Page 22 of Then There Was You
I was twelve when I realized I was truly on my own. It wasn’t just because she was drunk, which she was to the point of being sloppy. It was because it finally dawned on me that she preferredto be in that condition, surrounded by regulars at the bar, rather than at home raising her kid.
Do I make the trek over to her apartment to see her like I do each year? I had pushed the guilt down deep enough to pretend I didn’t need to. Would she miss the visit? Do I still owe it to her?
She’s not knocking on my door either. Is it time to leave that relationship where it is—caught in a purgatory of responsibility versus forcing it because we’re related? If asked, I’m not sure I’d say I had any family. But even thinking that makes me feel like shit.
Placing blame ended years ago. She clearly never asked to be a mom. Not everyone is cut out for the job. That she was the closest I had to a parent and the only one technically keeping a roof over my head made me respect her, as she was still trying her best. She was just failing. So is it fair to abandon her like she did to me so many times?
Fuck.
I hate the holidays. I foolishly convinced myself that spending the night with Sosie would override the past and we’d make new memories this year. The text she sent left that impression as well. The chance to change what this day was to me was tangible, and then I lost it.
I’ve lost count of how many times my gaze has bounced to the door, hoping to see her bound through like she’s done it a thousand times. She was comfort and beauty, familiar in ways that I can’t make sense of, but mine at the same time. Sosie was all mine for a short time. And I want more. Worry embeds itself, leaving me bereft that she might not return.
She’s a grown woman who can handle herself. And surely, she would text if her plans had changed.Wouldn’t she?
She’s probably caught up opening presents or doing her duty as a Stansbury for a few hours. Except it’s been more than a few hours. It’s been over six. Okay, I’m being ridiculous. It’sonlybeen six hours on Christmas Day, for fuck’s sake. I’m damn lucky she even came over last night. Images of her naked beneath me, watching her tits bounce with each thrust, her lips swollen from kissing, and the taste of her skin taunt me.
I shift, the cravings for seconds hit hard, making me more irritable that she’s not here. Completely un-fucking-reasonable, Keats. I’m acting like a fucking creep. In true creep fashion, I tap the screen. The phone on the cushion next to me lights up once more for me to check messages. It would have been impossible to miss any texts since I’ve been here all day. I check anyway. Though I’ve tried to work on my capstone paper in finance for hours, I’ve mostly been staring at this damn phone, waiting to hear from Sosie.
Merry Christmas. I need to run home, but I’ll be back. Keep the bed warm for me. Sosie
The text she sent earlier still sits without a follow-up, not even to my reply. But maybe I’ve interpreted the words to mean something they don’t. I read it again, not able to see it as anything but a quick popover to the house and return for us to get some food to stuff ourselves with until we digest and have sex again. Did I read too much into it? I might have, especially that ending.
I feel stupid even seeing my naive reply, much less reading it.Can’t wait to see you.I’ll be waiting. Not because it’s untrue. Waiting is all I’ve fucking done today. Setting my laptop on the coffee table, I rest my arms on my legs and look out the window at the darkness of night invading not only my apartment but also my thoughts. I feel like an idiot. Maybe it’s not the texts that I misinterpreted.Maybe it’s her.
Maybe she realized she doesn’t want to slum it over here.
Maybe she’s gotten caught up in the fanfare of whatever rich people do on the holidays.
Maybe I was nothing but a fun time, and now that that’s been had, she’s gone.
Fuck!
With my hands scraping through my hair, I get up and start pacing. But five steps in any direction, four if I stretch my legs, isn’t satisfying enough to take the edge off my frustration. To the bathroom and back again. From the kitchen to the living room. My feet stop. My eyes fixed on what’s in front of me, what’s been right there the entire fucking day. Sosie’s phone.
Shit.No wonder I haven’t heard from her.
I grab it from the TV stand and read my text displayed on the screen when it lights up. With little battery left, I plug it into my charger on the bookcase where I charge mine. That’s when the sparkle of her jewelry catches my eye. The earrings hang like ornaments, evoking the first smile since I discovered she left. I touch one earring and then tap the other to watch it swing. But it’s the necklace wrapped around the top that has me realizing I was overreacting. She wouldn’t have gone to so much effort if she wasn’t planning on returning. Sure, she probably bought it off the street corner, but she seemed to like it enough to wear.
Besides the jewelry, she wouldn’t leave her phone here if she weren’t planning on returning.Right?I don’t care how much money someone has. Everyone is attached to their phone.
I drop back on the couch in another attempt to focus on this project. It’s not due for another two months, but it’s not something I’ll be able to accomplish overnight. The expectation that I'll convert the internship I had last summer into a career in finance now, and how I’ll contribute to growth in that sector, keeps me up at night. I want to be writing, but writing paperswasn’t the goal. Graduating is, though, so I pull my computer back to my lap and focus on where I left off.
But my mind isn’t on Wall Street. It’s on a girl dancing in the snow at the corner of Greene Street and Grand.Okay, Keats, focus.For real.
I work on finishing the paragraph where I had left off earlier, once I get words on the page. I get into the flow, notating my observations and contributions that lead to a 3 percent improvement in how the software recommends services to new clients.
My heart’s not in it.
Stopping again, I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to figure out what the actual distraction is for me. Sure, I can place the blame at Sosie’s feet, but that’s not fair. She doesn’t owe me anything. No one else ever has.
I grab my phone and shoot off a text to my professor:
The studies I cited are from my own research. I can back up my findings and support my?—
My phone rings.
My head jerks on my neck, and I answer, “Hello?”
