Chapter 20 #2
The next morning, my phone was dead. Not the battery—somehow, by muscle memory, I’d plugged it in before faceplanting into the pillow—but nothing. No missed calls, no texts, not even a Groupon email trying to sell me a discount at the popular hibachi place on Milwaukee.
Briefly, I wondered if the last few days had been a dream. The only proof that they’d actually happened was my memory and the still-packed bag by the door. Thank goodness for the bag by the door, otherwise I might’ve question my sanity.
I sat up, pulling the comforter around my shoulders, and did a slow, 360-degree survey of my apartment.
If last night had made the place seem sterile, morning made it look like evidence.
Every surface was too flat, every wall too bare, the grey of the couch and the grey of the rug indistinguishable except for the cheapness of their respective weaves.
My niece had once described my home décor as “dated dentist waiting-room,” and I’d pretended to be offended, mostly because dentists’ waiting rooms had more color.
In truth, I’d spent the better part of my adult life trying to keep my living space so neutral that nothing could ever look out of place, which meant nothing was ever in place, either.
Even the few attempts I’d made at “making it my own” were pathetic—a free framed poster of the lunar phases, a cracked blue vase that had never held a flower.
No photos. No mementos. No souvenirs from vacations or gifts.
I got up and walked to the kitchen, which was somehow colder than the rest of the apartment.
I opened the fridge and blinked at the sad row of mail-order prepared meal containers, all labeled with masking tape, all containing exactly three ounces of chicken, a scoop of microwaved rice, and, in the case of Wednesday’s, a fistful of limp snap peas.
I closed the fridge, then opened it again, hoping something had materialized in the intervening second. No dice.
I could have called for takeout, but the thought of waiting for an hour and then answering the door in my pajamas, hair matted to one side of my face like a depression helmet, was too much.
I considered texting Renee for Alaric’s number, I stopped myself.
If he wanted to see me, he’d call. He knew I didn’t have his number.
Had I done something wrong? Had I angered him somehow? It was a possibility. Knowing myself, I’d probably turned him off without knowing it. It must’ve been a doozy because he ended the contract a full day early, but had taken the time to personally ensure I left Texas.
I fretted. Maybe I should send him an apology card? But what for? And why would I? Were we friends? I felt so mixed up and lost. And, honestly, abandoned.
Hungry for something other than my normal prepared meals and feeling too fragile to sit inside my grey apartment, I got dressed, put on a hat to cover my sad hair, and set out into the city in search of food.
Chicago, for all its bloat and excess, was not a city that believed in breakfast on Christmas Eve.
The sidewalks were empty except for an army of joggers and a few bundled-up parents marching their children to the nearest sledding hill.
Every café I passed was either shuttered or had a sign taped to the door—closed for the holiday, family time, see you next week.
I wandered the side streets until I found a convenience store that was not only open but blasting the heat so high, the windows had fogged over.
The entire place smelled like melting plastic and expired beef jerky.
Inside, the clerk watched me with the dead-eyed vigilance of a man who’d seen it all, and would see it all again.
I tried to act normal as I did a circuit of the snack aisles, weighing the merits of Hostess versus Little Debbie, then settled on a foam cup of ramen from the dusty bottom shelf.
I paid cash. The clerk pointed wordlessly at a battered microwave under the cigarette rack, and I shuffled over, filled the cup from a hot water spigot, and waited the mandated three minutes.
There was nowhere to sit, so I ate standing, leaning against the ATM like a criminal casing the camera angles.
The noodles were almost as salty as my emotional state, the broth tasted like despair, and every bite made the inside of my mouth feel more numb.
I ate it all anyway, then dropped the cup in the trash.
I was on the verge of tears. Not the pretty, cinematic kind, but the ugly, snot-forward kind that makes people cross the street to avoid you.
So, I squeezed the back of my hand hard enough to leave half-moons from my nails, tried to breathe, and told myself it was the salt. My body wasn’t used to so much salt.
Yes, yes. The salt is making you sad, not the fact that you were ghosted by someone you suspected might love you. Silly rabbit.
I left the convenience store and wandered aimlessly for a while, the wind biting through my jeans and the streets growing more deserted by the minute.
I thought about going to the office, but the idea of sitting in an empty building just to check my email made even less sense than eating convenience store ramen for breakfast.
Eventually, I made my way back to my apartment, trudging up the stoop and down into the sunken lobby. The same dim corridor leading to the same unit I’d fled hours before. I unlocked the door and stood inside for a full thirty seconds before moving.
He’d said three days. He’d given me two then abandoned me. And I’d simply let it happen. No confrontation, no closure, just an unceremonious drop into the void.
It was going to happen, I was going to cry buckets. Buckets and buckets. I could feel the threat of it, building, rising, towering. Shuffling to the bathroom, I grabbed a roll of toilet tissue and waited for the first tears of the torrent.
But then, my phone rang.
Startled, I froze. It rang again. I fumbled, eventually pulling out and staring at the screen.
At first, I didn’t recognize the number—an unlisted local, not saved as a contact. I considered letting it go to voicemail, but something in my gut said pick up.
“Hello?”
A pause, and then, “Did you get home okay?”
It was Alaric. I felt a wave of relief so intense it made me nauseous, which was immediately replaced by a second, even stronger wave of anger. I tried to keep my voice steady. I definitely failed.
“Yes. Fine. Are you... are you on your way over?” I hated how much bitterness and hope the question revealed, but it was too late to take it back.
“No.”
A beat. The silence was so heavy, it crushed me.
“Okay,” I said. “Then what’s going on. What’s the plan for today? What are we doing on this, the last day of the contract.”
“Your future,” he said, followed by more silence.
Shaking my head when it became too heavy again, I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”
“This is the future you’ve chosen for yourself.”
I stared around my apartment, at the absolute lack of evidence that a human being lived here, at the grim, cheep, miserly perfection of it all For the first time, I felt a sick, embarrassed recognition. I was exactly like Duke.
I hadn’t filled my apartment with expensive yet meaningless ornaments, true. I’d left it empty. But I’d filled my life with the same emptiness that he had. With nothing that mattered.
My eyes stung, reminding me that my tearful torrent was only seconds from unleashing holy hell on my sinuses.
“The contract is over at 6:59AM tomorrow morning,” he said, as though I required the reminder.
“So . . . what?” I sniffled. “What am I supposed to do until then?”
“Do what you would’ve done if the contract didn’t exist, if I never required you to fulfill your IOU. Because this is your future, the one you’ve chosen for yourself.”
I snapped, “You already said that!”
He ignored my fit of temper. “And then tomorrow, do whatever you want.”
“Fine.” I felt the tears threaten again, but this time I fought them back with pure spite. He was an asshole.
He sighed, and I heard him shift. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying.”
“No. I get it. And for the record, I was right. As soon as I showed any interest in you, I’m no longer interesting to you. Message received.” I bobbed my head with a tight, quick, repetitive nod.
There was a tiny sound, like a laugh caught in his throat. “No, Alison. You are still, and will always be, the most interesting person I know—”
“Then where the hell are you right now?”
He hesitated, the weight of something unspoken filling the line. “Am I part of your future?” His voice cracked on the question. Before I could process the fracture in his confidence, he went on, “If so, you know where I am, you know where I live. You know where to find me.”
I was stunned, a new awareness finally filtering through the static of my own expectations. He wasn’t ghosting me. He was making me choose. Actively choose.
He continued, softer now: “I’m not going anywhere. If you want me, come get me.”
His words stole my breath, and now that I understood I hadn’t been ghosted, I recalled what he’d said earlier.
This is the future you’ve chosen for yourself.
Alaric was attempting to show me the shape of my own tomorrow, letting me walk through it like a ghost until I decided whether to stay or go. It wasn’t too late for me. The future was unwritten.
He spoke again. “Per the contract, yes. Today, you have to accept the future, the life you’ve chosen for yourself.
But—and I can’t stress this enough—only you get to decide what your tomorrow looks like.
Not me. And you get to decide who will be part of it, whether you’ll be part of a community or if you keep flying solo. Only you get to decide.”
The tears came then, hot and involuntary. If I spoke, he would know I was crying. Ultimately, I didn’t care, and I admitted the truth. All of it. “I’m so scared.”
“Why are you scared?”
“I’m not very nice,” I said, the words coming out small and strange and paired with a laugh.
“What if no one likes me? What if no one wants to be part of my community? What if I make the same mistakes from the past? What if something happens to Sawyer and I can’t help her?
What if you get tired of me and leave me for someone else? ”
He listened with so much patience to my warbly voice, letting me have the most intense freakout of my life, and the most vulnerable one, then said, “The past doesn’t determine the future, Alison.
Yes, it is an influence. But there’s no such thing as fate or destiny.
You are not destined to repeat your mistakes.
Just like Sawyer is not destined to live the life your sister lived or die the way she did either.
And I am not destined to hurt you or betray you.
. . just because he was a bag of shit doesn’t mean I am. ”
I let go and started to cry in earnest. “I know that.” I sobbed. “I know you’re not.”
I heard him clear his throat of some emotion, but I was too lost to my sorry, so I couldn’t name it.
“But you have to choose what you want”—he said, his voice a lifeline—“and then you have to make it happen. I’m not—” He cleared his throat again, and for the first time I heard him hesitate, really hesitate.
“Even though I really want to, and I have some ideas on how to make it happen, I’m not going to force you to choose me. ”
“I wish you would,” I said, wiping at my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
He laughed, the sound ragged and raw.
I wasn’t finished. “Couldn’t you fake a new IOU? One that says I owe you several years of dating and devotion? Won’t you please plan my social calendar?” I was trying to make a joke, but my voice was a complete mess of tears and sobs.
“No, Aly. No. I care about you—so much—and I’ve intervened in a big way. But I’m done with that. It’s up to you now.”
I sniffled, the fear still there, but muted by something else. A desperate urge to not let the moment pass me by.
“I’ve chosen you.” His voice deepened as he spoke, making me wonder how difficult these words were for him. “But I also want to be chosen.”
I let my head fall to the bed and I cried into my comforter, the phone still pressed to my ear. I wanted to tell him that I did choose him, that he was part of my community. But something held me back from doing so over the phone.
I wanted to show him through action. I wanted more proof that my memory and the bag by the door.
The line was quiet for a long time, then, barely above a whisper, he said, “Merry Christmas.”
He ended the call.