one
“Sophie?”
Teeth gritted, I yank the phone from my ear and hesitate as my eyes ping-pong between the end call and speaker icons. I poke speaker, wishing it was his eyeball, and hope the added volume will help make sense of this bullshit.
“Sophie,” he repeats, placation tipping toward irritation, “you still there?”
The thought bubbles to the surface and exits on a breath, words locked deep inside a tired exhalation. “What the hell?” I sound pathetic. But seriously,what the hell?
He sighs. “We both knew this was coming.”
I bark out a laugh. “Knewwhatwas coming? You playing hide the sausage with another wom?—?”
He cuts me off. “No.This.The end.” The words are said dramatically. “Meeting someone else wasn’t planned, but the heart wants what the heart wants.”
“I think you mean the dick wants what the dick wants,” I mutter.
Ignoring the jab, he continues, “You and I, we want different things. My life, my career, is on a trajectory?—”
Trajectory? Jesus Christ, is he reading this from hisNotesapp? It sounds scripted and rehearsed. I interrupt, because that’s how we argue; fully-formed sentences are a rarity. I like to skip ahead to the part where it’s over, and he likes to drag it out. “When are you picking up your stuff?”
He’s momentarily stunned into silence. I know how badly he wanted to romanticize his piss-poor choices, and now he’s at a loss, so he circles back to irritation. “Don’t be like this, Soph.”
My head begins shaking from side to side, and when the pressure-release valve is triggered a high-pitched sound erupts, that is, for lack of a better word, sweary sounding.
And then he does the unthinkable. “I wanted to talk about this like adults, but I guess that’s asking too much.”
I want to come back with something witty, but dammit if the gene pool didn’t drain the wit into my sister. I don’t have the patience for his brand of confrontation; he’s a button-pusher. Maybe this breakup is for the best, because we were doomed from the start. “Pick up your shit in the next two days or, I swear to God,” I want to tell him I’ll burn it, “I’ll donate it.” Way to sound tough, Sophie.
Another sigh.
My cue to hang up.
He beats me to it, because of course he does.
“In with the hell yeah, out with the hell no,” I whisper to the empty room. Last year my employer promoted an online, guided meditation tutorial as part of a stress management initiative. I didn’t find the suggested mantras like,Bliss flows through me, natural or relatable. Bliss has never flowed through me, and it felt like lying. So, I pivoted and used something that felt more authentic as my go-to calming method. “In with the hell yeah, out with the hell no,” I repeat, but when the anger coilsinsistently in my belly with no sign of retreat, I lean into it, toss my cell on the kitchen counter, and grab an empty box from the recycle bin in the garage. Followed by a feverish effort to gather his clothes from my closet, scoffing at the button-down shirt and pair of pressed pants still wrapped in dry cleaning plastic wrap, before relegating them to the purge pile.
He doesn’t officially live here, but it’s surprising how much he’s squirreled away throughout the house. The process continues over the next half hour: scornfully fill the box, dump it on the front lawn with a satisfied flourish, repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
By the time I’m done, the anger has burned off, replaced by an ego so battered it feels like that week I gracelessly attempted CrossFit. The end of another relationship is as routine as morning coffee and as predictable as trash pickup Tuesdays. I should be used to it by now. Of course, the end was coming. It’s always coming.But like this?Maybe that’s why I hold a part of myself back in relationships, because when the end inevitably comes, I think it won’t hurt.
But being shit on always hurts.
My sister walks through the front door, trailed distantly by my nephew. The hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Lola’s mouth. She’s not only on board with whatever fiasco I’m in the middle of, but she’s ready to jump in headlong, fists swinging. She’s always been an act first, plan later sort of gal. The chaotic yin to my controlled yang.
There’s a rumbling of deep laughter as she gestures to the front yard with a jab of a thumb over her shoulder. “Please tell me you were just waiting for me to get home so I can put the finishing touch on,” she turns to the large window and the remnants of my boyfriend strewn about on the sun-scorched lawn, throws her arms open wide, and motions wildlyto encompass the scene, “this.” Her devious smile unfurls like a breeze-coaxed flag. My relationship has obviously gone sideways; most siblings would comfort in a situation like this. Not Lola. She knows rage provoked this out-of-character act from me, and she’s here for it.
Benji walks past his mom, hugs me like he does every time he comes home, and goes to the refrigerator to grab a blue Gatorade before asking in his steady, older-than-his-years voice, “So, do we get to burn Ken’s stuff, or what?” Lola and Benji have always called my boyfriend Ken. Even to his face. His name is Chance. My tribe is fierce.
I nod slowly. “In two days.” They know I don’t mean it.
Lola rubs her hands together anyway. “Let’s build a pyre out of Ken’s dress pants and make an effigy of him with his weird-ass wasabi pistachios, industrial-strength pomade, and coconut self-tanning lotion and light it up like Burning Man.”
Benji nods to the corner of the kitchen. “You forgot his Nespresso.”
