Shayna is silent for a few beats. “Yeah, meeting up with some school friends in the West Village.” She pauses. “You’re welcome to join.”
I pause inside my room where she can’t see me and pinch my eyes closed. Dang, I thought we’d reached the point where she’d given up on inviting me places. It’s not that I don’t want to go, but…the effort it would take to maintain a friendship with my roommate? All that work and then one day, she’ll just move out. Or I will. We’ll move on. We’ll lose touch and I will have nothing but memories to show for it. Memories that make me sad.
A series of faces flip through my mind. Rebecca from Florida. Josephine from Nevada. Evander from San Diego. Friends I made growing up as a military brat. Friends to whom I would sit in the dark and spill out my heart, only to wave goodbye a week or a month later, on to the next destination where I would have to start all over again. Again. Again. There were no shortcuts when it came to making friends, so eventually I just stopped trying.
I quit trying to do anything the full way.
“I have plans, actually. But thanks for the invite,” I call back to Shayna, backing up briefly into the doorway so she can see my smile. “Have fun.”
It takes her a moment to nod. She wants to poke around about the flowers. And the eggplant. But in the end, she backs toward her room and closes herself inside.
Ignoring the useless flare of guilt in my middle, I do the same. I set the flower arrangements on my nightstand and pluck out the cards, already dead certain which man sent each bouquet—and I’m right. The sunflower mix is from Gabe. His card reads, You’re saving me tonight, I won’t forget it. The card that came with Banks’s roses says, I’ll take everything you’ve got, even the thorns.
Wow. Nicely done, men.
Almost nice enough to forget one of them is in possession of my state ID.
I should file a police report and cancel the date tonight. But I can’t bring myself to leave Gabe hanging at this gala where his brother and ex-wife are set to make a big splash.
Feeling slightly lost, I pick up my phone where it’s charging on my dresser and pull up the contact information for my parents. First my mom, then my dad. Maybe I just need some visual proof that I do have the phone numbers for two people who love me. Or maybe it has been too long since I spoke to them and I’m flying by the seat of my pants here, in desperate need of their grounding presence. Whatever the reason, I find myself tapping the FaceTime option for my dad and sinking down onto the floor, turning around so I can lean back against the wobbly piece of furniture.
My father answers on the fourth ring, squinting an inch away from the screen. “Honey?”
Homesickness billows inside of me like a sandstorm.
Permanent homes were never a thing. But through all of the moves, my parents were home. And I’ve repaid them with disappointment. Not that they would ever say it out loud.
“Hey Dad.”
He finds somewhere to prop the phone and leans back, the shamrock tattoo on his right shoulder looking a little more faded than the last time I saw it. “Hey, kid. What’s good?”
“Not much. I’m getting ready to go to a party tonight.” I tilt my head back briefly to look at the flowers looming above my head. “With some friends.”
My father’s eyes widen. “Wow. That’s amazing. I love hearing you’re making friends again.”
“Yeah.” Why are my palms sweating? I had no idea my father was so aware of my lack of friendships. Why wouldn’t he be, though? I stopped trying to form bonds with my peers in middle school while I was still living at home. “How’s Mom? Is she there?”
“Anita!” he shouts, pointing at the screen when footsteps approach in the background. “Your daughter is on the phone.”
“My daughter? I have a daughter? Who knew?” she teases in accented English, plopping down onto my father’s lap. My heart squeezes at the picture they make, their unbreakable union obvious. I could recite the story about how they met at a beach bonfire verbatim. Their features are as familiar as my own, probably since I share so many of them. My mother’s brown eyes, her high cheekbones. My father’s pug nose. “Baby girl,” chides my mother. “You look tired.”
“Thanks Mom,” I respond dryly. “How’s everyone on base?”
“Good! Good.” She trades a look with my father that turns a bolt in my stomach. “Actually, we spoke to someone at the recruitment center. They’re willing to let you reapply for service, if that’s something you were still interested in—”