Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-three
BOSTON, MA
TWO WEEKS LATER
“You know what?” Arden said, putting her hands on her hips as we faced the wall of paint colors. “My bathroom has been looking a little drab. A nice sunshiny yellow would look great.”
“Nope.” I smacked her hand as she reached for the swatches. “We’re here for me.”
“But—”
“Noah told me to tackle you if necessary.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need to be tackled. I have a modicum of self-control.”
“Then use it,” I replied. Her fingers twitched. “You have a problem.”
She shot the samples an imploring look. “They’re just so pretty.”
“This is why I told you not to come.” I reached for a swatch of soft blue greens.
Phoebe and I were on a DIY kick after painting her bedroom and building various IKEA purchases.
Our apartment was a work in progress, but every day we discussed new ideas of how to make it home: a vase of fresh flowers by the door, framed photos, nonplastic cutlery, fresh paint for each room.
Six months ago, it might’ve felt like a Band-Aid solution.
Now, though, the relief Phoebe and I felt when we walked through our door made it all worthwhile.
“I’ll behave,” Arden said, waving me off. “But you did invite me. Your bad, maybe.”
“Right. Sorry. I won’t tell you the next time I’m in the market for paint samples.”
She crossed her arms and immediately uncrossed them, dropping them to her sides. “I do have a problem,” she muttered. “I wanted to be an interior designer when I was a kid. My parents wanted me to be a pharmacist. I’m not built for pharmaceuticals.”
“You’re a great pharmacist,” I reminded her. “And you like your job. People are mean about their houses, Arden. Remember when Noah wanted that chenille couch?”
She shuddered. “No, yeah. You’re not wrong. I’ll help you paint and hope it scratches that itch.”
“Counting on it.”
We collected a few more swatches and I successfully removed Arden from the premises without a gallon of Sunshine, a portable grill, or, inexplicably, a snow blower.
I settled into the passenger seat of her Kia, briefly balking at the way my knees hit the glove box and the empty water bottles littering the floor.
Two weeks since Dex dropped us off at the airport in Oregon and I still expected the tidiness of his car every time I got into one.
Last night, I’d had the mind-numbing realization that we’d been home longer than we’d traveled.
I’d had him, really had him, for days. I missed him so much it was hard to breathe.
Coming home felt different than I’d expected it to.
The strangest muddle of relief and discomfort, like I’d forgotten something vital and now I had to learn how to exist without it.
But I found it easier to breathe when Phoebe let her head rest on my shoulder on the plane or when she let me carry her bag through the airport.
Arden picked us up in her pajamas, her expression pinched with concern considering the vague text I’d sent: Can you pick us up from the airport at 10am?
Everything is fine. I thought she might allow us the drive before diving into the interrogation, but she refused to leave the parking lot until we explained.
She was so furious about my background check lie, she didn’t speak the entire ride home and slammed her apartment door once we got there.
I spent the length of a shower drafting an apology, but by the time I emerged, Arden and Noah were on the couch with Phoebe, Polaroids littering the coffee table. Arden stood and hugged me at once.
“You’re not mad anymore?” I’d asked, voice raw from a mini shower breakdown. She’d squeezed me tighter.
“Not at you,” she’d said. “I’m going to break his other arm.”
But she couldn’t stay mad at Dex either.
I wasn’t sure if it was the Benji of it all or the undeniable joy Phoebe radiated as she talked about him that softened Arden to the point of whispering that she had a good feeling everything was going to work out for the three of us.
With nearly three thousand miles between Dex and me, it was hard to feel optimistic about it, but I managed.
Whenever I felt too far from him, I perused the Polaroids Phoebe and I had pinned to the wall of our living room.
Every photo she’d taken on the road trip, so much life in each one.
My favorite was the three of us at the end of our hike, disgusting and sweaty and happy.
I sent Dex a photo of the finished wall and he’d responded a few minutes later: I miss you both.
He kept playing Mario Kart with Phoebe (sometimes I’d find myself listening to her swear through the wall with a huge grin on my face).
He kept texting me, simply to let me know he was thinking about me.
Gavin and Bree reached out, too, hoping to hang out when they were in Boston, all of us together.
With the distance, it was easier to make sense of my feelings, and what exactly I wanted.
My anger felt justified, but so did forgiveness.
I would be patient for him. Understanding.
I wouldn’t take his shit, he wouldn’t take mine, and at the end of the day, we would stay because we were both in this and we were the same.
A new life bloomed among the wreckage. I felt ready for the first time in so long.
It was a Saturday, the July sun blazing with a vengeance. It hadn’t rained in over a week, so flowers drooped and grass crunched underfoot. Stepping through the doors of our building into the air-conditioning had Arden and me saying “Oh thank god” out loud.
“Hot,” she said, veering for the elevator. “Heat stroke, even.”
“It’s not that bad. Here’s some advice: Don’t have a summer wedding.”
She shot me a dark look over her shoulder. “I would rather die. My grandmother would literally die. She’s lived in Alaska for the last six years.”
Upstairs, we let ourselves into my apartment, and the relief from the AC hit tenfold.
Home, I thought, even as I tripped over the backpack I bought Phoebe last week that she hadn’t bothered to move.
I didn’t mind a bit of mess. I’d gotten into the habit of washing dishes immediately after using them and taking out the trash before it bred fruit flies, but I liked the clutter on our new coffee table, half-read books and film canisters.
Growing up, our house was always sort of messy, mostly because we were having too much fun to clean.
I wanted that for Phoebe. I wanted it for both of us.
We weren’t magically fixed, by any means: I said the wrong thing more often than not, and Phoebe still held the record for most eye rolls in a twenty-four-hour period, but I hoped—my optimism soaring—that without my internalized guilt and devastation, we could finally move forward.
Phoebe had been hanging out with friends (plural!), and I’d made a point to reach out to some of the friends I hadn’t seen much of in my own case of tunnel vision.
Phoebe invited me to sit in on an appointment with her therapist and even though we spent the entire hour with snot running down our faces, it felt good to get some of that residual hurt out, and afterward we treated ourselves to milkshakes.
I’d spent so long running in place. Taking that trip was a decision to bolt onward, even if I hadn’t realized it at the time.
“Hey!” Phoebe emerged from her room, hair freshly pink and trimmed.
“I thought you were at Mae’s,” I said. She wandered over, plucking a strip of samples from my grasp.
“She wasn’t feeling great, so I left early.”
“How’d you get home?”
“Bus.”
I made a face. “Phoebe.”
“It was fine! Don’t lecture me. It’s just a bus.”
“I’ve taken that bus before. I’ve been flashed on that bus before.”
She patted my shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I wasn’t flashed. Arden,” she said, keeping her eyes on me, “tell her I can ride the bus alone.”
“You definitely shouldn’t,” Arden replied. “We both got flashed on that bus.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes and handed the swatch back to me. “Not pink.”
“I thought you liked pink,” I said, pointedly staring at her hair. She reached for the other swatches and then laid them out in a row on the island, studying them with interest.
“I do like pink but I don’t want a pink bathroom.” She flicked one of the strips and it skidded to the floor. “I hate that yellow. I hate yellow in general.”
“What!” Arden gasped. “Yellow is the happiest color!”
“Maybe that’s why.”
“Oh, sorry. Should we have gotten black?”
“Now that would be cool.”
I rolled my eyes and cut in, pointing to one of the deeper shades of green. “What do we think of this one? Too much?”
“It’s a little dark,” Arden said. Phoebe lifted her chin defiantly.
“I like it.”
“Do you actually like it or are you just screwing with Arden?”
She took a closer look at the swatch. “Nah. It’s a little dark.”
Arden threw up her hands. “Devil child!”
We went back and forth, flicking rejected samples away until we were left with a strip of light blues and grays. I could tell by the look on Phoebe’s face that she didn’t like either option much, and I could tell by Arden’s that she was mentally prepping for another trip to the hardware store.
“What about wallpaper?” I suggested. Arden clapped her hands to her cheeks, eyes lighting up.
“I love that idea.”
“Less boring than paint, much worse to apply,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “I’m in.”
“Great.” I collected the swatches and handed them off to Arden to squirrel away in her hidden stash. I said to my sister, “Find a couple you like and order samples.”
“Aye, aye,” Phoebe said with a salute and dove over the side of the coach, landing with a groan. “Fuck. I mean fudge. My laptop. Ow.”
“Is it broken?”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
Arden grinned at me, eyes screaming with pride. She’d said the words so many times since we returned from Oregon, I had to tell her to rein it in. Now, it simply radiated off her whenever we were together. I’m so proud of you, over and over.
I’m proud of me too, I thought, and I didn’t even have to fake it.