WhenIleftSarah’splace, Caleb was still on thin ice and had been forced to tell us everything he knew about Robert, Robbie,andBo.
According to him, Bo and Cora met when they were both interning at some finance-gig. They didn’t really get to know each other until they were battling it out for a permanent position a year later. Honestly, it sounded like the start of one of Sarah’s romance novels, which only fuelled my annoyance further. I know I have zero claim over the guy, but I don’t particularly enjoy him having an enemies-to-lovers meet cute with the Antichrist.
They dated for a few years, off and on. Caleb said it seemed to be very up and down until, out of nowhere, they announced their engagement. That was just under two years ago. They were seemingly in the middle of wedding planning when, a few months later, Cora told her family that Bo’d left her high and dry. Caleb apparently never inquired further. Because he’s decidedly theworst.
Bo and Caleb reconnected by total coincidence at work this past spring. Caleb happened to have tonsof information about the project that Bo had been hired to consult onthat neither Sarah nor I wanted. They’ve been friends in a loosesense since—mostly meeting up at the gym, apparently, which Caleb was supervague about—and have never even talked about Cora, or the breakup.
Men are beyondstrange.
Caleb hadverylittle else to say. He had no clue about what happened to Bo’s leg, for example. Caleb said when he last saw Bo withCora, he didn’t have a prosthesis. Then, when he started on the project for Caleb’s company, he did. He thought it would be rude to ask, and I suppose he’s right. But it means whathappened to Bo was quite recent. Which, even though I barely know the guy, makes my heart ache. That’s a big, dramatic change to undergo. And Bo’s got no idea what further change is coming his way.
Could that be too much for one guy to handle? I’d understand that. I don’t even like when my manager adds a new menu item at the café.
After climbing up the six flights of stairs to my apartment, I arrive at my front door slightly winded and still a touch nauseous. My neighbours down the hall are arguingagain,and the lights in the hallway flicker like a horror movie, but my apartment is my own piece of heaven. Well… it’s perhaps more like purgatory.
This apartment was the only place I could afford on my own after I left Jack, and at the time, anywhere would have suited me just fine. It was a not so perfect solution to a much bigger problem. Though I did think it would be more of atemporarysolution. I definitely didn’t think I’d be here four years later. Even still, I’ve made the most of it.
To cope with the brutal Canadian winters, I’ve secured more house plants than your average greenhouse. I consider them excellent investments. A hobby, decor, and air-purifiers all in one. Well, not inone.In dozens. I keep most of them in front of the large square window that sits behind the couch that doubles as my bed. Not that I’m sleeping on a couch—it’s a pull-out.
Ha.Pull-out. Should’ve maybe tried that.
I throw my keys onto my dining table that is half-covered by towels under drying dishes and turn on the switch that works the lamp in the far corner of the room above my purple dresser. Sure, the apartment is one room plus a bathroom and less than 350 square feet.Andthe walls are all a little yellow from the smoker who lived here before me. Andthe carpeting under my couch is permanently stained with god only knows what. AndI guess it would be nice to have windows that open to get some fresh air. But this place is mine.That counts for something.
It’s the first thing I ever saved up for. The first lease I ever signed on my own. The first home that I ever lived in by myself. Had complete control over.
I grab a glass of water, chug it back, and then refill it before I open the bath playlist on my phone and connect to the speaker in my bathroom. I follow the sound of Carole King’s voice, shaking off my clothes as I go. Leaving a trail behind me of handmade socks, a blue sweater, orange corduroy overalls, beige underwear, and an ill-fitting matching bra.
When in doubt, take a shower,my mother used to say.When in trouble, take a bath,Marcie would add. They were always speaking in tandem like that—little doses of life lessons piggy-backed on top of the other.
Oh,fuck.I’m going to have to tell my mom about the baby.
Nope. Not thinking about that yet. First, a bath.
Well, first,severalthings.
In fact, mostthings before I tell my mother.
I’m not ever really sure how to talk to my mom about what’s happening in my life. Sometime after I turned eleven, I became more of a friend and confidant than a daughter. There was never enough space in the conversation for two sets of problems, and hers always seemed more important.
Truthfully, I think she was lonely. Other than Marcie, she didn’t really have many friends or any family. Her parents wanted nothing to do with her the moment I came into the picture, and she’s an only child. Plus, I think some people have loneliness sort of built in. It often seemed that there was not enough attention in the world that could fill that void inside her.
I worry that I only recognise that because I have it too.
And I heard what people said about her. The other parents. They’d call her brash, noisy, gaudy. They’d make jokes about locking up their husbands when she came around. But June McNulty has always been unapologetically herself. I’ve got to give her credit for that. And I do truly love her.
I could have done with fewer late-night wake-ups when she’d stumbled home from a bad date. Actually, I’d probably go back and request fewer debriefs after thegooddates—that’s just stuff no daughter should really ever hear about their mother. But I know she tried as best as she could. That was her way of communicating—sharing her life with me and probably hoping I’d return the favour. I just never felt like I could. I had Marcie to confide in. She’d give me room to let my thoughts percolate, to come to her when I needed to. And she’d listen without interrupting or jumping to conclusions.
Regardless, I always knew I was loved. Even if I wanted the love from my mother delivered differently.
I light a candle and wait for the tub to fill as I wash the day’s dirt and grime off my face at the sink—seeking comfort in how my warm, wet palms feel on my cheeks. Allowing myself to take hearty deep breaths as my tea-tree face wash evaporates with the steam.
Lowering myself into the tub, I bring both hands to my stomach and stare at the area I typically avoid looking at for too long.
It’s not that I dislike my body, or my stomach in particular. It’s just that I find there’s less risk of insecurity spiking the more I act as if I don’t have a body at all.
I, like most women my age, have learned to hate myselfjustenough to appease others. If you’re too fond of how you look, you’re told you’ll be unlikeable. Labelled as self-involved, egotistical, or stuck-up. But it’s purposeful—pinning us against one another. Consumerismdemandswe remain unsatisfied with our appearance. If we all liked ourselves, dozens of industries would crumble like Babylon. We have to want a solution to whatever or however many problems plague us in order to keep those factories running. To keep money in men’s pockets.
Acne? Wear more makeup that will only make matters worse.
