I blow out a heavy breath and grab my hamper, resolutely filling it with every washable item in the room. Every item of clothing, save the pair of sweatpants and T-shirt I’m currently wearing, every piece of bedding—nothing is safe. I march the entire thing into the kitchen and start what will probably be the first of five loads, doubling up on detergent. I won’t lie: it’s starting to smell, and I’m not going to take this mess with me into either the new year or my new apartment. It will be a fresh, clean start, in more ways than one.
My bus leaves at noon tomorrow and since Kellan’s in California until January second, I’ve booked a ticket back for New Year’s Eve to give myself a day and a half to finish packing and get everything carted over to Marcela’s before his return. With the room largely empty, there’s no way to ignore the obvious, and I stare at my desk and bed until my lower lip trembles, and not just because it’s sad to think about dismantling them only to rebuild them a week and a half from now. It’s sad because they make me think about Crosbie; this whole room makes me think about him. Everything does. I’ve taken to leaving my phone in my sock drawer so I can’t text him whenever the urge hits, which is still with embarrassing frequency. I know I can’t afford to go down this depressing road, so I trudge back into the kitchen to collect Kellan’s toolbox and decide the bed will be my first victim.
I drag off the mattresses and stash them in the living room, and that small act has my muscles burning and my breath coming in harsh pants, making me consider abandoning the bed altogether and crashing on the couch until I leave. But I don’t. Loose ends are my newest nemesis, and I’m going to see this thing through. At least, that’s the plan until I crouch next to the bed, wrench in hand, and spot the small red box on the floor.
I’ve definitely never seen it before. It’s flat and square, not quite as large as a CD, the velvet smooth and soft under my fingers. The wrench clatters when I drop it back into the toolbox, but I barely register the noise over the thudding of my heart. I know this room was empty when I moved in; I know I have never seen this box before. Sometime between Labor Day and today, this thing…materialized.
Equally frantic parts of me are warring over whether or not I should hope it’s something from Crosbie or just something Kellan accidentally tossed in here. He’s forever throwing things from the couch into the kitchen, swearing he can land them in the sink. Why he would do that with a red velvet box—
Okay. I’m just going to open it.
I take a deep breath and lift the lid, feeling the strong fight of the springs, as though it’s never been opened before. When I see the fine gold chain bearing a tiny book pendant, I know this has nothing to do with Kellan. Nothing does. I’ve known this for a long time; the one person who needs to know it is the only one who doesn’t.
If I were smarter and saner, I’d snap this box shut and leave it in Kellan’s room, asking him to return it to Crosbie when—and if—he sees him again. But I’m not feeling even remotely smart or sane right now, and instead I lift the necklace from the box and study the delicate little book, half open to reveal dainty gold pages. It’s small enough that I have to squint to read the characters etched on the cover, but when I finally make them out, I confirm what I have known for a while: I have made a huge mistake.
I love you.
The tears that have been threatening for days take advantage and pour forth, stupid and sloppy, until I’m just a sobbing mess on the floor. I cram the necklace back into the box and slide it away, as unreachable as the guy who put it here in the first place. It must have been a Christmas present; he must have brought it that last night and hidden it under my pillow, and sometime in the terrible aftermath it must have slid down between the mattress and the wall and gone unnoticed.
Until now.
Which is ironic, because now that it’s found, everything it represents is farther away than ever.
The buzz of the washer finishing its cycle nearly gives me a heart attack, and I lurch to my feet and swipe at my eyes, grateful for something to do beyond sitting here weeping foolishly.
I stick the wet clothes in the dryer and load up another batch, then take a seat at the breakfast bar and stare at my room like it’s the mouth of a dark, terrifying cave.
Poor Crosbie. Always working so hard to present the perfect, strong image to the world. The exercise, the studying, the sweet gestures no one saw because I insisted he remain a secret. He gets so much attention being the guy people think he is, but the guy at keg parties and on bathroom walls isn’t the real Crosbie at all. It’s the person behind those ideas, the guy who works so diligently to keep the wheels turning, that counts.