DRAMA NOVEL ONLINE Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 77
“Everybody Hurts”—R.E.M.
I spent the flight from Maine to New York crying hysterically in my seat, smearing saliva, snot, and other bodily fluids onto the window. The person sitting next to me was so alarmed and uncomfortable, he took four stretch-your-limbs walks on an hour-and-a-half flight.
I should have been elated Allison had finally gotten hers. Karma had delivered a knockout blow. My childhood enemy had to pay 50K in bail as she awaited trial for what she’d done to me and Row.
Speaking of Row—his good reputation in Staindrop had been restored. Mom texted me that everybody now realized that the deal had always been good for the town. It was all Mayor Murray’s manipulative spins that had gotten people reeling. Word had gotten out and spread like fire in a desert field. The fact that Allison had done the walk of shame into jail helped. But what also helped was that awful Tate guy, who’d decided to send his lovely assistant to one of the town hall meetings and explain what they should expect. She had brought blueprints, renderings, and even did an entire presentation. It turned out that when you were transparent and open with people, they really did come to the table with open hearts and minds.
Glass half-full? I was relieved to leave an encouraged and strong Mom behind. Before I’d left, I’d opened her an Etsy seller account and had even taken super cute pictures of her mittens from all angles. Her first order had come through half an hour after the store was up and running. We’d both jumped up and down and screamed in each other’s faces for five minutes straight.
I’d never told her it had come from a friend in New York who I’d specifically asked to purchase the mittens. I had Venmoed her beforehand to show her I was good for the money.
Glass half-empty? I was devastated to say goodbye to Row. But, I reminded myself, the last eight weeks had been nothing but a weird, roller-coaster experience. The job, the affair, the running… I was just confused. On sensory overload. Yup. That must have been it. I would go back to New York and return to my normal, curated life. Where boys were unwelcome and I was safe to procrastinate in the comfort of my own home.
And by “home,” I meant apartment.
Okay, shoebox.
All I needed was to slide back into my routine. To my job as a waitress. To good tips. To writing, then deleting, then giving myself excuses for why I didn’t record my first podcast episode. I’d lived my entire adult life without Row Casablancas and survived just fine. He wasn’t going to turn everything upside down on me because of a few orgasms, a heartfelt love declaration, and two tattoos of me. I wasn’t so easily swayed.
I stumbled out of the plane straight into the arms of a snowstorm. It took me three hours to get to my apartment, which greeted me with a stench more fitting for an assortment of rotten bodies jammed inside a sewer. I didn’t have a pet, did I? No, I was sure I’d have remembered adopting one. Who had died, then, and more importantly—what had made them think it was okay to do so at my place?
The answer to that question presented itself in my kitchen, when I realized I had taken out my milk with every intention of throwing it away before leaving but had ended up just leaving it on the counter. The red carton had molded at the edges, its mouth adorned with green, crusty milk, a halo of flies flying around it. Back to my glamorous life, it is.
“You’re fine. It’s just bad luck,” I singsonged to myself as I wrapped the carton in a garbage bag, triple tied it, and threw it in the trash can. I then cracked a window to let the air circulate, took a quick shower, slipped into super warm and comfy clothes, and made my way downstairs to the bodega to stock up on necessities. In necessities I also included a two-buck, discounted wine I polished off in front of Love Is Blind. This wasn’t a cry for help. This was a wail that could probably have been heard in parallel universes.
Was love blind? I didn’t think so. If it hadn’t been for Row’s and my mutual attraction, I would have never found out that beneath the grumpiness and dry one-liners hid my favorite person.
Truth was, love was the best or worst thing that could ever happen to you. It all depended on whether you had the courage to accept it. I turned off the TV and tossed my head against the back of the couch, letting out a groan. Maybe everything felt off because I still hadn’t slid back into my old routine. I took my phone out and texted my previous boss at the eatery I’d worked for.
Cal: Hey, Steven! It’s Cal. I’m back in town. Any work available for me? Looking for full-time. Thanks
He answered after less than a minute.
Steven: Hey, Cal. Yes. We need someone full-time who is willing to pull some double shifts sometimes. Should I put you on next week’s schedule?
Cal: Yes, please.
Steven: How about that date I’ve been vying for, for the past three years?
Cal: No, thank you.
Steven: Hey, doesn’t hurt to ask! LOL
Unless you’ve asked that every day since we met while I was still in college. Then it’s just creepy.
See? All good. Great, even.
I made myself ramen with an egg inside, snapping a picture of the culinary miracle and sending it to Taylor, who’d always tried talking me into giving my food a facelift. He answered almost immediately.
Taylor: Does that mean you’re going to start using garlic and scallions like an actual grown-up?
Cal: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m still drinking Kool-Aid with this meal.
I put on my favorite true crime podcast. I waited for the pesky feeling of hollowness to leave me. It didn’t, so I called Mamushka. Talked to her for twenty minutes. She was working on a new mitten collection, eating orange cake, and sipping tea. She sounded normal. Happy. I hung up, pulling my lips into a smile and convincing myself that it was real.
Nope. I was still feeling hollow.
You’re probably just exhausted from the last two months. Better call it an early night and try again tomorrow, a voice inside me soothed. Another voice, that sounded uncannily like Dylan, snorted out, It’s only six o’clock in the evening, and you know exactly why you’re like that, bitch.
I rubbed at my forehead, sitting in my tiny kitchen, convincing myself that I hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my life.
“You’re still you,” I told myself aloud. “Scared of men. Scared of relationships. Scared of life.”
I washed my bowl of ramen, crawled into bed, and forced myself to sleep, hoping tomorrow would never come.