Chapter 15 - The Party That Didn't Leave
I drove home from her house with my own keys in my pocket and nothing of hers in my car.
That was new. For two weeks I'd carried a spare set she'd given me for the cats, the little silver paw-print keychain she'd bought as a joke. I'd left them on her kitchen counter that morning. She was standing in the doorway in sweatpants, her hair pulled up, no blazer, no tote. She looked smaller without all of it.
"I fed them before you came," I said. "Litter's done. They have water."
She nodded. "Thank you."
It was the first time she'd said it without adding an instruction after.
My apartment was cold when I got back. I'd left the heat low while I was going back and forth to hers. I turned it up and dropped my bag by the door and stood there a minute just breathing. The fridge had almost nothing in it, just condiments and a half loaf of bread. I didn't feel like going to the store. I drove instead to the diner off Highway 12, the one with the vinyl booths and the coffee that tastes burnt if you let it sit.
I sat at the counter. The waitress knew me enough to nod. I ordered pancakes and eggs even though it was almost two in the afternoon. While I waited I looked out the window at the parking lot, at the cars going by on the highway. No one was waiting on me. No one had texted to ask where I was. My phone was quiet in my pocket and for once I didn't check it every ten seconds.
When I got back to my apartment I unpacked properly. I put my own laundry in the washer. I watered my plant that had been leaning toward the window. I sat on my couch with my coffee and didn't turn on the TV right away. I just sat.
Around five there was a knock. I knew it was her before I opened the door because I heard her car pull in, that soft sound her SUV makes.
She stood on the mat outside my door with her hands in her coat pockets. He was not with her. That mattered.
"Hey," she said.
"Hey."
She glanced past me into the apartment. "Can I come in for a minute?"
I stepped back and let her. She didn't take off her shoes, didn't make herself at home the way she usually did. She stayed near the door, like she was asking permission to be there.
"I wanted to ask you something," she said, and she swallowed. "Not tell you. Ask."
I waited.
"There’s a dinner next month," she said. "Mom’s birthday. I was going to book the back room at the Italian place like always. Before I do anything, I wanted to ask if you wanted to come. And if you do, what would work for you. Time, day. I don't want to just put you down for something."
I felt my throat get tight. It was such a small thing, asking instead of assigning, but I hadn't realized how long I'd been waiting to be asked.
"I’d like that," I said. "A Saturday would be better than a Sunday for me."
She nodded quickly, like she was memorizing it. "Saturday. Okay. I’ll check Saturday."
There was a pause. The heat clicked on.
"At the airport," she said then, quieter. "When he said you'd slow us down. I didn't stop him. I let it stand. That was cruel. You weren't slow. You were never slow. I was scared we'd be late and look disorganized and I used you to make it feel more controlled. I told you to watch my cats like you didn't have your own plans. Like your time was just extra."
I didn't look away. I let her finish.
"I'm sorry," she said. She wasn't crying. Her voice was even, but her hands were tight in her pockets. "I know I canceled everything after. I thought I was making a point and I just... I made a mess everyone had to clean up."
I thought about that morning at the counter, the blue-paneled counters and the overhead monitors, her tote on her shoulder and the brown leather planner open with the black pen. I could still see the way she had clasped her hands before she said to cancel the entire party. For a long time that image had felt like it was about me, that I was the reason it all fell apart.
It wasn't. It was her choice, laid down firm on a countertop.
"I remember that planner," I said. "And your bag. I think I'll remember them for a long time. Not in a bad way. Just as a marker. Of when I said maybe it's easier this way and meant it, and meant it to make things easier for you, not me."
She looked at me. "Do you still think that? That it's easier?"
I thought about the pancakes, about leaving the spare keys, about sitting on my own couch.
"No," I said. "Not automatically anymore. I used to say it before I even knew what I wanted. I don't want to do that again. If it's hard, I'd rather say it's hard."
She nodded again and her eyes were a little wet but she didn't make a big show of it. "Okay."
She asked if I wanted her to go and I said not yet, and we sat at my small table with the mugs I had. We didn't talk about rebooking the trip. We didn't try to pretend it could be put back together. He texted her once and she looked at the phone and said, "He's at home, he says hi," and I said hi back, and that was enough.
When she left she hugged me at the door, quick and careful, and said, "I'll text you about Saturday before I call the restaurant."
"I'd like that," I said again.
May you like
After she left I locked the door and leaned against it for a second and listened to the apartment. The washer was thumping softly. Outside the window the sky was going gray-blue toward evening. I didn't feel triumphant or healed or any big movie feeling. I felt steady. I felt like I was standing in my own place, with my own plans for tomorrow, and I wasn't waiting to be told I was a burden for having them.
I wasn't going back to watching and waiting. I was staying right here.
