Chapter One
Lila
As I stand in the barren kitchen, the dusty room screams at me of broken dreams, shattered promises, and final goodbyes. I let my fingers dance over the faux marble countertop one last time, thinking back to the first time I’d envisioned our lives melding together in this room.
On that day—a summer day, sun shining as if promising a fresh, new life—I’d ambled in on his arm, picturing all the Italian feasts, candlelit dinners, and takeout food we’d share in here. I’d touched the smooth countertop with my perfectly polished fingernails and felt the warmth we’d experience here, together.
We’ve had our dinners. We’ve made our memories and experienced the warmth. But now, this room has been sucked clean, a chilling quality left behind reminiscent of a mausoleum. Now, there’s nothing left but the lemon scent from our scouring efforts and the frosty feel of knowing it’s over. I’m not leaning on anyone’s arm. I’m standing here alone, biting at my chipped black nail polish. I wonder what the earlier version of me would have said if she could’ve seen this train wreck coming. I wonder if she’d have still smiled, still wrapped her arms around him, still whispered sweet nothings in his ear as he leaned her against their new faux marble countertop, as they prepared to move in and start a new life.
It doesn’t matter now. That girl, that couple, is long gone.
The wooden floor creaks under my feet as I make my way to the living room. My footsteps echo in a way that sounds unnatural, the emptiness of the rooms foreign to my ears. Glancing around, the bright rectangles on the faded walls remind me of where our memories used to hang. Now those photographs have been sealed away in boxes we’ll both remember but try so hard to forget.
What happened to us?
I traipse by the furrows in the carpet left from the plaid sofa I inherited in college. I pause, seeing him in the corner, still fiddling with the final box as if the layout of tools within their cardboard home is actually important.
As he silently repacks the box over and over, I can’t help but wonder if he’s stalling, like the sealing of the final box is a permanent admission we’re through.
But putting off the last box won’t put off the final parting. We’ve said our goodbyes over and over again. From the first box I loaded in the U-Haul to the dance over what mugs were whose, we’ve maneuvered the painful division performance. Piece by piece, we’ve unglued our papier-mâché lives back into a cryptic, individualized version of us.
We’ve reclaimed our furniture and rearranged our lives. There’s one final walkthrough with the landlord, a final division of our security deposit, and we’ll be loosed from one another for good.
Luke finally resigns from his task, pulling out the roll of tape.
“Shit,” he exclaims as he’s wrapped up by the cheap, sticky tape.
Instinctively, I cross the room to help him like I have so many times.
I hate the tension between us as I grab the roll, use my nail to pry the last end loose, and slap on the final nail in the proverbial coffin of our relationship.
Three years and fourteen days started unraveling six months ago, but the slapping on of the tape on the last box makes me mourn.
“So this is the last of it,” he says, hoisting the box from the floor, eyeing me with the dark eyes that used to wordlessly speak to me.
They’re the eyes that used to say forever.
Now, those eyes look at me and silently, irrevocably close that door.
“I’ll call you when Landlord Joe schedules the final walkthrough,” I say matter-of-factly, as if I’m talking to my dentist or the man at the post office, not the man I’ve built a life with and torn down around us.
“Okay. You know my number.”
This is perhaps the hardest of all, hearing the seriousness in his words. Three years, fourteen days, a life together, has boiled down to a barren apartment, a separation of coffee mugs, thirty-one packed boxes, two moving vans, and a “You know my number.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, as if we’re both unsure of the true reality of this. There’s a moment when I think, like so many other times, Luke’s charisma and charm will set this right.
But this is, I suppose, no match for even Luke. So, in an anticlimactic yet earth-shattering move, he turns and heads for the door.
He doesn’t look back.
Instead, after three years and fourteen days, I’m left in a cold, dusty shell of the life and love we once had. Wiping away a rogue tear, I’m left with the realization I have no clue what the hell I’m supposed to do now.