You Love Me(You #3)(65)

Flowerbed disobeys—good girl—and she wags her tail even more, smiling at me, as if she knew I needed a pick-me-up. “Good girl,” I say. “Very good girl.”

But now Master “Papa” Doofus is stomping up to us in his Columbia pullover and his man-leggings and his Timberlands. He blocks what’s left of the sun and he doesn’t smile or say he recognizes me from the neighborhood, even though he fucking does. His fecal-eyed family members are whispering about me, as if it’s so sad and grotesque to be alone up here. They should do the decent thing and wave hello, fuck you, and you should do the decent thing and show the fuck up already. He whistles at Flowerbed and she obeys her doofus master even though she likes me better, even though she wants a new life with me and possessive, overbearing men like him and Phil ruin everything.

My phone buzzes. Is it you? No. It’s just another bossy man—fucking Oliver—and I buy him another present on 1stdibs. It’s been sixty-three minutes since you liked my photo and the fecal-eyed baby is crying and Nancy is clapping her hands—Let’s get a move on—and it was bad when they were here but it’s worse now that they’re packing it in.

My phone buzzes—serotonin surge, is it you?—but it’s just Oliver. I text you a picture of the meadow—fuck it—and you don’t write back and you’re not going to write back and I can’t do this anymore, Mary Kay.

I pick up my blanket and walk—it’s just me and the trees—and I stop and stare at that sign that offers everyone a choice because it is impossible to walk on two paths at once. Barn. House. I am the barn, the home of all that is natural and you choose the house, prefab, phony. You’re like Flowerbed, programmed to obey your “master.” I know it now. And I know what I have to do.



* * *



An hour later, I am in my driveway, staring into the trunk of my car.

It’s time for me to run. Your best friend is dead. You fucked your husband. I talk more to Oliver than I do to you, the woman I love, and I deserve better, Mary Kay. I don’t want you to be some woman who gets off on being treated like shit but that’s what you are, and it’s like Dr. Nicky says on his blog, like Melanda said to you. When people show you who they are, it is your job to pay attention.

My phone buzzes, but it’s different this time. I don’t get that burst of serotonin—my brain is too smart—and I trudge back inside for one last bag. I check my phone and I was right. It’s not you. It’s never going to be you. It’s Oliver, hitting me up about another “antique” on 1stdibs. I drop my reusable tote bag on my muddy floor—this is why rich people have mudrooms—and I bid on taxidermy for Minka, for Oliver and he doesn’t thank me. He just asks if I ponied up for expedited delivery and sends me a picture from the house on Rockaway that he moved into—Now THIS is a view Goldberg—and he’s right. You can see Seattle from Rockaway and I can’t see shit from my house and you love me but it means nothing if you won’t act on it. I tell Oliver that I’m heading for Seattle because I’m too creeped out to be in this house and he says to keep my notifications on and text him my new address when I’m settled.

Fucker.

I fill the food bowls for my kittens—practically cats—and I don’t feel good about leaving them, but the side door is ajar. They’ll find their way.

I pick up the last box, the one that hurts the most—tights you left in the trash can at work, a cardigan that carries your scent—and I carry the box outside. A woman in a Cooley Hardware pullover is walking her dog, glaring at me without saying hello—oh, Bainbridge, lighten up—and I pop my trunk and drop the box.

“You’re leaving too?”

I know that voice and I turn around and your Meerkat is in my driveway, eyeing the box in my trunk and I didn’t seal that box and your tights are right there—no, no, no—and can she see them?

“Nomi,” I say. “How you doing?”

“So are you moving or what?”

Your teenager is such a child right now, pulling at a cowlick. I close the trunk. Safer that way. “I’m just going away for a few days. Business trip.”

I sound like a dickhead in a John Cheever short story and she huffs. “Okay then. Have fun in your brand-new life.”

She turns her back on me and I can’t leave like this, not with her mad, losing her aunt and the cool guy from the library in the same fucking week, bound to tell you about what she saw. My plan was to disappear on you, not to crush your daughter’s spirit and she’s halfway down the driveway and fuck you, Bainbridge, you fucking fishbowl. “Nomi, hang on a second.”

She turns around. “What?”

“I’m not moving away.”

“It’s a free country. Do what you want. My aunt left. I mean I guess I would too if I were you guys.” Her aunt tried to kill me but she doesn’t know that. She kicks a rock. “I just came by to tell you that I went back to the library and helped more old people. I was gonna write about Dylan for this senior seminar thing… but now I guess I’ll write about the stupid joys of community service and old people or whatever. But whatever. I know you don’t care.”

“Hey, come on. Of course I care.”

“Is that why you’re leaving without saying goodbye?”