The moving company unpacked the bulk of it—furniture, dinnerware, etc.—but left less straightforward boxes for me to handle. Like my random little trinkets and my extensive nineties romcom DVD collection that I refuse to let go of.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t bother flying to LA to at least say farewell to your old place,” Jamie replies.
I can tell she’s at work by the bustle in the background.
Scoffing with amusement, I weave through boxes on the floor and head to the kitchen.
“Why? It’s just a house.”
“Just a house,” Jamie repeats in subtle horror. “And what about LA? You’re going to tell me that it’sjust a city? And not the place you called your home for almost a decade?”
I chuckle, tucking my phone between my shoulder and chin so I can open a cupboard and reach for a wine glass. The thought crosses my mind that all the dishes need a good wash, but it doesn’t deter me from grabbing the bottle of Chablis in the fridge.
“It’s really not that deep, Jamie,” I tease. “You’re just too sentimental for your own good.”
She laughs warmly. “I truly cannot relate.” I hear her fiancé call out to her in the background before she adds quickly, “Ozzy needs me, but I’ll come over tonight and help you unpack, okay? Or wait — is that too sentimental for you?”
I snicker. “Bitch.” I pour some wine into my glass. “Sounds great. I’ll be here all day, so just come over when you’re done.”
James chirps her goodbyes, and we hang up.
The silence returns as I stand next to the kitchen island, the marble cool under my palms. I take a sip of wine, the taste tart and crisp, and inhale—slow and deep—as I casually survey my new place. It’s understandably messy, with boxes and plastic bins everywhere, but at least my furniture is where it should be. It gives the place a sense of familiarity, as if I’m only a few steps away from calling this place my home.
I have a sudden urge to disregard unpacking for now and just sit in front of the living room windows overlooking the harbor.
My couch doesn’t face the window, unlike how it was staged when I first came to visit. It faces the TV on the right-hand side of the living room. I drag a reading chair close to the windows for now, idly wondering if maybe Ishouldjust buy another couch for when this specific urge hits.
I add it to my mental to-do list and settle into the chair. Propping a foot up on the cushion so that my knee is close to my chest, I wrap my arm around my leg and take another sip of wine with my free hand.
Reality settles around me the longer I sit here in silence. It’s like watching silt drift down onto the ocean floor. One instant, everything feels blurred, then, after a few patient blinks, a whole new world is revealed.
I might have fibbed to Jamie.
Of course, I’m sentimental. Just not for the same things she claims I should be for.
Sentimental for the person I was, even just a few months ago. Sentimental for the future she used to dream about. She feels like a ghost now. And her future looks nothing like my present.
And maybe, subconsciously, I’ve been grieving that version of myself while still continuing to move forward. Always forward.
Don’t look back. Never look back.
Jamie could probably drone on about how beneficial it is to look to the past to better understand the future.
Pass.
God, maybe I do need therapy.
She’d probably drone on about that, too.
Then, there are the men in my life. They complicate everything.Although right now, it’s hard to know if there’s anyone left to begin with.
One man represents my past.
And the other … well.
I once hoped he represented my future, but I’m not so sure about that anymore.
After Huxley left yesterday—and after I came down from the high of what we had just done—I was left more angry than confused.
