If I’m making earrings, I want to see if the audiobook I requested is available to reserve. Otherwise I’ll be blasting music, needing some sort of background noise while I work.
When I unlock my phone to check, two calendar alerts pop up to let me know Thanksgiving is in two weeks, kicking off what my family considers the start of the holidays. The second alert is to remind me to shop for presents, otherwise I’ll be stuck stressing about getting or making everything last minute. Without my digital calendar keeping me on track, I’d be even more of a disaster human.
It’s not that I’m a holiday-season-hater or anything dramatic. I love Heston Lake in the winter with its seasonal lights and charming historic atmosphere. New England winters are the prettiest with crisp mornings and the delicate frost. There’s something magical about snow dusting the pine trees and sipping hot chocolate by the frozen lake.I enjoy watching Mom decorate every square inch of her house during her favorite time of year.
It was fun as a kid because my birthday is during the holidays. It always felt like the whole town was celebrating with me.
As I got older, being lumped in with the festivities of Christmas and New Year’s lost its sparkle.
There’s nothing like December 31stsneaking up on me time and again to make me face that another year has crept by—quite literally, since it’s my birthdate. No one tells you in college that once you graduate your life moves at lightning speed. Then you’re looking up two years later, realizing you’re about to turn twenty-five and you haven’t done anything you planned yet.
It already took me an extra year to finish my graphic arts and marketing degree. I thought by now I’d figure my life out and know what I want to do with it.
Not even close. I live at home. Well, in the renovated apartment over my parents’ garage. I still have the bartending job I got in college, though I do pick up a few freelance things here and there from online listings or small businesses around town that take pity on me.
The only major decision I’ve made lately is changing up my hairstyle. I give the ends of my ponytail a tug, running my fingers through the natural brown that fades in an ombré to blonde ends. At least my parents understand and aren’t pressuring me.
Before I open the library app to browse the new releases in romance for my next audiobook, I’m distracted by hunger. It hits me like a flipped switch. I run back through my shift and nod to myself wryly. I had a handful of fries at the beginning of work, but I guess I forgot to eat a full meal again.
I should see what Shawn wants tonight. My pace slows so I don’t trip as I walk and type simultaneously.
Eve:Done work!
Eve:I’m about to be at your place. What do you feel like having for dinner?
Eve:Maybe me? Or I can be your dessert [wink emoji]
Not even a minute later, he responds. Weird. Usually he takes a while to answer. He’s the world’s slowest texter. I can send him three to four rapid-fire thoughts as they occur to me before he answers once.
The message is a huge paragraph. Also odd. Brows furrowed, I scroll back up to find the beginning while waiting for the elevator in the lobby.
Shawn:I’ve been thinking for a while. We keep going through the same cycle. We can’t keep doing this. It’s time we both grow up and let what we had go. We’re not in college anymore. I want to be able to put Heston Lake behind me and you’re what’s holding me back from getting out of this tiny ass town. I need to end this. It’s what’s best for both of us. We’re over. This time it’s for good. You don’t have to say anything. Leave your key in my mailbox. Good luck.
By the time I reach the end, my ears buzz with rushing blood. The elevator dings. My legs feel like they’re detached from my body as I shuffle inside in a daze. I read it again, most irritated by the blaségood luck.
He responded too quickly to have time to type it all out. There wasn’t any indication he typed at all. It has to be prewritten. Copied and pasted to blindside me the moment I messaged him.
All those times I’ve caught him squinting at his phone lately, tapping away, I thought he was working on his resume. I imagine him drafting this breakup note while we ate meals, watched TV, before we went to bed.
A weak laugh of disbelief slips out of me. Not only does he want to break up two weeks before the holiday season begins,but he’s doing it by a crappy one-sided text. I grit my teeth at his sheer douchebaggery.
By the time the elevator opens on the third floor, my blood is simmering, close to a boiling point. I inhale, trying to keep my rising anger at bay. Balling my fists at my sides, I steel myself for this conversation.
He can text me all he wants, but he’s not dumping me so easily. Not without my own chance to say something.
There’s a box of my stuff left in the hall outside his apartment. I recognize my glue gun and the knitting needles I decorated myself poking out from the top. That bastard.
Before I have time to pound on his door, one of his neighbors who lives alone across the hall comes out. I never got her name, but I’ve always waved hello to the elderly woman. She makes a beeline right for my box.
“Hey, wait!” Darting forward, I slap a hand over the box to keep her from taking it. “Sorry, this stuff is all mine. Shawn put this out without asking me.”
The woman frowns, not backing off. She eyes my glue gun and her hand inches closer. I can’t believe her audacity when she snatches it from the box.
“It’s been out here all day for anyone to take. Says free right here.”
She points to the other side where I recognize Shawn’s handwriting. A sharp twinge throbs in my chest.
He really had this planned out, from what he wanted to say to me to end it to tossing out every trace of me.
