I slide farther from him, raising my eyebrows and shrugging. Tristan was supposed to be the casual college boyfriend. The distraction—something light and temporary. For a while, he was exactly that. Lazy kisses, someone to make the weekends feel a little less heavy when I came back to school.
Somewhere along the line, it changed.
For him.
He started looking at me like I was the thing he wanted to build a future around, and I let it happen. Sometimes when he smiles at me, I wonder if I’m supposed to feel more. I care about him—I do. He’s kind, funny, easy to be around—one hundred percent uncomplicated. But I catch myself pulling back from his touch, and when he says, “I love you,” I hear it, nod, smile. Only, there’s this dull thud in my chest where something should be lighting up.
He has itallplanned. We’ll graduate, get jobs, work, and travel. But he hasn’t once asked what I want. He only assumes. The snickers from my old friends, and the guidance counselor’s forced smile when I said I wanted to be like my mom—they all come back, fueling the same old doubt that he’d never truly get it.
“You’ll call me then?” Tristan searches my face as I offer him a tight-lipped smile and nod, then he glances down the paved campus loop. The city bus lumbers closer, its headlights cutting through the wispy fog settling over the road.
“Have a good weekend,” I say as he moves onto the bus.
He jogs up the steps and is swallowed by the dull gray interior and flickering lights. The door hisses shut behind him, and through the ad-covered windows, I watch him hurry to the back. His shoulder dips as he dumps his backpack down and presses his palm against the window.
My stomach roils as he mouths the words,I love youagainst the glass.
I lift a hand as the engine gives a low groan and rumbles forward. With a sigh, I turn and dig my keys from my bag, then spin them around my finger.
My car looks like it’s survived three decades and at least one apocalypse. Phil purchased the little two-seater from one of those auction sites—one of the nicer things he did for me as a father—and I still can’t get the fried chicken smell out of the cloth seats. The chipped red paint, or what’s left of it, is flaking off, being replaced by rust spots. When I open the door, it squeaks, but I start her up despite the rattle of protest she offers me. At least she’s running today.
I coax the driver’s side window open and let the stagnant air slip out while I take off from school and make the drive home. It isn’t far, only about twenty minutes.
Soon the average buildings and maintained landscaping wane, replaced by rows of identical boxy homes with lawns that are patchy at best. Rusted tricycles, cracked plastic chairs, and half-buried junk tip over on their sides in half the front yards. Mailboxes slouch over crooked chain-link fences, and as I approach my house, my hands clench my steering wheel.
My face burns, even though I’m alone in my car and have traveled this street all my life. But it’s not because of the other houses on the street. It’s mine. The one with the lopsided porch my dad never fixed and the blue recycling bin overflowing with sun-bleached beer bottles next to the weather-beaten garage.
The flower beds my mother used to keep up with are now overgrown despite my attempts to remove the stubborn weeds. Scratches scar the front door in uneven patterns, marks from my dad’s steel-toed boots kicking it over and over when he was locked out at three in the morning.
This proves my point. I can’t bring anyone home to this.
Tristan would try to pretend it didn’t bother him. He’d be kind, probably volunteer to help me fix a few things, but I’d see it in his eyes. The pity. He wouldn’t get it, though. Not really.
I stop at the curb, scanning the peeled siding. I’m not sure why there’s a smidge of hope each Friday. Like maybe, just maybe, he decided enough was enough and he should get his crap together.
Swallowing, I gather my things, allowing the groan of my door to drown out the rapid thump in my chest. I’m curious how the house will look. Last time it was awful, and I spent the entire time I was home cleaning it from top to bottom.
I bypass the front door in favor of the side one, and even though I can’t see in through the cinched curtain covering it, I can smell the trash from here—stale beer and sour rot. With a harsh jiggle, I open the door. He never locks it anymore, and frankly, I don’t really blame him. I learned several years ago to keep anything valuable either on my person or in my car.
I step inside, fingertips dancing along the pear-patterned wallpaper in the kitchen. “Phil!” I yell for my father despite his truck not being here. It’s after 4:00 p.m., so I doubt he’s around. “Phil! It’s Thea!”
Without a response, I roll my eyes and poke around the kitchen. The two-person table sits in the middle of the floor with several empty bottles lined up in the center and old takeout containers woven between them. Instead of dishes piled on the stove, my mother’s old cookbooks sit stacked, a fine layer of dust coating the pictures of women in aprons and perfectlyconstructed food. I drag a finger over the top of one, drawing a heart before I move to wash my hands in the stuffed sink. Burned food crusts the bottom of all the pans from my dad’s late-night cravings, and I crouch, opening the cabinet for dish soap to get them soaking.
Really glad Tristan isn’t seeing this.
Once they’re submerged, I make a beeline for the living room to gather more trash and dishes. Several filled ashtrays linger on the coffee table, cigarette butts tumbling out onto old, torn mail. I shake my head, but?—
Pausing, I stare at the cigar sitting there, thrown off. It’s thick and rich looking, with a burgundy foil wrapped around the end. I don’t know anything about cigars, but the gold lettering must be indicative of its swanky status. It belongs in a leather chair at a fancy bar, not this wreck of a living room.Who the heck smoked that?
I ponder the answer while moving to the set of three windows overlooking the front yard. When I pull open the blinds, dust particles kick up, drifting in lazy spirals. The natural light reveals signs of effort. Half-hearted ones, at most. There’s a can of Febreze on the table, and the old framed wedding photo of my parents is without a speck of grime or dust on it.
Mostly, though, the house is an ode to defeat. He’s given up, and no matter how I try, plead, yell, or threaten, it doesn’t matter.
I take in the rest of the living room, the space not much bigger than the two bedrooms down the hallway. My dad’s stained pillow and rumpled blankets hang off the brown suede couch, in a total avoidance of the bedroom he once shared with my mom. I’ll be honest, I ignore it, too. It’s been two years since I stepped foot in there.
Gathering more junk and dishes, it takes me three hours to tackle the kitchen, living room, and the only bathroom we havein the house. By the time the sun has set, I’m starving enough to spend money on cheap pizza delivered from the gas station down the street.
I scarf down two olive and cheese slices, gagging at the soggy crust, then put the rest in the near-empty fridge for Phil. Checking in with him would be the right thing to do. Make sure he’s okay. But there’s a handful of bars within walking distance, and I don’t have to venture a guess where he is right now.
