A Normal Day: 27 Years Old
aka the story of aqua house
He’s lying next to me as he has for almost two years and I want to rip my skin off with my fingernails.
We are not in our bed where I can feel numb in the complacency of our shared work space, mutual friends and full sized bed. (No, it is not large enough for two people.) We are visiting the next chapter of my life. Our life. We have been playing chicken for months. I have been so frustrated at him for not making a decision - 3 weeks out from moving, days out from needing to sign a lease- but my frustration has be inauthentic. I’m frustrated he won’t just admit it. He doesn’t want to come. He doesn’t want to move to Chicago. And if he would just say it then I wouldn’t have to say I don’t want him to come.
He’s not dumb, but he’s not as clever as I am. He has worn this decision in his forehead creases and his tone but won’t let it slip through his lips. He thinks it makes him contemplative and sensitive, but he just looks pathetic to me.
In his defense, I’ve been more unfair. The most unfair. Acting like the decision of us staying together is all on him. “I’m moving and if you come, we stay together. If you don’t, we break up.” In my defense, I didn’t realize I was being manipulative.
Not until right now as I’m lying in this bed, considering an amount of money I can offer him to drive back to Nashville alone so I can pick my future apartment alone (without his endless criticisms and complaints about places we both know he will never step foot in again). Wondering if a certain amount will prevent tears and well deserved accusations and “I knew it”s. If that amount exists, I don’t have it.
I stare at the ceiling, surprised by my lack of honesty. I’m usually so honest. Some have said too honest. But I know after being my worst self during the last breakup, I’m just afraid to hurt someone again. God I hate being such a man sometimes - in the most cowardly sense.
I get up to go to the bathroom. Luckily, he doesn’t move. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I’m fatter than two years ago. Older. More exhausted. More myself in some ways. Less myself in other ways. I have more money. I have more direction and less understanding of where I’m going.
“How are we here again?” I say to myself and another man I don’t want next to me. I picture myself moving here alone. Driving here alone. Sitting in an apartment alone. Making my own friends. Introducing myself. And it’s like every drop of blood in my veins dances and sings.
I always do this. I spend weeks, months, sometimes years muting what I want so it’s an annoying hum of tinnitus throughout my day. Then eventually, it screams so loud and I hear it so clearly, I can’t wait another second. So thirsty with yearning I’ll set my world on fire to escape into the next chapter.
But I’m an adult now. I’m done lighting matches to dumpsters and laughing with mascara down my face and waking up in beds that aren’t my boyfriend’s to prove how much I want to escape. There is no cage to break down, I just need to walk through the door.
We get in the car the next day. I signed a lease a couple of blocks from my dear friend I met in Nashville and his bar. I told him I did it just incase. But I know I’ll live there. He does too. I know I can afford it on my own.
We’re quiet. But the words float between us. I’m done being a coward.
“I’ve been incredibly unfair to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been pushing you to decide if you want to come and putting all of this pressure on you. But I haven’t been honest about my own feelings.”
He’s quiet. He was always very good at listening.
“I don’t think I want you to come. I think I need to do this on my own. I’m so sorry.”
I cry. He cries.
“Thank you.” He says.
We both exhale.