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A week into the New Year and I’m officially on my own and properly installed in my very own studio apartment. The end of all the ‘tis the Season and Fa-la-la-la-la crap couldn’t come fast enough for me, so Christmas wasn’t really a thing this year. I skipped the company holiday party. I’m normally not one to pass up a free meal and drinks, but I didn’t have the heart to fake it. I spent Christmas Day alone in my pajamas drinking wine out of the bottle and singing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs, much to the dismay of my new neighbors. For New Year’s Eve, there was more wallowing and misery. Usually, I see the New Year as a fresh start, but this time, all I can see is myself alone for the rest of my life. Thinking about Will has only gotten a little less painful, and the cruel way he broke it off and lack of closure is still eating me alive.
I sacrificed location for space, and exchanged quality for affordability. What am I left with? Another dumpy apartment, not unlike every other one I’ve lived in before. I lost one bedroom, a hallway, several pieces of furniture and a fiancé, so I suppose this means I’m no longer moving up in the world. My trajectory has downshifted and the fact that I’m back in a studio where I started doesn’t escape me. It’s small, but the square footage is surprisingly more than what I could get in my old neighborhood for the price. Sure, I could have decided to spend all my paycheck on rent, but then I wouldn’t be able to eat which actually might not be a bad thing considering how much weight I’ve gained over the past month. Why can’t I be one of those girls who lose their appetite and stop eating in times of emotional turmoil? Then, at least I’d look good even if my life was a disaster; but no, not me. I dive head first into Peanut Butter Cup Ice Cream and Sour Cream and Onion Potato chips. I can barely zip up my jeans. Speaking of said jeans, there’s so little closet space in this place, I have nowhere to put most of them. Don’t even get me started on the bathroom.
East County is my new place of residence. I actually have to get on the freeway and sit in traffic to get to work, and already miss my old neighborhood terribly. Row after row of standard issue, concrete, boxy apartment complexes replaces the charm of North Park, and there’s not a single cute little restaurant within walking distance. At least there are no bars on the window; although I wonder if there should be.
I lost half of the deposit thanks to that hole Will punched in the wall and never got around to fixing. I sold anything and everything I could to try to make up for it, including the Queen sized mattress we had not yet finished paying off, which saved me the expense of a moving truck. The studio is too small for most of it anyway, and I still had to get a small storage unit for what I couldn’t cram into the apartment. Thank God for the streamlined minimalism of IKEA. This place may not be much, but at least it’s all mine.
I lock the door behind me, grateful for leggings that allow my hips to breathe, and head out to the storage unit to pick up a few things. I’m an alien in this strange little neighborhood. I still haven’t figured out where to get groceries or the best place to stop for gas.
I park my car and walk over to unit thirty-five. My tiny key opens the lock, and the door creaks open with a slight push. My pensive mood immediately draws me to an old dusty trunk filled with pictures, diaries, cards and everything else I never look at but don’t want to throw away. Inside, a snapshot of me as a child smiling in front of the tiny artificial Christmas tree my dad hauled out of the closet every year sits right on top. Beneath that is an old gymnastics ribbon—purple for participant. I didn’t get a lot of blue. It’s old and faded, but the smooth satin beneath my fingers still feels shiny and new. It reminds me of Aunt Lisa’s patronizing smile the weekend after that competition when she saw it hanging by a magnet on our refrigerator.
“How nice,” she said, her voice dripping with insincerity.
After she left, I stuffed it in an old shoebox in my closet so my mom wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. I can still hear Lisa droning on and on about Cousin Stella, the spectacular, and feeling sorry for my mom because there was an unspoken competition between the two of them that she could never win. Lisa always had a Stella success story on hand, but there was nothing noteworthy about me for her to come back with. Stella was a straight-A student and star of the varsity volleyball team for four years in high school. Then the acceptance letters started pouring in, and she got a full-ride athletic scholarship to an exclusive private university in Malibu. Pepperdine. I saw the glossy brochures fanned across their coffee table. She double majored in Business Administration and Biology before heading off to medical school in a blaze of glory.
I was smart, but not academic scholarship smart and an average gymnast at best. I threw my heart and soul into gymnastics to no avail, feigning no knowledge of their nighttime whispering about when I should quit. They didn’t make it to a lot of meets, but when they did I think the disappointment on my face after wobbling my way through beam or failing to win medals hurt them as much as it did me. When I told my parents I was sick of gymnastics, they didn’t question it. My mom searched my face with suspicion, but they eyed each other with silent relief that they would not have to come up with tuition next month. At thirteen, I walked away from the one thing I wanted dearly to be good at. Gone were long time friendships forged by chalk dust and strengthened by the pain of bloody hand rips and the agony of three hour practices. We mumbled to each other that we would keep in touch, but it would have been too hard for me to hang out with them anyway.
I wasn’t that child overscheduled into oblivion in preparation for a University education. My parents didn’t have the time or money for it. They couldn’t take me on fun trips, or help me pay for college. They believe they failed me because they didn’t hand out money the way other parents did or push me in academics, sports and extracurricular activities, but it was I who failed them with my mediocracy. As their only child I let them down by not being exceptional at anything along the way and I failed my mother most of all, that day she found me in the closet.
I startled awake to her screaming my name and shaking my shoulders.
“Wake up! Wake up!” She cried before grabbing the cordless phone from my nightstand.
“Mom, mom, I’m fine! Don’t call anyone! I’m fine!”
Drowsily, my eyes opened to slits and then widened as I reacquainted myself with my surroundings. My limbs were heavy and my tongue felt too large for my mouth. She yanked me out of the closet and dragged me by the arm down the hall to the bathroom. Holding my face above the toilet, she directed me to stick my finger down my throat. The contents of my stomach spewed into the porcelain bowl peppered with tiny white discs. She sobbed, as I dry heaved, then spit and flushed, spit and flushed, until the water that circled the toilet bowl ran clear. Something changed between us just then, when she learned she’d raised a child so miserable she no longer wanted to exist on the planet as her daughter. I hated myself for that. I concluded that if I could do that at fourteen years old, living a relatively decent life, I simply wasn’t capable of happiness. I hated myself for that too.
We never spoke of it again, and we never told my father, but it hung between us like a short picket fence with barbed wire on top, daring one of us to take a leap. Their bare bones health insurance plan covered exactly five therapy sessions. After the last one, she asked me if I was better and I told her that I was. She never asked me why, and if she had I’m not sure what I would have told her because I’m still searching for answers. We tried to pretend it never happened, but attempted suicide isn’t the kind of thing that easily goes away. For a long time afterwards, I felt her standing over me in the middle of the night before I’d fall asleep with a feather touch on my back to make sure I was breathing. Satisfied with the steady rise and fall of my back, she’d tip toe quietly out of my room. They found the money for me to do cheerleading my sophomore year. I think my mom was too afraid not to.
Against my better judgement, I continue to meander down memory lane. A ripe sense of loss washes over me when I locate a discolored one-year anniversary card from Will. Tucked inside is a picture of us at the zoo and a crinkled map covered with bold X’s. I can still smell the cologne he drenched the card in—musky and bold, yet understated. We had so much fun that day marking off every single exhibit on the map, determined to see it all even if they had to kick us out of the park. Even in my darkest days, when I felt I had nothing...I had him. Somebody loved me. I mattered. I was worth something.
Repressed memories spring to life in detail so vibrant that it doubles as assault, trampling my already fragile emotions, filling my eyes with tears. I stopped trying to call him after two weeks and I still don’t know where he’s living, what he’s doing or why he left. One minute he was the biggest part of my life and in the next, he wasn’t part of it at all. He’s disappeared from social media and no matter how difficult the not knowing is, I refuse to make any effort to locate him. I should not have to track down my fiancé like an FBI agent. Whatever we were and whatever we thought we were together are gone.
I rest my chin on the brim of the trunk and sigh. I’ve been chasing happy, but happiness is a cagey character that I can’t quite seem to catch and all I’ve been doing is going through the motions. College—job—Will. I have this peculiar feeling I should be in a completely different place right now, but there is something obvious I’m overlooking that prevents me from knowing where. Planning my future with Will was supposed to make me happy and whole, but like wet jeans that stick to your legs when it rains, sadness clings to me and doesn’t go away. Now he’s gone and I still don’t know why I’m here or what I’m supposed to do.
My phone rings. It’s Will. I’m scared to answer, but I have to know.
“Hello,” I whisper hoarsely as my voice catches in my throat. There is a pregnant pause brimming with silence and noise.
“Hello,” he says thickly and it is so good to hear his voice again. I squeeze my eyes shut, and muffle a sob with my fist.
“God, you must really hate me.” It’s the first thing that pops into my head, because he must in order to do what he did.
“I don’t hate you, Alexis.”
“Then why? Why?” I ask.
“I haven’t been in a good place with us for a while and...I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“So, you just left? And how long exactly is ‘a while,’ Will?”
“I don’t know, since right before we got engaged.”
“Why did you propose?” I demand.
“It’s what you wanted, and I wanted it too. I really did. It was the right thing to do, and I hoped that things would get better...then you called it off.”
“But you were okay with it. We decided that we would save money and wait until we were in a better position financially.”
“But that never happened. Then, I wanted to move but you didn’t and I blamed you for everything after that. Everything was your fault. I couldn’t stop being mad at you, and it was eating me up inside. I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t do anything.”
“Until you packed up and ran away. You didn’t even have the nerve to tell me. That’s what hurts the most.”
“I know. And I’m so sorry, but don’t you see? You needed me so much. I was terrified of how you would handle breaking up, yet I knew that even if we stayed together, I couldn’t make you happy. You’d get so sad. I used to believe I was saving you—that I was enough, but I’m not, and I couldn’t handle the pressure anymore. I always felt like I was letting you down, but then I realized, there was nothing I could do. I can’t fix that part of you. When you left the house that day without saying good-bye, I knew it was over.”
“But I came back. You didn’t!”
“I couldn’t,” he says softly.
“Yeah. I get it,” I say bitterly because as much as it pains me to admit it, I know I’m not an easy person to love.
“Maybe you should have gone to Anderson without me. That would have been the end two years ago...” I trail off.
It rings so true that we are both silent except for the sound of breathing into the phone. The only thing we accomplished staying together is hiding out from the truth, but if we were honest with ourselves, we would have ended this horrendous game of charades a while ago.
“Bumble Bee...how have you been?” he asks haltingly.
My emotions have officially cycled to anger. If he wanted to know how I was doing he shouldn’t have walked out on me the way he did.
“Don’t call me that, Will. I have to go,” I say hanging up, tossing the picture, ribbon, and anniversary card into the trunk next to the rest of my life so neatly tucked away as if it never happened. The only problem is that my heart won’t forget. Just like that day in the closet. It haunts me. The only other person on the planet who knows about it is Will. He tried to fill my melancholy with forehead kisses and love, but it was never enough.
I shut the trunk. It slams closed with a resounding thud. I stare at it for a minute then grab the items I came for and leave.
