Hard Time
Georgia
to jump into things with your heart instead of your head, Georgie. This could be a good lesson for you,” my mother says while lifting a cat off of the kitchen counter, but I’m so hopped up on antihistamines, I could be hallucinating.
In the heat of the moment, after leaving the FBI headquarters six days ago, I wanted to get out of the city. More importantly, I wanted to get out of my building because I couldn’t face Archie if he came back. I’m not opposed to locking myself inside my condo, but too much reminded me of him.
“Lesson learned, Mom. Thanks.”
“I’m not trying to be harsh, but you always did live in La-La-Land. Something like this was bound to happen.”
It took me five days of moping in a motel room before I confessed what happened with Archie to my mom. For the past twenty-four hours, she’s been taking every opportunity to tell me it’s my fault. The comfort I was seeking when I begged Rene to drive me home is nowhere to be found. I’m still Georgia the letdown. Not only that, but I’ve only seen Leah for a total of twenty minutes in the past six days. Casey allegedly had plans to go stay with her parents in Jonestown, so she and Leah left the day after I arrived.
My phone dings on the table beside me. If I wasn’t in the midst of an uncomfortable—unwanted—conversation with my mother, I’d ignore it, but I need an excuse to cut this short. Though, to my surprise, it’s not a text message or an email. It’s an alert for Smith Goldstein & Co. They’ve posted their latest round of press releases for my exhibit announcement amongst a few others scheduled for December.
“Don’t tell me it’s him making your face look like that.”
I lift my eyes to look at my mother, who is standing a few feet away with one hand on her hip. “No. It’s the announcement for my exhibit at a prestigious art gallery in two weeks.”
“Oh.” That’s all she says. Not a word of congratulations. Nothing to hint that she’s proud of me. No excitement whatsoever.
It shouldn’t surprise me. She’s always seen me as the kid with her head in the clouds. The one with big dreams and unrealistic expectations. This is why I thought my full name was ‘Oh, that Georgie,’ until I was about eight years old. I’ve never met her expectations and slinking home after an epic failure of my love life hasn’t helped her perception of me.
“I’m going to head back home today.” Without waiting for a response or any questions about the sudden decision, I stand from my chair and walk over to give my mom a hug. “Thanks for giving me the push I needed.”
She looks confused as I pull away and walk to the door. Her dismissiveness reminded me that I’ve got work to do, and I’m doing this for myself. Not for anyone else’s approval. If I’m not enough for the people in my life as I am, so be it. If other people don’t get my passion or appreciate me for who I am, then that’s not my problem.
Four hours later, I’m walking into my building, towing my suitcase and some groceries I picked up, keeping my eyes to the floor. I don’t know what Archie’s living arrangements are after the fact, but I’m terrified of running into him. Not because I’m scared, but because I don’t trust myself to stay mad at him. And I am. Furious, in fact.
I take a deep breath as the elevator passes the fourth floor, trying to strengthen my resolve. When the doors open, I step out into the hallway, and my heart is momentarily stalled.
There lies a pile of belongings outside of an open door. Recognizable things. Namely, Christofern and Vincent van Grow. Archie’s beloved houseplants that he cared for like they were set to inherit his estate and have authority over his care home location someday.
The building superintendent steps out of the apartment with another armful of items and tosses it on top of an open box.
“What are you doing with this stuff?” I ask.
“Donate what I can, but I’ll probably just toss most of it in the dumpster.” Without waiting for a response, he walks back into the apartment.
My head says don’t do it. Don’t pick up the plants. Don’t touch the red hockey jersey. Definitely don’t touch the gray CFD T-shirt I vividly recall clutching onto while Archie kissed me senseless. That senselessness must remain, even after all this time, because I pick up the two articles of clothing and both potted plants. Much like Archie did upon his arrival, I struggle to carry the plants, suitcase, and groceries. The difference is, he’s not here to offer me help, and I don’t think he ever intended to.
These plants look a little worse for the wear, and given how much Archie babied them, I bet they’d stick him in a bottom-tier care facility that serves microwave TV dinners and has no hot water for abandoning them. I can’t say I disagree with that decision.
I scroll through internet articles about care for zebra plants and Boston ferns, trying to determine the best course of action for them. They don’t deserve to wither away and die just because my relationship with Archie did.
It’s stupid, but it gives me a small piece of him to hang on to, because I’m not quite ready to let go. I guess that’s also why I’m now wearing his T-shirt.
Instead of pushing him out of my head, he’s back, fully consuming me. I putter around, watering both plants a bit at a time, watching them like they’re going to spring back to life the second their soil is hydrated. They’re much like my own broken heart, though. There’s still a little life left, but it won’t be a quick process to recover.
“We’ll get there together, Christofern. Vincent, you’ve got to be the strong one. Show us the way.” Since the zebra plant is holding up a little better, we’ll have to look for him to take the lead.
Unsurprisingly, they don’t have any solutions. I think they probably hold some love for him too, even though he abandoned them. It’s the time he spent caring for them that sticks with them the most. At least, that’s the impression I get from Christofern. Vincent is a little more mysterious.
Archie told me it was scientifically proven that plants thrive when they’re spoken to. While my friends are great listeners, they have a habit of trying to offer solutions, when what I want is just to unload how I’m feeling and get it off my chest. Normally I turn to art for that, but my inspiration has been lacking, and Sandra doesn’t want any more depressing work.
So I pull out the rest of my vodka, pour myself a healthy glass that would be more suitable for juice than alcohol, and spill my guts to my wordless companions.
“I hate him, Christofern. You probably do too because he left you there, helpless, without a second thought. Well, that’s not true. He really cared about you guys, so I bet he thinks about you. I wonder if he thinks about me too.”
The vodka is taking effect already. Likely on account of my empty stomach because I haven’t had an appetite for the last week. To help it along, I take another swig. Sadly—perhaps unsurprisingly—it doesn’t fill the hole in my heart.
“Now, looking back, his actions and reactions make so much sense. His weird lines of questioning and the changes in his mood. That’s why he was awkward every time he started talking about the CFD. I knew he was hiding something, and I fell for him, anyway. What a fool, huh? That’s what I get for ignoring my instincts.”
Neither plant looks like they’re even listening at this point, so I’m not sure if my talking is helping or making them wish they had been left to their demise. It isn’t helping me.
“Why do I love him? I hate him and love him at the same time. How is that possible?”
It’s safe to say the vodka has well and truly broken through the blood-brain barrier, but it’s not doing its job. Maybe it’s confused because last time I got stupid drunk, Archie came in the next day, then he apologized and we picked up where we left off. Or maybe I’m not drunk enough.
That’s probably it.
“Vincent, I don’t want to love him.” I take another gulp of the alcohol, allowing it to burn my throat. “How do I make it stop?” I climb into my bed, pulling the covers over me with my glass still in my left hand. “He never cared about me. I wasn’t enough for him, either.”