49. Riley
Quiet music playsin my apartment from a little speaker sitting on my bedside table. The unpacking process proved difficult to tackle, and Olivia, in an attempt to help me, put together a playlist—the certified breakup playlist, she explained, made up of songs that have gotten her through rough times.
Unfortunately, the music only manages to fill the emptiness of the room, not the hollow space inside me. It does provide background noise while I fold and put away my clothes, though, which is at least something.
I’ve been making progress on my belongings—slow progress, but progress nonetheless. It’s enough to make me feel like I live here again, instead of in Cole’s house. Granted, that feeling comes with its own bitter flavor, but it feels like a step in the right direction.
As I tuck a stack of shirts into my top drawer, the music is interrupted, and my phone’s ringtone plays over the speaker at top volume. Wincing at the sudden, jarring sound, I grab the speaker and turn the volume all the way down.
I pick up my phone, lying on top of my bedsheets, and stare at the screen.
The caller ID displays Cole’s name. Again.
I stand there, frozen, watching the screen flicker as the phone vibrates in my hand. After a long moment, the call goes to voicemail, and a little bit of the tension leaves my body.
I sit down on the bed, opening my phone. After thirty seconds, I get another notification—another voicemail from Cole, joining the other three already sitting in my inbox.
I scroll through the unopened voicemails, frowning. I haven’t listened to any of them. I can’t bring myself to.
I have no idea why he’s calling me, but I don’t want to let myself start guessing. I already know how this ends: he’s going to hurt me, again, and I’m not willing to go through that pain a second time.
Instead, I tuck the phone into my back pocket and turn off the speaker. My brief burst of energy toward unpacking is gone, so I decide to transition that momentum into something else.
On the little desk in the corner of my room, my laptop is open, the screen saver running. I sit down in front of it, jostling the mouse until my open resume is staring me in the face.
Over the past week or so, I’ve cobbled together about five versions of this document, tailored to different jobs and different employers. I’ve sent out at least eleven of them to various organizations, but have yet to hear anything back.
I unplug the laptop, carrying it over to the bed, and lean back against the pillows.
Send one more application in, I tell myself, then you can take a break. Just one more.
In another tab, there’s an application portal open for a human resources job with a local government in upstate New York. It’s not even close to what I’m looking for, but I’m potentially qualified for it, so I feel like I’d be an idiot not to at least send in a resume.
At this point in the job search, I can’t afford to be too picky. I just need to get out of the restaurant and go from there.
Before I settle in to work on the application, I glance back up at the dresser. There’s a fishbowl sitting at its center, containing a purple-scaled betta fish, which shimmers as it drifts at the surface of the water.
I got myself a fish on a whim a couple of weeks ago, thinking it might make my apartment feel less empty. I also figured it might remind me of Archie. This fish looks similar to Swimmy. I haven’t had the stomach to name it yet, mostly because I wish I could ask Archie to do it instead.
I miss him. A lot.
I miss both of them.
I take a deep breath and shake my head to clear it, doing my best to focus on the screen in front of me. Trying to tamp down the hurt so that I can move forward.
* * *
Cole
“Hi!This is Riley Winters. I can’t make it to the phone right now, so please leave a message with your name and number, and—”
Fuck. Her voicemail, again.
My heart clenches, and I almost lower my phone before I think better of it. I listen to the rest of her voicemail message, my chest aching at the sound of her voice, and lean back against the couch cushions with a sigh.
I’ve already gotten this far. There’s always a chance that she’ll change her mind, that she’s been listening to my messages. I might as well add another one.
“—I’ll get back to you as soon as possible! Thanks!”
I’ve listened to Riley’s outgoing message four times now, and each time, it sends a fresh wave of determination over me. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her until I heard her speak.
“Riley, it’s Cole,” I say. “Listen, I know why you’re not answering—I understand. But I really need to talk to you. It’s important. If you hear these messages, please, give me a call back.”
I’m not satisfied with that—I should’ve planned out something better to say, should’ve known that I’d get her voicemail again—but I end the call regardless, setting my phone down on the coffee table.
Fuck.
I let my head drop into my hands. Every time I call and she doesn’t answer, it’s like a new piece of my heart breaks, but I can’t say I’m surprised. If I was Riley, I wouldn’t be willing to answer these calls, either.
The sound of light footsteps from nearby makes me look up. Archie is standing timidly in the doorway to the living room. He looks a little upset.
“Daddy? Are you okay?”
I nod, trying for a smile. “Of course, bud. Of course I am.” I lift my arms, gesturing for him to come join me on the couch.
He does, and I wrap an arm around him, pulling him into a hug.
“You looked sad,” Archie whispers.
“Yeah.” I nod, glancing down at him. “Well, I am sad, to tell you the truth.”
“What are you sad about?”
“I messed up,” I tell him matter-of-factly. I’ve been doing my best to skirt the issue whenever Archie brings it up, thinking it’s probably too complicated to discuss with a kid as young as him, but right now, I don’t have the energy to pretend everything’s okay.
Archie frowns, confused. “Messed up how?”
“Messed up pretty bad.” I ruffle his hair. “I hurt somebody’s feelings.”
“That’s pretty bad,” Archie agrees.
We sit on the couch together in silence for a moment. My gaze lingers on the empty spot on the wall. I want to hold Riley’s painting in my head, to remember each and every brush stroke, but it’s been long enough now that some of the details have slipped my mind.
“How big did you mess up?” Archie asks, turning to me.
“Really big,” I answer. “Really, really big.”
He’s quiet for another moment. Then he says, “You better make up big too, then.”
This time, the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth is genuine. “Oh, yeah?”
Archie nods solemnly. “I hurt Jazz’s feelings at pre-K once, and even though I said sorry, she was still sad. The teacher told me I needed to do something so that she knew I was sorry. So I drawed a picture of Swimmy. It took a really long time, but it helped her stop feeling bad.”
“That’s a nice thing to do,” I say, a wave of pride rising in me.
Pretty good kid I’ve got here, I think, wishing Rebecca could hear her son.
“You have to do something nice if you accidentally do something mean,” Archie explains, puffing his chest out. “If you were really mean, you gotta be really nice.”
Really nice.
The beginnings of an idea spark in my head.
I’m not going to get Riley back just by drawing her a picture. But there are definitely other ways, bigger gestures than simply calling and leaving a voicemail. Archie’s right. Sometimes, words aren’t enough.
I wrap him up in a hug, holding him close. “Thanks, bud,” I say. “You helped me out a bunch.”
When I release Archie, he yawns, leaning his head against my arm.
“Okay,” he says sleepily. “Good.”
I reach for my laptop, sitting on the coffee table, and pull it toward me. As I begin typing out an email, Archie drifts off to sleep, his head growing heavy against me.