I drink the coffee and ignore the pack of smokes. Then, I get up and realize I don’t have an ashtray anyway. It was probably meant to be.
I go inside and shower up. There’s a plain bar of soap in the bathroom, so I use that for tonight and make another mental note to get real shampoo. Last night, I stayed in the main house with Freya and Deacon. Tonight is my first time spending thenight completely alone in my entire life. It feels kind of empty, but the quiet is also real nice after always having nurses around in rehab.
The bedroom is off the kitchen. I pull back the quilt and sheet and sit against the headboard. Through the window lies the south side of the ranch, a long, slow hill and a valley below with sparse brush and tall grass. It’s nothing like the clearing I used to stare at for hours, wondering why my brain was so broken, I couldn’t pull together a thought.
I don’t think I want to see the same views anymore. New sights are a good thing.
Instinctively, I reach for my field guide, but the bedstand is empty.
That’s right. It’s not here.
I brace my elbows on my knees and keep looking through the window as the sun slips down. When it’s dark, I lay on my back and try to sleep, but all I can think about is how this is my first time being totally alone in the dark. In rehab, they kept the light on at my request, but now that I’m out, I want to be normal and sleep in the dark like regular people do.
The problem is, my heart keeps pounding, and I can’t relax.
Finally, I get up and turn on the little lamp in the corner. After that, I can roll over and get some sleep.
CHAPTER TWO
JANIE
PRESENT DAY
My hands shake. I thought I’d be a mess when he walked out the door, but I’m just so hollow. When I started dating Shane, I didn’t necessarily think it was forever, but I did think it was for a little bit longer than it lasted. We got an apartment together, close enough to walk to our jobs. He's at the accounting firm while mine is at a marketing startup.
I didn’t say forever, but I thought it was the next step to having it all.
Everything was fine—at least, I thought it was. Then, he came back Wednesday night and got ready to head out to the gym. I was making roast chicken with couscous and playing music, a glass of wine in hand. The bag of trash I’d wrestled out of the canearlier sat by the door. He told me he’d be back in an hour and walked right by it.
My blood boiled.
It wasn’t about the bag or the trash. No, it was that last month, I sat down and told him how important it was to me that I didn’t have to nag him to do the bare minimum when it came to household chores. He agreed, said he’d do better. Rinse. Repeat. For days, weeks, and into the months after we moved in together.
I ate before he got back and chucked the bag out on the curb on my own. When he returned, standing in the bathroom with my toothbrush in hand, I told him he’d forgotten the trash and I had to go out in the dark to toss it. He shot back that it wasn’t important. It was just trash. The problem was, it wasn’t about the trash. It was about it being fucking humiliating to have to beg him for anything.
We argued from the bathroom to the bedroom to the kitchen. Our voices rose until I shut down, unable to listen to him yell. Finally, he grabbed his keys and walked out.
“I’m staying with Kevin,” he shouted, slamming the door.
God, I fucking hate Kevin, his best friend. He’s a misogynistic asshole who never talks about anything but his high paying job, his zippy car, and his investment in some kind of stock I don’t understand. Every time he walks into my house, I cringe and disappear into my office until he’s gone.
The next morning, Shane drags in, sheepish. I let him have it. We argue.
We break up—or rather, I break up with him.
He’s relieved, I can tell. His face is arranged in sober lines, and we’re being plastic and cordial with each other, but there’s a lightness in his step as he gathers up his things, throwing them into garbage bags. I walk him to the door, and he does this stupid gesture, like he’s going to hug me or something. I hold up ahand, backing off with an inferno in my eyes. He says he’ll text me about figuring out the lease and slinks out.
Then, it’s over, and I’m hollow inside. Half of our apartment is cleaned out, just like that.
The company I work for is pretty understanding about taking days off and needing to work remotely. I text my manager and let her know I’m not feeling well, that I need a day to work from home. She tells me to just take off and come back stronger on Monday. That makes me cry in the shower for at least forty-five minutes before I get it together, put on a cozy sweatsuit, and brew myself some coffee.
I thought this was it—the beginning of the white picket fence. We were supposed to start out in an apartment, get a dog a few years in, and somewhere along the way, I’d fall in love with Shane enough to marry him when he popped the question. We’d live in a house on the edge of the city and go back to my parents’ for weekends here and there, a little more often once I got pregnant.
That’s done.
I pop a latte Keurig cup into the machine and hit the button. It drizzles out into the Christmas mug I never put away, despite Shane pointing out that it wasn’t in season anymore. One handed, I grab my phone and scroll to my mom’s number. It rings twice then picks up.
“Hey, sweetie,” she chirrups.
