When I wake, I realize I’m in my bed. Borris licks at my face happily as I sit upright, confused as to how I got here. I find my phone on my bedside table. It's midday? I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch.
I rub my eyes, already feeling immensely better than I was last night. My body still aches, but I don’t have a fever or pounding headache like I was pushing through yesterday.
My eyebrows furrow as I look across my bed and see a pile of folded clothes on the chair.
What the fuck?
I get out of bed, realizing my room has been cleaned. I pick a shirt off the top of the pile and sniff it. Did that weirdo really wash my clothes and then fold them? What the actual fuck?
I storm out of my room and bang on his bedroom door. When he doesn’t answer, I push it open, holding the shirt up like a madwoman, ready to reprimand him about personal boundaries.
Except he’s not here. Borris sniffs around his room, curious.
It hits me like an avalanche, and I suddenly fall into myself, a shift of memories resurfacing from this room. Lorraine andI were laughing about dates gone wrong, playing board games because she had a ridiculously large collection of them. On the odd occasion, we’d even get high in here together. I was never much for the stuff, but I enjoyed it with her. Now it's turned into one of my crutches to try and block out the memories.
It smells like Dante, and feels like him with the clinical minimalism—sheets and blankets perfectly straightened. I even peek into his closet, which holds rows of suits and more casual clothing items. But it’s not him I’m seeing; it’s not his laughter that haunts me.
I back out of the room.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.Fuck.
I rush to the kitchen for my cigarettes, my hand shaking as I try my hardest to take a full breath. It feels like it’s all closing in around me, as if, for a moment, I had forgotten, and now the pain, shame, and guilt are returning tenfold. I light the cigarette and take a deep drag.
A knock comes at the door, and I stare at it, shocked. Borris begins barking, and I snap my fingers at him so he’ll stop. He does and sits obediently in the middle of the living room, watching on. When I open the door, a deliveryman offers me a large black box tied with black ribbon.
“Romi Lutton?”
“Yeah.” I can’t recall ordering anything, and I feel dazed from what felt like hysteria just moments ago. How can this still come in such strong waves?
I sign for the box as the cigarette hangs from my lips. I take another inhale as I watch him leave. My hands are still shaking as I place the box on the kitchen counter and puff on the cigarette like I’ll die if I don’t. And maybe that’s why I’m doing it—punishing myself at the same time as trying to take the edge off.
I grab the dog food and feed Borris, trying my hardest to forget, yet my gaze continues flashing in the direction of Dante’s room, then to the spiral staircase leading to my studio. I try to blink both away.
“Wouldn’t it be best if you moved apartments?”Lily had once suggested.
“No. I’m not ready to leave. If I do, it’s as if she never existed. I can’t just pretend she was never part of my life!”I’d yelled at my dear friend, thinking her idea was the most preposterous suggestion one could make.
But I don't think I can be here anymore.
What the fuck am I doing?
I’ve been wallowing within my own self-sabotage for so long that I’ve now become trapped.
I open the top cupboard and realize I’m all out of liquor. Or a certain roommate has thrown it out. Both are possible.
Fuck. And, of course, Dante isn’t here, so I can’t fuck him instead to distract myself. That startling thought snaps me out of my spiral. I don’tneedDante; it could be anyone. I light another cigarette with the smiley face lighter, staring at it longer than I should. He’s slowly crept into my thoughts, and it irks me. I don’t want to let anyone in.
Then my gaze drifts to the black box. I tug the bow, the silk spilling around the box as I open the lid, and my jaw drops. I suck in a harsh breath as I pull out the leather jacket, turning it around. And my heart stops.So much pain. So many memories.
Colored stones litter the back, shaping the llama to mimic almost precisely the one from the jacket I had as a child.
My breath comes in short bursts until it’s fueled with something I’m far more comfortable with.
Rage.
I go to my handbag and notice the envelope is still there. Dante must’ve gone through the photos. There’s no fucking way he didn’t. No one else but my mother would know about this.
I swipe up my phone and call him, drawing back on my cigarette, almost choking as he answers on the first ring.
