Page 70 of Miss Behaved
By the time I make it back to my apartment, I’m soaked through to my skin, and I worry the city’s already washing Carson from my bones.
Reality crashed down when that call lit up his phone, reminding me of the trail of broken hearts that follow Carson Calloway like his own shadow. I’m not blind to it, and yes, I’ve dated my own fair share of men. But it was the ringtone, the words, the room spinning. Pulling me back to the real world that was not Arizona.
The real world in which he had the power to shatter my heart in irreversible ways.
And even if I forgive him, because deep down I have, it doesn’t change the rift of space over time. Lives we built for ourselves in different parts of the country. People we’ve grown into. We can’t just pretend that reacquainting ourselves will physically mend the tear of a decade apart. And I can’t survive losing him again.
My stomach aches as I shut the door to my apartment behind me, remembering the knocks on my hotel room door before Carson left for the airport. He waited for at least twenty minutes, until I knew he was probably late for his flight, but I couldn’t face him.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe I’m a coward.
But my life is in Seattle. My family, my friends. And Carson left like a bat out of hell after my graduation with no interest in coming back. So even if we tried to see where this could go, we would be dragging out the inevitable. It’s a decision he was strong enough to make for the both of us, and I need to let him.
I drop my purse onto the table in the hall, not caring that I’m soaking wet and leaving a river trail behind me as I make my way to the couch and sink down onto it. The wall of books that surrounds my television stares back at me. And the lower left corner is filled with spines that read only one name.
Carson Calloway.
My apartment used to feel like home. The safe space I was happy to return to after a long trip. My books on the shelf, my pictures on the walls, my favorite blanket on the couch. Warm colors and an industrial touch with exposed pipes on the ceiling.
Now it just feels empty.
I pull out my phone and realize there’s a mixed text from Carson.
Carson: Sending you some sunshine.
There’s a picture of the sun hanging high in the sky over the Hollywood sign.
I type out a response, then another, and another, but I delete all of them.
He’s trying. Didn’t you want him to try?
Why couldn’t he have tried sooner?
Instead of words, I snap a picture of the downpour outside my window and let it speak for itself. A read receipt pops up, but he doesn’t respond. Not that there is anything left to say.
If I thought getting over Carson was hard when I was eighteen, there was no preparing for this. At least back then I could tell myself that it meant nothing. That I’d misread the situation. That he did me a favor. At least back then I was angry.
Anger makes pain a lot more bearable than sadness.
My phone starts to ring, and I let myself hope for a second that it’s him trying to convince me that I made a horrible mistake. But when I look down at the caller ID, the daydream crumples.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer.
“Hola,mija,” she says. “Did you make it home safe from your trip?”
“Just got back.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
I shouldn’t have answered. There’s no hiding my feelings from my mom. That woman is a bloodhound, catching the scent of heartbreak from miles away.
“It was a good trip, just confusing,” I admit. There’s no point in trying to avoid the inquisition. “I ran into Carson.”
I don’t bother with his last name or asking if she remembers him. We both know who I’m talking about. We both remember me sitting on that porch, staring over at his empty bedroom long after he left.
Mom hums into the phone. “How is he doing?” she asks.
