Page 34 of Leverage & Obedience

He doesn’t call or text. I tell myself this is what I wanted.

Knowing that doesn’t stop me from picking up the phone at 11:47, again at 12:33, and at 1:14. Nothing every time.

Around 2:30, I decide I need real groceries. I’ve been living on stale crackers and peanut butter from the bottom of the jar. There’s probably only one more spoonful.

The grocery store is a few blocks from my apartment. I know the route cold.

At a stoplight three blocks from the office, I realize where I am. I’m two turns from his building, on the route I take to work. I’m on autopilot. The store’s the other direction.

The light turns green. I don’t move until the car behind me honks.

I turn around at the next block and drive to the store, white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire way. I sit in the parking lot for a long time, and my forehead lands on the steering wheel at some point. I let it.

Walking into the store seems like too much effort, so I order groceries from the store’s app. Thirty minutes later, I move the car into one of the grocery pickup spots and a worker brings the bags out. I only have to pop the trunk. This might be rock bottom.

When I get home, instead of fixing something filling, I take a bag of pretzels to the couch with me.

I eat four of them before setting the bag on the coffee table.

I don’t pick up my phone.

Rachel’s name flashes on my lock screen thirty minutes later. It’s a text. I almost don’t open it, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I did a terrible job of keeping her at arm’s length.

Rachel:What happened with you and Bren?

Ugh. I could give her some non-answer about how it wasn’t the right fit, you know how temp work goes. I could block her number and let her become one more name I forget in six months.

More dots appear. She’s still typing.

Rachel:He’s a fucking mess. I’ve never seen him like this. He looks like he hasn’t slept and is barely talking to anyone. Kevin asked if he was sick and he said he was fine. He’s so clearly not fine.

My chest tightens, and I set down the phone like it’s burned me. I don’t want to care.

A few minutes later, it pings again with another text, and I pick it up.

Rachel:Also, I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I’m going to just say it. We all knew about you two. We weren’t blind.

My hands are shaking just enough that it’s difficult to read the next message.

Rachel:And we were rooting for you guys because Bren’s had a rough go of it. I wasn’t working there when his wife died, but Kevin says Bren used to be a happy guy. He changed after he lost his wife. But when you showed up, he started smiling again. He was crazy about you, and we all saw it.

I’m nauseated as I read the message four times. Each time hurts in a different way.

She sends a final text while I’m debating if I’m going to throw up.

Rachel:You don’t have to tell me what happened, but whatever it was, you weren’t just a temp to him. And you weren’t just a temp to the rest of us.

I set the phone down. I’ve spent weeks telling myself no one would care when I left. But the whole office knew about us, and they were happy.

My stomach settles slowly, and I notice my jaw unclenches. Two days of holding it without knowing. Bren can’t survive losing anyone again, so he won’t let anyone stay. I can’t survive nobody wanting to keep me, so I leave first.

We might be the perfect pair. The kind the universe makes as a joke.

I press the heel of my hands to my forehead, and I sit with that knowledge. What am I going to do now?

When I finally stand up, it’s to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

I walk past the boxes on the way. The one closest to the couch says KITCHEN—MISC in handwriting from two cities ago. I’ve moved it through three placements without opening it.