Broken Juliet(60)

Safer.




After the hideously awkward phone call, I expect not to hear from Ethan for a few days, but that doesn’t happen. He goes from texting a couple of times a week to every day. Sometimes, several times a day. Little things. Things that make me smile. That make me miss him way too much. Not sex with him. Just him. I always reply. Our text conversations are getting stupidly long. It probably would be easier if we spoke, but as with everything in our relationship, we don’t do easy.

As the end of the summer draws to a close, I’m counting down the days until I get back to Westchester. I miss everything about it: my apartment, college, my classmates, Ruby, even Ruby’s atrocious cooking.

Everything.

Especially him.




Yet again, I’d gone to bed to the sounds of my parents arguing again, so the next morning when I stumble downstairs to find them sitting calmly together at the kitchen table, I know something’s up.

“Cassie, honey. Sit down.”

Dad’s cradling a cup of coffee. Mom’s eyes are red. There’s a feeling of finality in the room that makes the air feel too thick. Nervousness prickles my spine and makes my throat tight.

“What’s going on?”

Before they say it, I know.

“Honey, your dad and I have something to tell you. We … well, we’re…”

Mom stops. Dad puts his hand over hers and stares down at the table.

“You’re breaking up.”

Mom puts her hand to her mouth and nods. I nod, too. Dad finally looks up at me.

“This has nothing to do with you, kiddo. Your mom and me … we’re not good together. We love each other, but we can’t live together anymore.”

I nod and clench my jaw. I’m not going to cry. I look at the center of the table. Concentrate on it while they tell me how it’s going to work.

Dad’s going to stay in the house. Mom’s going to move in with her sister. During the summer, I’ll switch between them. They ask if I’m okay. I tell them I am.

Mom tries to make me eat breakfast. I take one bite of my toast and feel like I want to throw up. I excuse myself to go shower.

When the spray runs over my face, I pretend I’m not crying.




I sigh and berate myself for moping. It’s stupid to feel like this. I’m twenty years old, for God’s sake. Twenty-one in just over a month. I shouldn’t feel devastated that my parents are separating, especially since I’ve known for years that they’d be better apart.

And yet, I am.

Thinking of coming home and not having them under the same roof makes me unreasonably sad. Imagining Mom moving out of the home where I was born and starting a new life without my dad makes me sad. Dad having to fend for himself for the first time since he was my age makes me sad.

As they drive me to the airport, I continue to act like I’m okay with it, but I’m really not. Maybe in a few months I will be, but not now.

I hug them good-bye and tell them I’ll see them at Christmas, and then I wonder where we’ll even be spending it this year. Will we all get together? Or will I have to shuttle between them?

The rest of my trip passes in a blur. I get on a plane. Doze. Get off. Sit glassy-eyed waiting for my connection. Get on another plane.

I feel displaced.

Lonely.

I spoke to Ruby last night. Explained what had happened. I tried to sound blasé, but she could hear something in my voice. She offered to cut her weekend short and pick me up from the airport, but I couldn’t do that to her. She’s happy with her new guy and deserves to savor the last few days of freedom before classes start. The last thing she needs is to have to console the latest victim of America’s epidemic divorce rate.

When the plane lands, I wait until everyone else has passed before grabbing my backpack and making the long walk to the exit. The flight attendants are annoyingly perky as they bid me good-bye and tell me they hope I’ll fly again with them soon. All around me in the airport, people are hugging and kissing, greeting loved ones. I pause to watch them, partly because they’re blocking my way, but mostly because just observing them makes me feel like some of their happy might rub off on me.

At any rate, I’m not in any hurry to take a cab back to my empty apartment.

When the family in front of me finally moves, my breath catches as I see a familiar figure standing on the other side of the arrivals area. Tall. Unruly hair. Dark clothes. Pensive face. Tense and nervous, like he’s unsure if I’ll be mad about him being here.

I’m not. In fact, I’m so happy, I could cry.

He must recognize my sappy expression, because he pulls his hands out of his pockets and walks toward me.

He looks good. So very good.

He moves sinuously, but there’s a repressed urgency in his gait. Like he’s forcing himself to not run over and swing me around in front of all of these people.

There’s so much I want to do to him. So much I want to say.

When he stops in front of me, he takes my backpack and places it on the ground. Then he wraps his arms around me and gently pulls me against him. I hug his neck, and when he says, “I’m sorry about your parents. That f*cking sucks,” I press my forehead into his shoulder to stop myself from crying The people around us slowly dissipate, and I just stand there and let him comfort me. As much as I’ve craved sympathy today, until this moment I didn’t realize how much I needed it to be from him.