Chapter 26
The muffled chorus of “Fernando” is playing somewhere in the background when I wake up the next morning.
I pull my duvet up around my chin and turn over, trying to hold on to the last vestiges of sleep, but it disappears as a car horn blares outside.
I open my eyes, staring across my bedroom to the window, the gray skies above, the roofline of the building across the way.
And then I remember: Oh, right. I’m in my bed. Alone.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that might erase the last twelve hours from reality, or at least from my brain.
But it’s no use; the memory only becomes more crystalline.
The feel of Ben’s fingers on my body, the smell of his skin against my own.
And then the rough edge to his voice as he pulled himself away.
I should go.
The memory sends another hairline fracture down my heart.
I force myself out of bed and make my way to the kitchen. I fill the kettle and place it on the burner before I remember that I broke my favorite mug, so I use a boring white one that I don’t remember instead.
As I shuffle to the sofa, tea in hand, something blue catches my eye. Right there, on the floor by the front door. I walk over and pick it up, only realizing what it is when I flip it over:
Marnie,
Stopped by before my workshop.
Will try again tonight.
Missed you today.
—Ben
He did stop by. Despite all my anxiety and stress yesterday, he had wanted to talk.
He even sat here and listened as I spiraled after breaking my mug.
But instead of appreciating that, I told him, point-blank, there’s a chance he’d spent weeks helping me re-create memories I originally made with my ex.
Can I really blame him for walking out? Getting involved with me would be the worst kind of emotional roller coaster.
Sure, he never expected me to be perfect, but my mess is still substantial.
It isn’t Ben’s responsibility to clean it up. That’s on me.
I hold the note to my chest as I turn toward the living room, letting my gaze slide over the sofa, the low bookcase, the books and the pictures.
Things I chose just for me. Proof that, at some point over the past year, I had found the courage to trust myself.
I had survived the breakup with Matt, found this apartment.
I had started to build a life. I might not remember it, but the evidence was all around me.
Then my eyes find the memory box sitting on the sofa.
I study its angles for a few minutes, the carefully written list on top.
It has been a crutch these last few weeks, bearing the weight of all my hopes and fears and worries.
But in the end, it was just a box of junk.
It wasn’t going to save me. Holding on to it any longer makes me feel like I might actually drown.
So I pick it up, walk it to the kitchen, and drop it in the trash, watching as the black garbage bag swallows it up and the metal lid slowly closes over the top.
By the time my Uber pulls up in front of the Fig and Vine, I’m ten minutes late.
The exterior of the restaurant is soulless, a new development in an area apparently called the Seaport, even though it appears to be purely a shopping destination on the waterfront.
My mind wanders to Capobianco’s and the smell of fresh bread and fried garlic that wafts from its doors every day when I’m leaving my shift at Strange Brew.
How good it looks through its tall front window, how much I think Sara would love it.
Maybe next time.
I step out of the car and take a deep breath of the cool night air. It fills my lungs and clears my head. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
An attendant opens the restaurant’s doors as I approach, and a vast space opens up in front of me, its cement walls and steel beams dimly lit by a huge chandelier, all metal and angles, hanging in the middle of the crowded room.
The hum of conversation is just loud enough that I can barely hear the hostess as I approach her podium.
“I’m sorry?” I say, leaning in.
“Do you have a reservation?” she repeats.
“Yes. It’s under Sara Barnett?”
She scans her computer screen just as I hear a loud, familiar voice somewhere across the room.
“Marnie!”
I look up and immediately see Sara. She’s standing beside a table along the far wall, waving her arms as she practically jumps into the air. I smile, and a bit of the tension in my shoulders releases.
Then I see Matt sitting beside her, and I stiffen again.
“I see them, thank you,” I tell the hostess.
I work to keep smiling as I navigate the dining room toward their table, hoping it doesn’t look too forced. It must work, because Sara is so excited she meets me halfway, embracing me in a warm hug.
“I’ve missed you so much!” she squeals.
“Me, too,” I say into her hair. Her smell is familiar. I hadn’t considered that it might not be, that over the past year I might have forgotten that particular mix of vanilla and freesia in her perfume. But I know, I know it, and for that I squeeze her a bit tighter.
She pulls back and gives me a quick once-over. “God, you look so good. And your hair is so short.”
“Yours is so long!” I gawk at her black hair that’s at least six inches longer than I remember. I’m instantly jealous.
“Prenatal vitamins are amazing,” she says with a smug sigh. “Come on, let’s go see the boys.”
We wind our way around the crowded room until we arrive at our table. It’s situated in front of a large window overlooking the city skyline, which I can only assume Sara secured through sheer force of will.
“Marnie!” Garrett calls out, his booming voice loud enough to make a few nearby tables turn. He looks every bit the former college hockey player, though his previously long brown hair is now cut short to fit his corporate job.
He stands up and gives me a big hug. Over his shoulder I see Matt stand, too. He looks less tired than when I saw him a few weeks ago, but still weary. It reminds me a lot of how we both felt before we left for Boston—worn down but putting on a brave face.
Garrett releases me and Matt steps forward, giving me the lightest of kisses on my cheek.
“You look great,” he says, and offers me a meek smile.
“You, too,” I say.
Both statements sound obligatory, but Sara doesn’t notice. She’s watching the two of us from the other side of the table like she used to watch episodes of Maxton Hall: biting her lip and barely stifling a squeal.
“Should we sit down?” Matt offers when the moment borders on awkward.
“Yes! Yes, let’s sit. I’m starving,” Sara says, taking her own seat and looking across the room. “Our waiter was just here. I’ll wave him down so we can put in our order. You can pick something on the fly, right, Marnie?”
I nod and sit down next to her, with Garrett to my left and Matt across from me.
It’s the exact same seating arrangement we’ve always had, ever since our first double date three years ago.
I don’t know if it was ever discussed, just a tradition we maintained during every Saturday night out together, something we fell into so easily that I’ve never realized it before.
“So, Marnie,” Garrett says, leaning back in his chair. “How are you? Sucks about the head.”
Sara rolls her eyes. “Jesus.”
“What? It does suck. Did you know traumatic brain injury is the leading cause of death for adults under the age of forty-five?” He stares at me, waiting for the information to sink in. “And you’re eighty percent more likely to have another one now. That’s just math.”
“You’ve always had a way with words, man,” Matt says, shaking his head.
“It’s fine,” I assure them, then turn to Garrett. “I’m good. Better than I was a few weeks ago.”
“But you still can’t remember anything.”
Sara lets out a labored sigh.
“What?” Garrett looks genuinely surprised by her reaction.
Thankfully the waiter arrives and goes over the specials, which I don’t pay close attention to, and everyone gives their orders to him, but I don’t listen.
I’m too busy trying to remember how I usually got through these dinners.
If Sara monopolized the conversation, things were fine, but whenever Garrett decided he wanted to attempt small talk with me, I struggled to feign interest for however long it took for Matt to realize I needed saving.
And I can’t expect Matt to save me tonight. I’m on my own.
The waiter finally gets to me and I look down at the menu, picking the first thing I see with the vegetarian symbol next to it. As soon as he leaves, Garrett turns back to me.
“So what else have you been up to, Marn?” he asks.
I don’t think I can muster the usual “nothing much, how about you?” so I opt for honesty.
“Other than recovering from a traumatic brain injury and trying to remember the past year of my life? Nothing much,” I say, punctuating it with a sharp smile.
From the corner of my eye, I see Matt’s eyes widen, while Garrett chuckles. “Right.”
“What about you two?” I nod to Sara, hoping to loop her into the conversation. “What have you been up to this year?”
“Working. And trying to get you two back together,” Garrett replies, motioning between Matt and me. Then he laughs again.
“Subtle, Garrett,” Sara says, shaking her head. But she doesn’t look embarrassed. It feels almost choreographed. Like the time she invited me to tour her gym a few years ago, knowing the exact times Matt worked out so we could “accidentally” run into him.
I dare a quick glance to Matt. He looks as awkward as I feel.
“Isn’t this great?” Sara continues, oblivious. “All my favorite people together. When was the last time we did this?”
Two months ago, I almost say. The night before Matt left for Boston.
He and I had fought in the car on the way to the restaurant about the move—how much he was leaving for me to do, how I didn’t appreciate the pressure he was under at work—but Sara had been planning his goodbye dinner for weeks, so when we walked in, we smiled and gushed and pretended like everything was okay. We were always good at that.