My fingers dance across my blouse as we approach the house. Kendall opens the door without knocking and reveals Max carrying a laundry basket up the stairs. He turns and his eyes are hard and full of anger.
“I told you, I’m done. I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“Max—”
“No! You made your decision. I’m tired of this. You got what you wanted. Space. Go enjoy it.”
Landon walks toward us from the hallway, a look of confusion etched across his usually friendly features.
“I’m not trying to break up with you, Max. I just need things to—”
“I don’t give a shit what you’re trying to do. I’m not playing these games anymore. You need to get the hell out of here. I told you, I’m done.”
“Max …”
Max turns as Landon begins to speak. His actions are swift and precise, the veins in his arms becoming more pronounced as his anger grows. “I’m done,” he repeats and then slams the clothes basket to the ground and looks back to me. “Get out.”
“Breathing.” The words from Philosophy float through the air as I wonder if breathing really is something we have to focus on more than I ever realized, because I swear my lungs have stopped working. I stare at his hardened jaw clamped to keep the remaining words from escaping.
I hear Kendall but have no idea what she’s saying, watching him avidly ignore my gaze.
Before I can register things, Kendall’s arm pulls me back through the front door and down the driveway to her car.
We arrive back to my apartment and I feel locked in a trance, trying to sift through the words and meanings, not allowing several of them to penetrate the protective barrier I’ve somehow established to keep the reality of the situation at bay. Kendall talks me out of calling him and eventually confiscates my phone so I can’t when she realizes my heart is pleading with my head to do so.
I pace until she tells me that I’m driving her insane and likely bothering the neighbors below.
I do a couple of loads of laundry, which don’t help to distract me nearly enough. There’s far too much time between each step of laundry.
When morning finally arrives, I’m relieved to go to class. I need to distract myself and my Anatomy class is in the same hall that Max’s morning class is.
I notice him immediately as I leave my class. I’ve become perfectly attuned to Max over the last nine months, like he sends a specific current through the air that my body involuntarily responds to before I can even see him.
As he sees me his blue eyes darken and his stance becomes more rigid. He makes a wide berth to avoid me and gets swallowed in a crowd that I trail for a while before he makes it obvious with his long strides he has no intent on me keeping up.
I spend the entire week trying to catch his attention, because although I understand the need for space, I also understand how easily our mind can be our own worst enemy, spinning tales of fabricated half-truths to create much worse scenarios. I show up outside of each of his classes, send him stalker quantities of texts apologizing and asking him to talk to me. I call and leave voicemails with the same pleas, until he eventually turns it off.
Fissures of pain and doubt nag at me, making it difficult for me to sleep or focus. I spend a lot of time deep cleaning and re-reading my textbooks because my brain’s so consumed with Max it doesn’t seem to retain anything from my classes or the chapters that I’ve read over the past week.
Night is the worst as it is anytime something seems to be haunting you. My brain replays image after image of Max until the pain, guilt, and tears eventually lull me to sleep in my bed that now seems too big, the sheets too cold. Once asleep, the comfort and peace from sleep never arrives because I search for the familiar heat of Max in the night, only to find another cold patch and feel a new wave of rejection and fear.
I head home for the weekend. I don’t know where else to go. If I spend much more time in my apartment I’m going to go crazy, but home seems daunting as well. I doubt Max will go home, but the idea of running into Sharon makes my stomach lurch.
I find my dad in his shop with Clementine, and I know as soon as he sees me that he knows that something’s wrong.
“Hey, kiddo.” He grabs a red towel and wipes his hands on it as I climb into my familiar hiding spot on the passenger seat.
“I messed up, Dad,” I admit, keeping my eyes trained inside the car as tears pollute my vision. I don’t want to look at him and see the sympathy that I don’t deserve and know he’ll give without even realizing what kind of monumental mess I’ve managed to cause. That sympathy will cause me to lose my composure, and if I lose my composure it means I’m admitting Max is really done with me.
My dad listens patiently as I pour out my heart, crying unavoidable tears as I discuss the potential threat of losing Max.
“Maybe he just needs some time and space to process everything,” he suggests.
“I know, but I need to explain things to him, and he won’t listen to me. He won’t even look at me.” I wipe a large tear from my cheek and rest my head back on the seat. “He compared me to his dad.”
“Ace, Max loves you. I realize this is difficult, but I know Max. He isn’t going to break things off because of this. I’m sure he needs a couple of days to himself to think. Monday, maybe try going to his house. This is one of those conversations that really would go much better face to face.”
I nod in agreement and spend the rest of the weekend close to my dad as he works to distract me and my fears. We watch a documentary on Big Foot, and Lake Champlain and the sea monster, Champ, that supposedly lives there. We go golfing and out to breakfast. He even takes me to one of my favorite used bookstores. On our way home he offers to pick up ice cream, which sends me into a flurry of tears that catches him off guard, and we spend the next hour with him assuring me again.
Sunday is only Jenny, Lilly, my parents, and I. By the end of the evening I have a renewed sense of calm and confidence about my relationship, until I get home to my apartment and find a box sitting inside of my apartment door.
I hover over it and comb through its contents: a text book I’d been missing, my back-up laptop charger, a folded pair of socks, a pair of jeans, and three T-shirts. A small sliver of me feels relieved; I have many more belongings over there: books, shower things, other clothes. However that sliver is trumped by a crushing pain that squeezes my chest.
I crumple to the living room sofa and clutch a soft pillow against my chest as I heave sob after sob. I’ve never felt so alone, and I don’t know what to do, which makes the tears fall harder.
I don’t know how long I cry for. Eventually my body gives up and goes into sleep mode.
I wake up with a horrible throbbing in my temples from crying and dehydration and slowly make my way to the bathroom.
Facing myself in the mirror, I’m not shocked to see how puffy my eyes are, or the dark shadows beneath them. They’re both familiar to me after this past week. I shower and pour a bowl of cereal, but rather than eating it, I continuously stir it, sending different pieces into the pool of milk with the back of my spoon.
I need to leave for class. I should be walking out the door now, but I’m not.
I shove some clothes and my iPod into my duffel bag and leave. I don’t bother bringing books or school things with me. I know that I won’t be using them. My brain refuses to think of anything besides repairing things with Max. I head home and take a week off of school to try and heal, as I hibernate in the protection of home.
Two weeks and three days after our fight there’s a weak knock at my door. I’ve been turning my phone off at night to fight the incessant need to check if the little green light’s flashing, indicating that I have a text message or missed call, because it only makes it hurt worse to see that it never does. The clock on my nightstand reads two-thirty-three. There’s only one person that would come over at this time. Max.