Ellie blinks against the wind. “What do you mean?”
“Making yet another grand plan for you and me without even asking what I want.” Her face falls, but I keep going. “Did you ask me if I would want to do long distance? Or if I have any interest in living in New York? You don’t even know if I want to try a real date with you after this ridiculous day.”
The color slips from Ellie’s cheeks. “Do…do you not?”
“That’s not the point. Don’t you know what this is?” I don’t leave her room to answer. “You’re planning for you, not for us.”
Ellie flinches, then her lower lip stiffens. Her eyes look like she’s seen a ghost. “Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true. What you’re doing to me is exactly what Mary did to you.”
“Murphy.” Ellie says my name like it’s a full sentence, an entire thesis, the whole point and the proof in and of itself. She says it like she knows I want to hear her say it again and again, and I wish I could pretend it could be that simple. We could forget this whole fight and tumble into an enchanting spring and summer of Cubs games and Pride parades, just like we’ve talked about all afternoon. I could tell her what she wants to hear. It would be easier, but it wouldn’t be honest. What comes out instead is:
“I think I should go home.” I turn back toward the house. Through one sidelite, the blue light of the living room TV flashes onto Otto’s silhouette. Through the other, the warm glow in the kitchen backlights Kara and Carol, standing hip to hip over a sink full of dishes. At Ellie’s feet, Bo lets out a soft, pitiful whine.
“Murphy,” Ellie pleads. “Stay.”
“No,” I decide. “I gotta go.”
“What about my family? Are you at least gonna say goodbye?”
I shake my head. “Tell them I have a stomachache. Too much pie or something.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what? I’m tired, El. I just want to go home.”
“I’m sorry, just…please.” She takes a step toward me, just barely placing her fingers on the tiny bit of exposed skin between my sleeve and the cuff of my glove. I steady my gaze on the front-door wreath, working overtime to keep my breath even. When I say nothing, Ellie gives in. “Fine,” she says. “But it’s cold. Let me drive you. Not as my girlfriend. Just as a friend.”
The earth tilts and spins around me, my throat feeling tighter and tighter by the second. I swallow, and everything balances a little, enough for me to shake my head and say, “I’m not sure that I’m either.”
The wind howls through the trees, and I wish it would take me with it so I didn’t have to see Ellie like this, with her eyes wide and sorry and her blue-tinged lips parted just an inch, just enough to be ready should she think of something to say that would change my mind. I tug the zipper of my coat up to my chin to block out the cold, but it’s too late. It’s inside now, freezing me in place for just a moment longer than I’d care to stay. “See you later, Ellie” is all I manage to say as I step into the cloudy, navy night. No moon, no stars poking through. Just me and the streetlights, which are slow to kick in. I switch on my phone flashlight to light the sidewalk in front of me and start the long trek home, wondering if the houses in this neighborhood have always been kind of small or if I’m just growing up.
fifteen
Everything at home is just how Ellie and I left it; not in a comforting, there’s-no-place-like-home type of way, but in an eerie way, like flipping back through the pages of a scrapbook and only remembering things when a picture prompts you to. Between the dishes soaking in the sink and the air mattress I still need to haul back to storage, everything we left behind feels not quite finished—everything, that is, except Ellie’s name, still drawn in powdered sugar, blending in with the quartz countertops. I wipe away her work with the side of my hand, collecting the sticky white dust in my palm and brushing it into the trash. The bag of pita chips goes back in the pantry, and her half-drunk can of LaCroix barely hisses when I empty it onto the dishes in the sink. Only then do I realize I’m one dish short; I left the Tupperware at Ellie’s. Whatever. If Mom asks about it, I’ll make up some excuse. I’ve gotten pretty good at lying today.
I drag my palms across my thighs, leaving streaks of residualpowdered sugar on my black jeans, and decide the dishes can wait until tomorrow. I’m too tired for chores. Living out an entire relationship in one afternoon, it turns out, can really take it out of you. I’m better off saving up all the cleaning until right before Mom and Dad get home.
Speaking of Mom and Dad, whatever lobe of my brain makes me a decent daughter lights up. I should call them. We haven’t spoken since my hangover passed, and I’m sure they’d appreciate hearing from me more than once on our first holiday apart. I fish my phone out of my back pocket, mentally adding an hour to the time before I hit dial. It’s not quite 9:00 p.m. on Sanibel Island, and if this year’s Thanksgiving is anything like previous years, they’re drunk, sunburnt, and back in their room by now. I take the stairs two at a time as the phone rings, and Mom picks up just as I belly flop into the center of my bed.
“Hiya, Murph! I was wondering if we’d hear from you again today.” She slurs every other word, confirming that, apart from my absence, this Thanksgiving is just like the rest.
“Hi Mom, how’s it going?”
“Hold on one second.” Several decibel-pushing scratching sounds later, she’s back on the line. “There. You’re on speaker. I’ve got your father here too.”
“Who is it? Oh, Murph! How are ya?” Dad shouts, the way all dads inexplicably do on phone calls, like he needs to yell all the way into my time zone.
“Shhhhhh,” Mom hisses. “People could be sleeping.”
“Oh, Murph! How are ya?” Dad repeats in a more hushed tone, and Mom laughs at the bad joke, a guaranteed sign that her tequila sunrise has risen a few too many times.
“I’m okay. Just wanted to say good night, maybe hear about your Thanksgiving. I miss you guys.”
“We miss you too, Murph,” Mom says, her voice suddenly steady and genuine. “We wish you were here.”
I lock eyes with our family photo on the Wall of Fame, the one Ellie pointed out earlier. I wish I was there too. Not just in Florida, but back in my giant heart-shaped sunglasses, wedged between my parents, without a problem in the world. What I would give to be eight again.
