The rest of the fridge displays the drawings of Savannah’s nieces. Peering closer, I read the childish writing in the corners and learn their names: Zoe and Charlotte.
Like the kitchen, the rest of the apartment is clean and fully stocked. I walk through the place, my free hand running across the back of the couch, then across the top of the table.Furnished, Savannah had said when she offered her place to me.Everything but a bed, but you can buy a new one. You don’t have to bring any bad juju furniture with you.Those words were what I needed to finally sign the papers. Until then I’d been in a fog, stuck in the logistics of it all. When Savannah offered her spare bedroom to me, I finally saw the formation of a plan. Henry took what he wanted to keep, and the rest I sold on Craigslist. Including our bed. Sleeping on my old marriage bed, tangled up in smells and memories? Nowthatwould be bad juju.
Aidan was here yesterday when the delivery guys brought in my new bed. Black wrought-iron, the exact type of bed Henry had vetoed when we were picking out our own.
Aidan watched the guys assemble the end, and when they left, he said, “You know you’re going to have to break that in.”
I balked. “Excuse me?”
Aidan rolled his eyes. “Not with me. But you know the saying. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
I let the comment pass. Now, looking at my bed in the bright morning light, I wonder if he’s on to something. The idea repulses and intrigues me in equal amounts. I’m not surprised Aidan suggested it. Casual sex is the only kind of sex he has. I’ve never understood why he’s against relationships. Of all people, he’s the poster boy for falling in love. Twenty years ago his mom wrote a book about her romance with his dad, and it still resonates in the hearts and minds of readers everywhere. My own mother read and re-read the book until the binding was bent and lined. When I was older, I bought my own new copy and fell in love with the idea of love. Not just any love though. Nothing like the love my parents had, if that could even be called love. I wanted what Aidan’s parents had. Blinding, sweeping, lose all reasoning love.
Setting my juice glass on the dresser, I look around and survey the scene. Boxes cover a majority of the wood floor, some stacked four high. I walk over to the ones markedCLOSET, courtesy of Aidan, and open the top box. I unpack until my cell phone rings from its spot next to my forgotten juice.
Reaching, I grab for the phone and see my sister’s name flashing across the screen.
“Hey, Sydney.” Two sweaters fall from my hands as I juggle the phone and get it tucked securely between my left ear and shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“That’s what I should be asking you. I’m calling to see how Friday went. Signing the papers.” Her curious tone changes to dread. “You did sign them, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I respond, trying to keep the irritation I’m feeling from slipping out. Bending, I snatch the two fallen sweaters from the floor and refold them, adding them to the stack on my bed.
“Don’t be mad,” Sydney says, seeing right through me. “You were waffling.”
“You’ll understand how it feels when you’re preparing to sign your divorce papers. Whenever that may be.”Shit. That’s not what I meant to say. My eyes squeeze together as I wait for her response.
“Probably never. I’ll be in school until I’m old and gray. I’m already getting wrinkles. All the late nights.” She yawns as if the mention of late nights has reminded her that she’s tired.
“You’re no good unless you’re sleeping well.” My voice has turned gentle but authoritative, motherly.
Sydney yawns again. “Let me know when you invent a twenty-seven hour day, and then we’ll talk. Until then, this future Juris Doctor must keep her nose in a book.”
Sydney is five years younger than me but light years more intelligent. Growing up, she scoffed at my romance novels and rejected any notion of Prince Charming. Four years of college and one bachelor’s degree was enough for me, but not Sydney. She double-majored in Business and Accounting, then went on to Georgetown Law. She’s in her second year and every time I talk to her, she sounds like she’s on the verge of a mental breakdown. Two years ago, when my marriage was beginning to feel more bad than good, I’d envied Sydney’s ambition and freedom of choice. Eventually I realized I had a choice too, even though it was one I never wanted to make. Sydney entered into a relationship with law school, her passion and dedication to the subject nearly as binding.
“Do you want to take a break from studying? FaceTime date?” Ten bucks says my sister has her hair piled crazily on the top of her head.
“I’m taking a break from studying by calling you.”
“FaceTime me and I’ll show you my new place.”
“K bye.” She hangs up and four seconds later my phone rings again. I hit the button and the video comes on.
“Hi.” I wave. She waves back, then tightens the bird’s nest of hair piled on her head. My heart swells at the sight of her. Bags droop beneath her eyes, and her shoulders are hunched even though she’s not currently pouring over a textbook.My baby sister.
She sniffs and reaches for something off-screen, popping what I think is a potato chip into her mouth. “Show me your digs.”
I take her on the tour and she oohs and ahhs at the brick walls and shabby, chipped paint columns in the middle of the place. “Very industrial, post-modern New York.” She nods and applauds.
I laugh. “Do you even know what you’re talking about?”
“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “Is Savannah there? Did she help you move in?”
I shake my head, and at the same time say, “Aidan.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. I’m sure that pleased Henry.”
“Henry wasn’t there when I moved. He’s staying with a friend, remember?”
