It might sound naive, given the circumstantial evidence, to expect this whole thing to be a purely innocent misunderstanding, crossed wires, but hope has gotten me this far in life. Every no I’ve ever received, in my mind, was almost a yes. And all I’ve ever really needed was an almost a yes.
I turn the latch letting a gust of wind and rain into the warmth of the house. But of course it’s not George standing on our doorstep, it’s a smiling stranger in a red bomber jacket.
“Hey. Mia, is it?” He’s about my age with an easygoing manner and a warm Irish lilt.
“Yeah?”
He looks down at a damp and crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “So, I’m supposed to be collecting George’s things.”
“George’s things?”
We both stand there in silence for a moment as I try to make sense of the Irishman’s words. When it clicks, fear chases my confusion and then just as suddenly I feel the calming certainty that I must be misunderstanding what’s going on here. And yet my grip on the doorframe tightens.
“I’m really sorry, but who are you?” I ask. My voice has a faraway distant sound. Perhaps it has decided it doesn’t want to live with me anymore either.
“Sorry, right. I’m Andy.” He extends a hand warmly. “I work for, um, Fantastic Movers.” He cringes at the company name as I numbly shake his hand.
“Right, okay,” I manage, then clear my throat. “I see. And is George coming to—？”
Andy’s handsome face creases into an apologetic frown. “I wouldn’t have thought so, no.”
Two hours later the living room is pockmarked with missing chairs, books, and pictures. Shapes left in the dust that I hadn’t even realized was there. The front door is gently pulled to by Andy and once I hear his engine start, I finally release the hot angry tears that have been silently choking me from inside since he entered the house.
George has gone. He’s left me and this is how he’s done it. After six years of love, or what I thought was love.
No reply to the text I sent him as Andy packed away his things. No answer to: What the hell is going on? But then I suppose—actions speak louder than words—it’s pretty obvious what’s going on.
A thought occurs to me and my thumb hovers over the Instagram search icon on my phone. I know this way madness lies. If I start down this road things will get very painful, very quickly, and yet in a way I want the pain. Pain will fill the room with something at least now that Andy has gone, taking all of George’s things with him.
I tap out her name…
Her verified account springs up. Her curated, muted-tone online existence exactly as I would have imagined it. Naomi Fairn and her achingly cool life. There’s a post from two days ago, a Polaroid photo of a script with her pale hand obscuring the title card, a plain gold band on her middle finger, clear nail polish, and the sleeve of a gray hoodie.
@Naomifairn: New job. Can’t say yet but this one’s special.
The crop emoji. I always thought that one just represented a generic crop but now on closer inspection I see it is actually supposed to symbolize rye. A fun clue for her intrepid followers. I’m suddenly reminded that she’s only twenty-one.
I scroll through her earlier posts looking for him, looking for anything that can explain my now empty house. Something catches my eye. Posted last week.
@Naomifairn: Shadows.
January 29th. Hampstead Heath.
A photo of two people’s shadows elongated in the winter sun along a path in Hampstead Heath; the tips of her white Converses are in shot and, partially obscured, to their right, the edge of the other person’s shoe. My stomach flips; I know that shoe. I pinch and zoom, hunched over and squinting at the phone screen like an octogenarian in my lonely kitchen.