Thirty-Five
Winter
Groggily, I trudge through the front door and lock it behind me. I abandon my suitcase before tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter and making my way to my bed.
I throw myself down on the unmade bed and toss the comforter over my head before noticing the stale smell of the bedding and yank it back down. I guess I should have expected there to be some unpleasant smells with the apartment being abandoned with little preparation before I went to Colorado.
The flight arrived back in New York City over an hour ago, and despite knowing I need to be here, it’s the last place I want to be.
I had hoped once I was in the city, seeing the familiar sights and surroundings, that I would feel…I don’t know, feel something. Anything besides the misery I’m drowning in. Newsflash, it didn’t change anything. If anything, it feels worse.
The city that once felt like a haven for big dreams and endless possibilities has lost its magic.
It no longer holds excitement for me. Now, instead of a place of hope, I see the despair of people who dreamed big, only to fall flat.
I used to love the anonymity of being one face in the crowd, but now it dawns on me that none of these people would care about me the way people back home do.
My chest feels tight with the discomfort of knowing I’m causing so much pain to my family and friends. Guilt gnaws at me—as it should—for leaving without saying goodbye. I should have been stronger, more level-headed. Instead, I was a coward.
When I arrived at the airport and turned off airplane mode on my phone, notifications flooded in like a tsunami. Dozens of unanswered text messages and missed calls from my mother, Saint, my friends, and even Cypress—which surprised me.
I read the messages on the subway ride to my neighborhood. Some were full of concern, while others were full of censure.
I had started with my mom’s messages before moving through my friends’, and then my brother’s. I had saved Saint’s messages for last, yet to open them.
Tucked into bed, lying in the dark, I decide it’s time to face the music and start on the voicemails.
The first voicemail Saint left was very basic. “Hey, Win, it’s Saint. Call me back when you get this.”
The second was a little more concerned but still not terrible.
“Win, I went to your parents’ house, and your mom said you left.
Call me when you get this, please. I’m not sure why you left, but I want to talk about it.
You’re probably getting off the plane soon, but when you get home, call me. Bye.”
Each voicemail gets increasingly more urgent and frantic. He sounds panicked, and his voice is devastatingly distraught.
I read through the text messages he sent, seeing that most of them are similar to the voicemails, checking in on me and asking me to call him back.
The last message gutted me.
Saint: I guess this is goodbye.
Knowing Saint the way I do, I can read all the things his message lacks and still understand the feelings behind it. He has given up.
I knew deep down that leaving would hurt, but knowing that I might’ve broken Saint’s heart hurts the most, and in the process broke my own.
After setting the alarm on my nightstand, I turn off my phone once again. Preparing to sleep, or at least try. Forgoing my concern over the smell, I cover myself with the comforter, hiding in shame. I don’t realize tears are sneaking their way out until I notice my pillow is damp.
***
I wake with the alarm beeping in my ear, jerking me from a restless sleep that was plagued with nightmares.
Climbing from the bed, I get myself ready for the day on autopilot, following the routine I’ve performed many times.
Dressed in black tailored slacks and a nice blouse, I toss on a fitted blazer and slide on black pumps despite not feeling like wearing finery.
I style my dark hair into loose waves and then put on a full face of makeup.
I have no interest in the makeup, and if I could, I would have gone without, but this makeup isn’t for me.
It’s armor. It’s a shield to hide behind for my meeting between my publisher, agent, and me.
Even through the concealer and foundation, I can still see the bags under my eyes from the combination of lack of sleep and all the crying I’ve done. They aren’t subtle.
Giving up on trying to cover my dark undereye, I decide it’s time to get moving. I lock up, slip on my darkest sunglasses, and walk to the little café I frequent.
No one looks at me twice as I make my way through the couple of blocks.
The jangle of the door has Gina looking up from the counter.
“Winter!” she calls in greeting before I can shush her to keep from drawing attention to me.
I walk with purpose to the counter, trying to fake confidence, and return her smile, only mine lacks the genuine brightness of hers.
“I was starting to worry when I hadn’t seen you around,” she says.
“My dad was in an accident and I went to see him and my family while he was recovering,” I state. It’s not really a lie, but it’s not the full truth either. I’m not ready to talk about how much of a crapshoot my life has turned into since I saw her last.
We catch up while she makes my drink, leaving out all the things I’m trying to hide. It’s a nice distraction from what’s coming, but it doesn’t last long, then I’m on my way to the meeting I’ve been dreading.