I was afraid they’d ask me what went wrong, and no matter what answer I cobbled together from the rubble, they’d see right through it.
They’d know I wasn’t enough.
I’m not the brilliant doctor my parents wanted me to be, and I’m not the person who could give Wyn the happiness he deserves, and I’m not the friend Sabrina and Cleo needed.
I’ve tried so hard to be good, to deserve the people around me, and I’ve still managed to hurt all of them.
The blankets feel too hot, the mattress too soft. Whenever I roll over, I thwack the wall.
If there were a TV in here, I’d put on Murder, She Wrote, fall asleep to its blue glow and softly jaunty soundtrack.
The silence leaves too much room for questions, for memories to vine around me, hold me captive.
Not just of the fight but of the dark place, of the weeks before and after losing Wyn. Of crying into a pillow that smelled like him, and waking up from dreams of him, my chest filled with knots. Of trying to flush him from my system with a double date with Taye, her boyfriend, and their friend.
Of coming home, sick to my stomach, and cleaning the apartment. As if scrubbing the grout and the condiment splatters on the kitchen cabinets could make everything about my life look different. Make me different.
I remember standing in my kitchen, my phone clamped in one hand, wishing there were someone to call.
That if I called my mother, she’d say, Come home; I’ll take care of you.
That if I called Wyn, his soft voice would tell me it had all been a mistake, a misunderstanding, that he’d love me forever, like he promised.
Even if I did feel capable of telling them the truth, Sabrina and Parth would’ve just gotten to sleep, and Cleo and Kimmy would need to get up in a few short hours; and if I called Eloise, she’d assume someone died, because we never talk on the phone.
I was so close to dialing Wyn that night that I blocked his number.
And the longer I went without calling any of them, the more impossible doing so felt, the more embarrassed I was by the truth.
I spent my whole life trying to get here, and why? It wasn’t what I pictured.
No, it’s worse than that. Because honestly, I’m not sure I ever bothered to picture it.
I imagined giving relieved family members good news in hospital waiting rooms, and I pictured my own parents’ happiness and pride, their faces out in the crowd at graduation, their adoring notes at the foot of the family Christmas card. I pictured a house with air-conditioning that always worked and doors that stayed open, and long dinners at nice restaurants, with everyone laughing, pink-cheeked. I imagined downtime, thoughtful gifts for my parents, the family vacations we’d never taken, their mortgage paid off. I imagined all their hard work finally repaid, all their sacrifices not only compensated but rewarded.
I imagined them thinking it was all worth it. Telling me how much they loved me.
All my life, when I thought of my future, that was what I pictured. Not a career. The things I thought would come with it.
Happiness, love, safety.
And that dream had been enough for a long time. What was school if not a chance to earn your worth? To prove, again and again, that you were measurably good.
One more deal I struck with a disinterested universe: If I’m good enough, I’ll be happy.
I’ll be loved.
I’ll be safe.
Instead, I’ve pushed away everyone I love.
My heart clangs in my chest. I need to outrun these feelings.
I stand and tear the sheet off the bed, wrapping it around my shoulders. The temperature drops a solid ten degrees as I make my way into the hallway, another few as I descend the stairs, but I still feel hot and stuffy.
The kitchen is a wreck. I set my sheet aside and, in my underwear, put away the dishes, loading the dirty ones into the empty dishwasher. I wipe down the counters. I sweep. I tell myself it will make a difference. That tomorrow, when everyone comes down, tonight’s wreckage won’t look quite so bad.
The anxiety doesn’t let up. My skin feels too tight, hot and itchy. Gathering the sheet again, I let myself out back.
The wind does little to break the feverish feeling. I climb down to the bluff, and in the dark, the water seems louder, powerful but ambivalent. I imagine what it would feel like to be swept up in it, to drift across its back. I imagine being carried away from this life, opening my eyes in a different place.
Something Sabrina said intrudes on the fantasy: You’re losing the love of your life because you’re too indecisive to just pick a wedding date and a venue.
I know things are more complicated than that, but those words keep replaying, braiding in and out of what Wyn told me earlier.
I genuinely convinced myself that was the kind of guy you wanted to be with. And you kept pushing the wedding off. You never wanted to talk about it. You never wanted to talk about anything.
You were never mad at me. You never fought with me. It felt like you didn’t even miss me.
I kept so much of what I was feeling from him, thinking the weight of my emotions would only drive him further from me, push him back behind a door I couldn’t open.
And even after he told me that tonight, I felt trapped inside myself, unable to get the words out.
Now they wriggle in my gut, burrowing deeper, gaining ground.
As soon as I make the decision, time accordions. The steep climb up the bluff, the length of the patio, the creaky stairs, the hallway—it all blurs past and I’m standing at his door.
Knocking quietly. Maybe have been for a while, even, because the door’s already swinging open, as if he’s been waiting.
That would explain why he’s fully dressed, but not why he looks so surprised.
Not the way his lips part and his brow furrows as I seem to float into the room, inflated with helium-light purpose.
And it definitely wouldn’t explain the packed luggage sitting by the door.
At the sight of it, a hot coal slips down my throat, hits the deepest pit of my stomach and sizzles. “You’re leaving?”
His steel-gray gaze flicks back toward his luggage. “I thought that might be easiest.”
“Easiest,” I murmur. “How? Only like three flights leave the airport a day, and none of those departs in the dead of night.”
He grabs the corner of the door and clicks it shut behind me. “I don’t know,” he admits.
Finally, I manage, “No.”
His brow lifts. “No, what?”
“We’re not done fighting,” I say.
“I thought we weren’t fighting,” he says.
I step in close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. “We’re in an all-out brawl.”
He looks away, the corners of his mouth twisting downward. “About what?”
“For starters, about the fact that you packed your bags up in the night,” I say, pressing closer. He takes a half step back. My voice wobbles. “And I don’t want you to go.”
His hands come to my hips, holding me but keeping me at a distance. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place,” he says. “This is all my fault.”
“No, it’s not,” I say.
“It is,” he says, insistent.
I press closer. Our chests brush. “There,” I say.
“There what?”
“Something else we have to fight about,” I say.