I put the phone down on the counter, cereal forgotten, and started opening cupboards, looking for ibuprofen. “I guess not.”
Did it matter if Henri remembered the day? With Zach’s help, I’d managed to avoid replying to any of the hundreds of texts he’d sent me over the last six weeks. Part of my methodology was to keep my phone turned off whenever I was home or with Zach. My world had gotten so small there was no one else who might need to contact me urgently—hence, no definite need to have the phone on. The downside was that almost every time I’d powered it up, I’d had messages waiting from Henri.
In the beginning, there were unavoidable logistics to go through. Henri and I had been meshing our lives for almost a decade, after all. But I had stayed strong, handing the phone to Zach, who would reply from his own number, freeing me from having to communicate with Henri directly as we separated our accounts and organized having some of my things shipped from Boston. There wasn’t much. Eight years, and I was down to only four suitcases of clothes, old photos and yearbooks, a few boxes of childhood mementos, and my parents’ vinyl and concert tee collections.
But Henri had kept texting me. There were the “I’m sorry” texts, and the “Please let me explain” texts, and my personal favorite, the “You’re the only girl I’ve ever loved” texts. But he also had other modes. There were bitter “You owe me a conversation” texts, and “It was just one fucking mistake” texts, “It meant nothing” texts, and the startlingly honest refrain of “I never meant for you to find out.” Well, duh.But I did find out, asshole. I did find out, and now I have red dress woman haunting my dreams.
Since we’d sorted through the fundamentals, Zach had been after me to block Henri’s number. He thought it was promising that I’d been able to keep myself from replying, but he didn’t get why I still felt compelled to read them. I didn’t fully understand it myself, except there was a part of me that kept expecting Henri would eventually stumble upon words that would somehow make it better, some magical text that would make it less humiliating that my boyfriend had knocked up another girl while we were together.
I kept rummaging around, still not finding something to cut the pain. “Zach, I didn’t see any Tylenol or Excedrin or anything in the bathroom and I’m coming up blank here.” I started opening drawers more aggressively, the ache in my knees intensifying. “Where the fuck do you keep the meds in this place?”
Zach came up behind me and reached over my head to a small cigar box on top of the cupboards. He pulled out a bottle of Aleve and handed it to me. “Thanks,” I muttered, opening the bottle and swallowing a pill with a sip of coffee.
“You’re welcome.” He walked over to my cell phone on the counter and poked it gingerly with his index finger, as though it might detonate. “How about a change of subject?” He leaned against the sink. “I got you something for your birthday.”
I watched him as he turned toward the fridge. “Please don’t tell me you got a cake, Zach.”
“Doll, c’mon. I would never. I’m your best friend, so I know about your irrational prejudice against cake.”
“It’s not irrational at all. The cake industry has scammed the world. What’s not to hate? A dry, crumbly slab that’s not sweet enough covered by a layer of thick paste that’s way too sweet.” I shuddered. “Cake is trash.”
Zach smiled at me. I returned the gesture because it was in moments like these that we both realized it was possible for me to gain back my feistier pre-Henri self. I just needed to figure out who my post-Henri self was.
“Well, then you’ll be happy it’s not cake. I bought you five different flavors of Ben & Jerry’s, and we can stick a candle in one of those whenever you want.” He opened the freezer and pointed at the colorful pints. “However, what I was going to grab was this.”
He reached past the fridge to the small desk next to it and produced a shiny gold gift bag from a drawer. He handed it to me and I peeked inside, eventually pulling out what I’d initially mistaken for a live flower, but upon closer inspection realized was a delicate wood carving. It was just larger than my fist, with a yellow center so vibrant it almost glowed. Each of the delicate petals was narrowly oblong, coming to sharpish points, and painted in a palette of deep blues, with the color saturated at the tips.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a lotus. There was an artist selling these at the Farmer’s Market last week and it reminded me of you. It’s supposed to symbolize strength, or something like that. And she said each of these carvings is one of a kind.”
I held the lotus closer to my face and inspected all its intricate nooks and folds. It seemed fragile, but once in my hand, I realized it had some weight to it. My eyes filled with tears and gratitude for Zach’s gesture. I walked into his embrace, and he held me loosely as I breathed out. “Thank you so much. For this flower. But mostly for believing in me.”
Zach leaned back, and I imagined he was about to say something equally sentimental, but the loud bang of a door slamming on the other side of the apartment saved us from getting too maudlin.
I raised an eyebrow. “Zachy, did you forget to send your hookup home last night?”
“What?” He held up his hands. “It was late and it seemed rude to make him grab an Uber. I don’t mind a sleepover as long as he understands it’s a one-off.”
“Does he?”
“Definitely.” Zach winked at me. “A very flexible one-off.”
“Gross.”
One-off came out of the bedroom at that moment and walked into the kitchen. Apparently Zach’s hospitality didn’t extend to loaning his shower because this guy still had makeup smudged around his eyes and had tossed on the same rumpled crop top and slashed jeans ensemble he’d worn yesterday, confirming my suspicion that Zach had met him out clubbing. One-off looked at me standing practically in Zach’s arms and his face flushed.
I stepped away from my friend, pushing him against the counter. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m just the roommate.”
One-off nodded at me and gave Zach a kiss on the lips, slapping his butt as he made his way out the door, evidently not seeing the necessity of actual words. I grinned at Zach. “Someday, you’re going to find someone that you want a two-off with, or god forbid, a three-off.”
“Someday, doll.”
Zach and I had Ben & Jerry’s for breakfast, and he did put a candle in the Cherry Garcia. But I had no special wish for my birthday. I asked the universe for the same thing I’d been hoping for since New Year’s—to get over Henri and figure out what the heck I wanted to do with my life. I was sitting on a biology degree, but one of the few things I felt certain about was that I had no desire to do anything with it. I also knew I didn’t want to be a bartender forever. Beyond that, career goals eluded me. I was just starting to recognize how catastrophic my family’s and Henri’s mistreatment had been to my well-being, and this had led to the vague thought that I’d like to somehow help people for a living, but I hadn’t narrowed it further than that.
There was also another idea that had been on my mind, something that seemed more manageable than mapping out a whole life plan. It wouldn’t radically alter the trajectory of my existence, but it was a small thing I could do now that Henri wasn’t exerting control over every facet of my life.
“Zach?”
