Yolk(60)

I didn’t sleep at all. I was tormented by a persistent, arrhythmic clicking in the radiator that was so loud, I found myself listening for it but managing to be startled awake by it each time.

By the morning, when my moldy shower curtain clasped my leg with cold, slimy insistence just as shampoo slid into my eyes, I cried. I sobbed ramrod straight, unable to lean against the tile or collapse to the floor in a proper cinematic meltdown because every surface seemed so filthy.

Jeremy’s comings and goings only added to the psychological turmoil. The second day, I didn’t leave school until late into the evening, completing all my homework in the library. I never knew when he’d be home, and I’d slowly open the door, searching for evidence of him. I scoured the room. He’d rearrange small things for maximum unraveling. A single mug that I’d left in the sink appeared on the counter. His vintage Lakers sweatshirt migrated from couch to chair.

In my sleep-deprived fever dream, I caught myself believing it to be the handiwork of a particularly lethargic poltergeist. But the lingering smell gave him away, Le Labo Santal 33. It was olfactory retribution for my ylang-ylang shower spray. It worked every time. I felt instantly, violently ill when I’d smell it. My head would whip around in a paranoid frenzy whenever I caught it on other people at school or on the street.

When I told Mari at the store that I needed her to cover me because I was going home for the weekend, she asked if everything was all right. I burst into tears. She ushered me into the back and let me cry all over her shiny, lemony-smelling hair as she hugged me. I wanted so bad to tell her that my sister had cancer that I could taste the words in my mouth. I could imagine her understanding it all and knowing exactly what to say. Instead she just held me and gave me an Ativan.

When I retired that night, the apartment was filled with an acrid, warning smell. The charger cube for my phone had melted from the radiator pipe, so I cried again. By the time Patrick canceled our dinner after seeming what I felt to be aloof in his texts for the previous three days, notably from the hours of midnight to 3:00 a.m., which to be clear, was my most vulnerable shift, I was unsurprised. I could barely remember a life that hadn’t been a blistering hellscape.

When he texted his apologies—he’d had a deadline—I was lost to Terrace House reruns tented under a humid sheet with every square inch of my head and body covered as protection from falling infant roaches.

He’d called twice later that night, but I let it go to voicemail.

I listened to his messages over and over, waiting for the pipes to clang, checking his Instagram stories to verify his whereabouts, but of course he was too sneaky to post anything.

He said he wanted to see me for lunch before my flight, but I preferred to remain deeply offended yet demonstrably chill on text.

“It’s work!” I’d told him zestily. “It happens!”

He should have known how sad I was from the exclamation points.

By the morning I was due at the airport, there was no water. I tried the bathroom first as the pipes groaned, yielding nothing. The kitchen faucet emitted a rust-colored trickle. It was just as well. I felt strangely clean. It was clear that my soul had left my body.

“You look nice,” I tell June when I see her at the gate.

“Thanks,” says June. It feels like it’s been a month since I’ve seen her. It’s oddly reassuring that in her black suit and tall, spiky heels, she’s back to the June costume I’m most familiar with, the version of her I know least well. She may as well be a memoji. I’m still in sweats.

“I need to grab something to eat,” she says, nodding to the ambiguously European restaurant. Watching her heels clack, I marvel at her hard-shell suitcase, which glides alongside her. In airport taxonomies, we don’t at all look as though we belong together. I wonder if she ever feels as bewildered by me.

“When’d you get here?”

I arrived three hours ago, trying to figure out who the fuck David Buxbaum—the man I’ve been writing rent checks to—might be. I hadn’t realized that flushing the toilet to see if it worked was the one flush I’d have. I brushed my teeth at the airport but June doesn’t need to know that. “I just got here,” I lie.

She nods her approval. “A half hour before is plenty,” she says. “Especially if you have CLEAR.” My sister is such a specific breed of asshole. As if I can afford CLEAR.

We sit at the bar on leather-backed stools and look at our phones. The number I have for the broker rang and rang—ominously—without ever going to voicemail. The text I sent remains green.

She orders a glass of white wine and a pressed sandwich. I order a water. She asks for our check with the food. I somehow feel as though I’m on a terrible first date. With my sister.

It’s too bright in here. Too loud. Everyone around me seems unhappy in distinct ways.

In the little seating pods to the right of us, clustered around a café, are stooped heads with noise-canceling headphones, scrolling through iPads and phones, hiding behind sunglasses, sitting under hats while flipping through magazines, and sprinkling chips, candy, trail mix, and beef jerky into their mouths. Down the bar there are huge, sweaty glasses of beer, wine, cocktails, french fries, calamari rings, and a thick slice of chocolate cake.

Airport departure halls are like enormous day care centers where every adult baby has a credit card.

Even still, I would kill for a pound of Reese’s Pieces right now.