Cackle(6)

Eventually, I said the only thing I could think to say. “You’re my best friend, too.”

“We’re good as friends,” he said. “That’s our dynamic. That’s how it’s been, for a long time. And I just think it’s for the best. We can’t keep pretending our relationship is something it’s not. We can’t force it anymore.”

I stuttered.

“And if we’re just friends, if we see what it’s like to just be friends, we’ll know,” he said. “We’ll know either way, right?”

I couldn’t stand the embarrassment of arguing. I couldn’t bring myself to beg for him to want me, to love me the way that I loved him. And I couldn’t risk losing him altogether. I had to keep him in my life, even if it was just as a friend. He was my world. I needed him. I still do.

I nodded, and that was the end.

He’s currently presenting me with a plate of perfectly fluffy yellow eggs. He sits across from me and raises his mug. I raise mine, and we clink.

“Gesundheit,” he says.

“Gesundheit,” I say, my insides twisting with ache.

What if I’d said something different? That afternoon in April. Would it have changed anything? Or would we still be here drinking coffee, biding our time before the paths of our lives split?



* * *



—

A few weeks later, I kneel in my closet beside an open suitcase. All of my clothes smell like him. The void goes on and on, like a magician pulling scarves out of a hat.





THE ARRIVAL


It’s early morning, and a generous fog sheathes this stretch of highway. I can hear my things bouncing around in the back, the slide of cardboard, the rattle of the zippers on my suitcase. Something clinking. I look forward to unpacking. Should be a fun surprise to see what has leaked, what has broken.

I’ve been driving around in silence like a serial killer because every song that comes on feels like a bad omen, either too sad or too optimistic.

I make quick eye contact with myself in the rearview mirror. Maybe I should have gotten a facial before leaving the city. Had an aesthetician extract the bad energy from my pores. Exfoliate the past away.

There are some things you can pay for that will greatly improve your appearance, your circumstances. I can’t afford most of those things. But I can afford McDonald’s.

I pull into a drive-through and get a greasy breakfast sandwich and a coffee that tastes like dessert. I eat in the parking lot, watching the sun rise, the hint of a blue day prodding the soft lavender dawn. I watch as the fog tumbles away, fading between the distant trees and houses, leaving behind an ordinary wet morning.

It’s good to drive again. There’s something elating about being behind the wheel of your own car. It’s an unbridled freedom. Granted, this car is a 2006 Toyota Camry with 130 thousand miles on it, but . . . it drives. And it’s brought me here, to this McDonald’s somewhere upstate, somewhere closer to where I’m going than to where I came from.

I leave the used, grease-spotted napkins in a pile on the passenger’s seat and drive on, listening only to the shift of my things, the sound of my life rearranging itself.



* * *



—

It’s a white clapboard house with a steeply pitched roof and a leaning redbrick chimney. The windows are tall and narrow, wedged inside thick white trim, each with its own flower box. The lawn is neat and green.

It’s dreamy.

I pull up to the end of the driveway, park and get out of the car. I shake out my legs. They’re stiff from the drive or because I’m thirty now. Hard to say.

There’s a door toward the back of the house and beside it a squat ceramic frog. As advertised. Lynn, the woman renting me the top-floor apartment, is out of town for work. She told me she’d leave the keys in the frog. I lean down to lift him up. He’s oddly lifelike. My mind ribbits just to mess with me.

“You’re not real,” I tell Mr. Frog. He looks back at me with his painted black eyes, indignant.

I remove his head and reach inside for the keys. They’re attached to a gold key ring with a daisy charm. I reassemble the frog and place him gently back on the ground.

“Thank you, sir,” I tell him.

I unlock the door. The stairs run parallel to the side of the house. Three-quarters of the way up, there’s a small landing, and the stairs veer right. It’s more disorienting than it should be, maybe because of how narrow the stairs are or how stuffy it is without any windows, any circulation of air. It’s got that distinct attic smell, like mothballs, like untreated wood.

There’s a lone lightbulb glowing weakly above me.

A few steps up from the landing is the door to my apartment, to my new home. I take a deep, nervous breath.

“Here we go.”

Inside, it’s bright and clean. Even nicer than in the pictures, which is a welcome surprise. There are built-in bookcases. A small fireplace, a comfy-looking couch. In the bedroom, there are a queen-sized bed, a double dresser, a full-length mirror and a petite writing desk with a swivel chair. There’s a large window with a built-in bench that faces out to the front yard and, beyond it, the street. Maple Street. According to the map, Maple angles into Main Street a little farther down. Still, I doubt there will be a lot of traffic in front of the house. It’s a sleepy place. I crack the window and listen for cars. There’s only the soft chorus of nature. Gently rustling leaves, the faint whistle of birdsong.