Ask him why. Ask him, and see if he has the balls to tell you.
Of course, I don’t. What we have is working. We both get off, and no one gets hurt. It’s completely free from “I called because I miss you,” and “I miss you because I love you.”
What we share is an emotional desert with an oasis of sex, and we’re both happy with that.
“So…” he says, in an effort to push through the awkward, “what have you been doing?”
“Uh … I got a job.”
“Yeah?”
“At the diner. It sucks, but I need the money. What about you?”
“I’ve been pulling some shifts at the construction company I worked at before I got into The Grove. Long hours, but the money’s decent.”
“Uh-huh.”
We lapse into silence. I have the strongest urge to tell him I miss him, but I can’t.
“Well, I’d better go.”
He feels it, too. This is too personal. We can’t just magically become talk-on-the-phone friends. Texting is different. We can pretend to be detached. Anything more, and we’re heading back into areas that are murky and dangerous.
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling.”
He laughs. “Yeah. No problem. Worked out well. I’ll text next time.”
“Okay. Sure. Bye.”
“’Night, Cassie.”
I hang up and sigh. It’s better this way.
Simpler.
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.