My phone vibrates in my pocket. The simple act of shifting my weight, fishing my phone out of my pocket, shoots pain through my back from sitting on the hard ground.
It’s Jeremy.
Wanna grab a drink tonight?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I type out ayes, delete it.No, but I delete that, too.
I type out exactly how I’m feeling.
I think I’m falling for my boss but I don’t think she can say the same. Amy is mad at me and I don’t know why but I’m mad at her, too. She wants to get rid of the house but I can’t. It’s Mom’s house. I miss you. I should have told you all of this over drinks. I miss my mom. I want to go back to a time when Mom was alive and we were friends and Amy and I weren’t out of step but keep Corrine too and I can’t. I can’t.
My finger hovers over the send button. Younger versions of Jeremy and me smile out from the contact photo at the top of our message window. The two of us at a Sox game, years ago, our faces red from beer and the sun and laughter and singing “Sweet Caroline” until our throats were raw. My chest aches. I want that back so bad but it’s like trying to catch the smoke from a smoldering fire.
I delete the message and write:
I have to work late. Sorry.
Resting my head against the wall beside her door, I close my eyes. Maybe she knew I’d come here. Maybe she’ll never come home. Just as I’m about to heave myself up off the floor, I hear the muted sound of high heels on the carpet. The strides slow until they stop beside me. I open my eyes.
“Hi,” I mumble.
Her mouth is a flat, red line.
I reach out, circling my thumb and forefinger around her ankle. “I’m sorry,” I tell her.
She turns and unlocks her door, stepping into her apartment and out of my grasp, but she holds the door open. My bones feel creaky and old as I unfold from my spot on the floor and follow her in.
“Do you want to split my chicken salad with me?” she asks, depositing a plastic bag and some mail on the kitchen counter. She steps out of her shoes, rubbing her foot along the back of her calf.
“Kind of,” I say sheepishly. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
She sighs, and it sounds like she’s saying,Oh, Wesley, and starts dividing the greens and chicken onto two plates. I lean against the counter.
A Tiffany blue envelope, different from all the bills and flyers, sits on top of her mail pile. “What’s this?” I push the stationery toward her.
She gives it a cursory glance. “A thank-you card, most likely.” She pushes my plate toward me. “For the bridal shower gift you bought.”
“Oh. Yeah. Are you going to go to their wedding?” I ask, wondering if I would be her date.
“No.” She sort of laughs the word.
“Why not?” I move around her kitchen, open a bottle of red wine for her, and grab a bottle of beer out of the fridge. She sets the plates at the coffee table, sitting on the floor and curling her feet underneath her, turning on the television to a twenty-four-hour news station. I sit on the couch beside her. I can’t fit my legs in any comfortable way under the coffee table when I sit on the floor.
“Because the groom is my ex-boyfriend.”
“Why did you get an invitation to her bridal shower? Just to rub it in?”
“No. We’ve tried to remain friendly. I think it was meant to be a nice gesture.”
I stop with my food halfway to my mouth. “Seriously?”
She nods, pushing food around her plate, her cheeks a little pink, and I think she’s embarrassed to tell me this. “We broke up about two years ago. He said I worked too much. He was tired of me choosing my job over him. I’d gone to school with the bride so they’d met a few times. They started dating two months after we broke up.”
“He’s an idiot,” I tell her, even though I can’t quite be angry with him for it. Now I get to spend time with her outside of work, get to make her smile and touch her. “He is,” I repeat when she says nothing. “He’s an idiot for giving you up.”
She blinks up at me, quiet and beautiful, and then she keeps eating like we’ve said nothing to each other. But that’s like her. Corrine needs time with heavy things. She soaks them up like a cactus. And they grow inside her and come out as something else, a small smile across the table of a conference room. Or a text I get to wake up to with just anxosent at one in the morning; usually with a corresponding work email in my inbox.
A beautiful blooming night flower, entirely for me.
