Out On a Limb(18)
“I didn’t think he’d even come to the party. But he and Win are very similar. Clearly I was right!”
“Oh, because they’re both disabled? You prick.”
No one else seems to notice that the room is spinning on a tilted axis. I walk over to the tap and try to splash cold water on my face.
“Obviously not just that!”
“So what? What would possess you to do this?”
I’m actually, very much, definitely going to be sick.
“Like I said; he’s a good guy! It’s only the Cora thing. It’s not—”
Caleb and Sarah are interrupted by the sound of me barfing into their kitchen sink.
CHAPTER 7
When I left Sarah’s place, Caleb was still on thin ice and had been forced to tell us everything he knew about Robert, Robbie, and Bo.
According to him, Bo and Cora met when they were both interning at some finance-gig. They didn’t really get to know each other until they were battling it out for a permanent position a year later. Honestly, it sounded like the start of one of Sarah’s romance novels, which only fuelled my annoyance further. I know I have zero claim over the guy, but I don’t particularly enjoy him having an enemies-to-lovers meet cute with the Antichrist.
They dated for a few years, off and on. Caleb said it seemed to be very up and down until, out of nowhere, they announced their engagement. That was just under two years ago. They were seemingly in the middle of wedding planning when, a few months later, Cora told her family that Bo’d left her high and dry. Caleb apparently never inquired further. Because he’s decidedly the worst.
Bo and Caleb reconnected by total coincidence at work this past spring. Caleb happened to have tons of information about the project that Bo had been hired to consult on that neither Sarah nor I wanted. They’ve been friends in a loose sense since—mostly meeting up at the gym, apparently, which Caleb was super vague about—and have never even talked about Cora, or the breakup.
Men are beyond strange.
Caleb had very little else to say. He had no clue about what happened to Bo’s leg, for example. Caleb said when he last saw Bo with Cora, he didn’t have a prosthesis. Then, when he started on the project for Caleb’s company, he did. He thought it would be rude to ask, and I suppose he’s right. But it means what happened to Bo was quite recent. Which, even though I barely know the guy, makes my heart ache. That’s a big, dramatic change to undergo. And Bo’s got no idea what further change is coming his way.
Could that be too much for one guy to handle? I’d understand that. I don’t even like when my manager adds a new menu item at the café.
After climbing up the six flights of stairs to my apartment, I arrive at my front door slightly winded and still a touch nauseous. My neighbours down the hall are arguing again, and the lights in the hallway flicker like a horror movie, but my apartment is my own piece of heaven. Well… it’s perhaps more like purgatory.
This apartment was the only place I could afford on my own after I left Jack, and at the time, anywhere would have suited me just fine. It was a not so perfect solution to a much bigger problem. Though I did think it would be more of a temporary solution. I definitely didn’t think I’d be here four years later. Even still, I’ve made the most of it.
To cope with the brutal Canadian winters, I’ve secured more house plants than your average greenhouse. I consider them excellent investments. A hobby, decor, and air-purifiers all in one. Well, not in one. In dozens. I keep most of them in front of the large square window that sits behind the couch that doubles as my bed. Not that I’m sleeping on a couch—it’s a pull-out.
Ha. Pull-out. Should’ve maybe tried that.
I throw my keys onto my dining table that is half-covered by towels under drying dishes and turn on the switch that works the lamp in the far corner of the room above my purple dresser. Sure, the apartment is one room plus a bathroom and less than 350 square feet. And the walls are all a little yellow from the smoker who lived here before me. And the carpeting under my couch is permanently stained with god only knows what. And I guess it would be nice to have windows that open to get some fresh air. But this place is mine. That counts for something.
It’s the first thing I ever saved up for. The first lease I ever signed on my own. The first home that I ever lived in by myself. Had complete control over.
I grab a glass of water, chug it back, and then refill it before I open the bath playlist on my phone and connect to the speaker in my bathroom. I follow the sound of Carole King’s voice, shaking off my clothes as I go. Leaving a trail behind me of handmade socks, a blue sweater, orange corduroy overalls, beige underwear, and an ill-fitting matching bra.
When in doubt, take a shower, my mother used to say. When in trouble, take a bath, Marcie would add. They were always speaking in tandem like that—little doses of life lessons piggy-backed on top of the other.
Oh, fuck. I’m going to have to tell my mom about the baby.
Nope. Not thinking about that yet. First, a bath.
Well, first, several things.
In fact, most things before I tell my mother.
I’m not ever really sure how to talk to my mom about what’s happening in my life. Sometime after I turned eleven, I became more of a friend and confidant than a daughter. There was never enough space in the conversation for two sets of problems, and hers always seemed more important.