leave first.
We might be the perfect pair. The kind the universe makes as a joke.
I press the heel of my hands to my forehead, and I sit with that knowledge. What am I going to do now?
When I finally stand up, it’s to get a glass of water from the kitchen.
I walk past the boxes on the way. The one closest to the couch says KITCHEN—MISC in handwriting from two cities ago. I’ve moved it through three placements without opening it.
This time I stop and crouch down. I stop with a fingernail under the corner of the tape.
I don’t pull it open, but I spend the next hour wondering if it would really be that bad to unpack.