Weather Girl(25)

As soon as he opens the door and lets me inside, I want to melt into the plush carpet, use the macramé rug as a blanket, splay my body on top of the walnut credenza. The idea of having enough space for a credenza suddenly seems revolutionary. God, I loved this apartment. So many of my touches are still here, and it hits me that we haven’t been broken up for that long. Of course the wall hanging I found at the Fremont flea market is still up, the arched brass floor lamp not yet replaced.

Garrison kept this place because he could afford a two-bedroom and I couldn’t. We talked about buying a house after we were married, but we were reluctant to potentially leave this place behind. I might miss our apartment more than I miss him, which is at the very least a sign I’m moving on.

Garrison is tall and white, with floppy dark hair and dark eyes that make him look like Standard-Issue Attractive Male, Aged 25-34. A small mole beneath his left cheekbone, a cleft in his chin I used to poke my thumb into because it made him laugh.

“Hey,” he says, sounding much softer than he did over text. “You look . . . really great.”

He’s lying. I just spent fifteen minutes walking up a hill after finding parking. My hair is a windblown mess and my breasts feel superglued to my bra. The nostalgia evaporated in about ten seconds, annoyance taking its place. I’d love one of those overpriced spa days right about now.

“I’m parked in a loading zone. I can’t stay long.”

“Parking around here is still shit, sorry.” The sheepishness in his voice tugs at my heart.

There were good times, too, though it’s harder to remember them the further I am from the breakup. We’d load the car with snacks and go to drive-in movies during the summer, making out in the backseat until someone forced us to leave, and then we’d giggle at being caught like lovesick teens. He’d pop an allergy pill and we’d go to a cat café, sipping lattes with kittens in our laps. Wherever we were, if anyone recognized me from TV, he’d glow with pride. It’s so cool that people know you, he’d say.

“Is that it?” I ask when he hands me a box with some kitchen supplies and other knickknacks inside. The remainder of my dark day agenda is waiting for me at home: weighted blanket, reality TV, Kraft macaroni with two cheese packets instead of one. Thinking about it makes me somehow feel better and worse at the same time.

“Yep. Wait—you don’t have to go just yet, do you?” He looks so forlorn as he says it that my shoulders sag, and I place the box on the floor. “I was hoping we could talk a little.”

Nothing about that sounds like a good idea. Nothing at all sounds like a good idea except for processed cheddar. But because apparently being back here has cut out my spine, I follow him over to the couch.

He asks if I want anything to drink and I tell him no, though I regret not requesting hard alcohol as soon as he picks up my hand and says, “I’ve missed you, Ari.” His thumb rubs a gentle circle on my palm, and I let him. “How have you been? Really.”

“Not bad,” I croak out. The sensation of his skin on mine is too distracting. I’ve missed being touched like this. I’ve missed being touched, period, and depression brain tells me I haven’t deserved to be.

“Not gonna lie, part of me was hoping you’d tell me you’ve been completely miserable for the past couple months,” he says. “But I guess that’s how you’ve always been. Determined to look on the bright side.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Although I’ve been wondering lately just how much of that brightness the Hales block out.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then reaches over to sift his other hand through my hair, naturally wavy today. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe . . . we could all use a little more bright side.”

It happens so quickly, I’m not sure how to process it. One moment, there’s a good couple feet between us. The next, his hands are cupping the sides of my face and I’m clutching at his collar and he’s on top of me, pressing me down into the couch that we have done this on too many times to count. His mouth is hot on mine, too eager, just like the bulge in his pants. It’s immensely gratifying, knowing how instantly turned-on he is, and it dials my self-esteem all the way up to eleven.

No one else will want you, depression brain says. At least he already knows about all your issues.

And he didn’t want me, either.

“You feel so good,” he says beneath my ear, and thank god, the sound of his voice wakes me up. My spine grows back.

Seeing Garrison again has tangled my emotions so thoroughly that I can’t stick to a single decision. My trains of thought are on a hundred different tracks racing toward a hundred different stations. But this can’t happen, not after he made me feel so terrible about myself, forced me to question the one thing that’s protected me all these years. This would only make my dark day worse, and I’d wake up tomorrow unable to leave my bed.

My lungs are tight as I place a hand on his chest and push. When gentle doesn’t work, I use more force. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

Garrison draws back onto his heels, face twisted in frustration. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” Breathing hard, I get to my feet, smoothing out my sweater and combing a hand through my hair. “You’re the one who broke up with me, remember? Because I wasn’t ‘real’ enough for you.”