We hadn’t been back to the apartment since July, and even though Babs was sending Rosie over every couple of weeks, it felt stuffy and dusty. I carried my bags to the first floor and left them there as I continued to the bedroom. The bed was made, but when I pulled back the duvet, I saw that the sheets had been stripped and not replaced. I stood there for a minute, trying to decide if I should get a clean set, then decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, took off my clothes, and climbed onto the bare mattress, pulling the duvet over me. I turned on the TV, thinking I’d be up all night, but lying there I was so tired I was almost dizzy.
Normally, whenever I traveled anywhere, Matt would say, “Let me know when you get there.” It didn’t matter what time it was or what else was going on—he always wanted to know that I’d made it safely. But that day, when I’d left the hotel, he’d just said, “Take care.”
I plugged the phone in right next to me so I could hear it, just in case. I kept thinking that habit would take over, that he’d check in to make sure I was okay. But my phone was quiet all night.
—
When we were in college and horribly hungover, Colleen used to look at the clock and say, “By two o’clock we’ll feel better. We just have to make it until then.” There were times it was hard to believe her, when it seemed like my headache would never go away, felt like my body was permanently damaged. But it always helped, just a little, to have something to aim for, to have some hope.
I found myself doing this while waiting for Matt to come home. In one week, he’ll be back. In one month, things will be better. And then, before I could stop myself, I’d think, In one year, I’ll be divorced, and my chest would get so tight I’d lose my breath. I felt sick all the time.
For two days, I stayed inside the apartment, checking my phone obsessively and leaving only when I absolutely had to. I let my thoughts run wild: What if Matt never came home? What if Rosie came over to clean and found me there? How long could I survive on takeout? Was I heading toward a Grey Gardens–like future?
I called my parents to let them know I was back in DC, said that Matt was finishing up things in Texas but would be home soon. I kept the conversation short, making it sound like I was superbusy, like there was a ton to catch up on.
“What an adventure you two had,” my mom said.
“I know,” I told her. “We really did.”
—
On Saturday morning, my phone rang and I grabbed it, hoping it was Matt and feeling my stomach drop when I saw it was Jimmy. My first instinct was to drop it on the table, like it was contaminated, but then I picked it right back up again. I couldn’t ignore it, because then I’d spend all day wondering why he was calling. I answered, hating how unsure my voice sounded as I said, “Hello?”
“Hey, Beth, it’s Jimmy.”
“Hi,” I said. I thought how strange it was that people still felt they had to identify themselves on the phone, when we always knew who was calling before we picked up.
“I was just on my way to the store and I thought I’d call to see how you are.”
“I’m okay,” I said. And then as a reflex more than anything else, “How are you?”
“Not so bad.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really,” he answered with a laugh in his voice.
“Okay,” I said. “I just—”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’m actually not okay, you know? I’m not good at all. I feel awful about what happened.”
Jimmy was silent for a while, and I wondered if he was surprised or annoyed that I’d brought it up. Did he really think we were going to have a phone call and not talk about it? “Me too,” he finally said, but he didn’t sound remorseful at all. “But look, things happen. We were both upset. It’s been a crazy year.”
“I guess,” I said, and right then I knew that this wasn’t the first time Jimmy had had to make a call like this, that the rumors about him were true. I knew it in a way I hadn’t before, knew because of the way he said “Things happen” so calmly.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” he said. “That’s what I really called to say.” He sounded a little impatient then, like he wanted me to stop being so dramatic. It was a sensation familiar from college—a guy making me feel like I was making a bigger deal out of something than was necessary, who thought I should just (and oh, how I hated this word) relax.
I didn’t say anything for a few seconds while I debated pushing further, making him admit that I—that we—deserved to beat ourselves up a little. But what was the point?
“Did Matt pack our stuff?” I finally asked, changing the subject and giving him what he wanted.
“Oh yeah, he couldn’t get out of here fast enough. He left on Thursday.”
“Thursday?” I asked. This meant that Matt could be in DC soon, could possibly be home tonight. Although I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be coming back so soon—or at least, not to the apartment.
“You didn’t know?” Jimmy asked.
“No. I haven’t talked to him since I left.”
Jimmy let out a low whistle. “That’s tough,” he said. “But listen, you two will work it out. Like I said, things happen.”
I envied how casual he sounded and I hated it too, because I knew he wasn’t faking it. How easy it must be to go through life being Jimmy Dillon, to always be so sure that things would work out for you, that your messes would be cleaned up.
“How’s Ash?” I asked.