I just didn’t know that he’d eventually turn on me. I didn’t realize one day I’d regret experiencing the warmth and contentment being near him caused. That I’d feel so stupid and betrayed, I’d still be reeling from it more than a decade later.
I check the clock, not sure if I’ve been gone long enough for my parents, and decide to stay in the car for a few extra minutes. Even though gas prices are a bazillion dollars and the only thing I’m contributing to the house is my winning personality, I crank up the AC and leave the engine running as I try to forget my entire interaction with Nate.
Reclining the seat, I take stock of my surroundings.
It’s wild. I moved away years ago, yet at first glance, so much of the neighborhood is still frighteningly familiar. The houses I grew up riding my bike past have barely changed. The white shutters Mr. Johnson paints every spring still adorn his beige house. The American flag Mrs. Fowler hung the day her son joined the army still waves proudly outside her front door. Even my parents haven’t replaced the swing they installed on our front porch when I was in third grade. It’s like this little bubble in the middle of Ohio is safe from change. Stuck in time for better or worse.
But when you look a little closer, the differences can’t be ignored or overstated. Whereas the buildings don’t age, the same can’t be said for the people.
The elderly couple that lived across the street and always gave me Popsicles passed away a couple of summers ago. Their children didn’t hesitate before conducting an estate sale and putting the home on the market. My mom called me every day for a week, filling me in on neighborhood gossip I wasn’t even remotely interested in. The kids I babysat for to make a little money during the summer are now speeding through the neighborhood, on their way to graduating. Mr. and Mrs. Welch sold their house a month ago—ditching Ohio for Arizona—and now the moving van I passed earlier is parked in their driveway.
I watch with bored interest as a constant stream of moving men work together to unload the truck. If I thought I looked miserable, I don’t even hold a candle to these poor men. There’s one house between us, but even with the distance, I swear I can still see the sweat dripping down their foreheads. Each box looks heavier than the last, but the manual labor doesn’t seem as intense as the blond woman standing by, shouting out directions.
Wearing platform wedges with jeans so bedazzled they’ve almost blinded me twice, she’s gesturing like the leader of a marching band with her free hand and holding on to an oversized tumbler—that I’d bet money was filled with wine—with the other. She looks familiar, but I can’t tell if it’s because I actually recognize her or because she looks exactly like every other twenty-to forty-year-old woman who lives in this godforsaken subdivision.
I don’t know how long I watch. I’m so transfixed by her bright smile and sharp tone that I lose track of time. It’s not until she takes a long gulp from her tumbler and her eyes meet mine across the distance that I snap back into it. Panic makes my stomach turn as she aims her white teeth my way, waving her long, thin arm over her head, and moves in my direction. I look over my shoulder, praying that I’m reading this wrong and she’s looking at someone else. Alas, my luck has not changed in the last hour and I’m the only person in sight.
She moves deceptively fast for someone in such high shoes. By the time I manage to fumble with my coffee, my parents’ bagels, and keys, she’s already standing next to the car as I exit. She’d be taller than me even without her wedges—which are even higher up close—but she towers over me now.
“Oh my goodness!” Her high-pitched squeal ricochets off the cookie-cutter houses lining the street. “Collins Carter! I knew it was you!”
I stand stiff as a board as she wraps her arms around me, forcing more physical contact upon me than I’ve experienced in more than a month.
“Ummm . . .” I draw out the word, trying to figure out what in the fresh hell is happening. “Hi?”
She must hear the question in my tone because she loosens her freakishly tight grip and takes a small step back.
“It’s me, Ashleigh. Remember?” She narrows her cornflower blue eyes, watching as I try to place her among the countless names I tried very hard to forget. “Ashleigh Whittington? We were both in Yearbook together at Central . . .”
Finally recognition dawns on me and I remember her so vividly it’s like someone shoved me straight into Mr. Frank’s second-period class, listening to his nasal voice as he lectured me about my aversion to social interaction. When I told him it wasn’t social interaction I had an aversion to, it was assholes, he almost kicked me out of Yearbook. Instead, he punished me by making me interview the basketball players, and Ashleigh was my photographer.
Fun times.
“Oh, of course.” I feign excitement. “From the basketball piece. How could I forget?”
It’s not like it’s been a decade or anything.
“Right? It was so much fun.” Her smile returns to its full-blown glory and the teeth she must have professionally whitened every month nearly blind me. “Wasn’t high school the best?”
I try to think of a response that won’t encourage a further walk down memory lane or require me to explain why I’d rather get daily Brazilian waxes over ever going back to Central High. “It was something.”
“Wasn’t your reunion last year?” she asks. “I was a couple of years under you and I just started a Facebook group to start planning ours.”
I look to my house, wondering why of all times my mom isn’t standing in the front window, ready to join in on neighborhood gossip. The twenty feet to the front door never seemed more insurmountable and all I want to do is escape.
It’s at this hopeless moment that I remember something. While my life has been spiraling out of control, sending me on a twirly, whirly ride down the sewer that is reality, there’s one thing I know will never change: other people’s desire to talk about themselves. I’m always only one question away from becoming a head-bobbing observer. And if the glossy veneer of Ashleigh Whittington tells me anything, it’s that she’s dying to talk about herself.
“You’ve always been so organized,” I compliment her, trying anything to avoid discussing my dark high school days. “And it looks like it’s paid off.” I turn around and point to the house, where the moving men look like they are racing to finish before she returns. “A homeowner already? What an accomplishment!”
Even though being tethered to central Ohio is adjacent to a life in purgatory to me, it’s not a lie. Homeownership is major. I can’t even afford rent. Being stable enough that a bank trusts you with hundreds of thousands of dollars is so far out of the realm of possibility for me that I can’t even fathom it.