Page 5 of The Writer

“Shit, Becca.” Crystal, wearing nothing but a towel, steps back, clutching her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” I say, moving away from the knives, the pounding in my chest weakening.

“I thought you were working tonight,” she says, wrapping the towel tighter around herself.

“Nope,” I say, resting my messenger bag back on the dining-room table. “I had my critique group.”

“That’s right,” she says, sitting in the armchair closest to the television. “It’s been one of those days. I can’t keep track of anything.”

Truthfully, I’d half-forgotten Crystal was here. We’ve been friends for ages. She was my roommate years ago when we were in college. Thanks to her recently called-off engagement, she’s reprised the role. I offered to let her stay in the spare bedroom until she gets back on her perfectly pedicured feet. It shouldn’t take her long to find a place; Crystal works for one of the leading real estate agencies in the area.

“Busy day?” I ask, noting it’s rather late for her to be taking a shower.

“That’s an understatement,” she says, kicking her feet onto the ottoman. “Endless showings. People think it’s tough buying in this market; they should try selling. It doesn’t matter how I spin it; smart deals are hard to come by.”

“You’re good at your job,” I say. My mind conjures the image of a billboard on the I-40. It’s advertising beautiful homes at competitive prices and features Crystal’s airbrushed face. “If anyone can make a sale in this market, it’s you.”

“Thanks for the endorsement.” She looks away, staring out the lone window in the living room. It must be difficult for her to waltz around beautiful homes all day then return to this dump.Mydump. “It’s not just work though. I talked to Thomas today.”

Thomas, the ex-fiancé. He never really impressed me, although very few of Crystal’s boyfriends ever have. I did think her relationship with Thomas might last, though. He was prone to chauvinist jokes and always had this dead-behind-the-eyes stare, but on paper he was a good catch. Handsome. Wealthy. Sociable. Those latter attributes were always important to Crystal, and I figured she’d overlook his undesirable qualities to make it work.

Imagine my surprise when two weeks ago she phoned and asked to stay at my place. She’d called off the engagement, and although making room for another person in my tiny apartment at the last-minute wasn’t ideal, I couldn’t turn her down. Herdecision to leave Thomas and start over fresh demanded my respect.

“What did he want?” I asked.

She sighs, turning to face me. “He was giving me another guilt trip about the wedding. Apparently, he’s not told his extended family about the breakup. He keeps hoping we’ll reconcile.”

“And will you?” Crystal took a stand in moving out but tends to fold when the pressure comes.

“No. We want different things,” she says, staring at her hands, at the finger where her massive engagement ring used to be. “All he talks about is moving upstate and trying to get pregnant. He knows I’m on the fence about even having kids, but he expects me to give in. If he’s being this pushy before we walk down the aisle, what will he be like after we exchange vows?”

“I know walking away is hard, but it would be even harder a year from now,” I say. “Five years from now.”

Her jaw clenches. “It just sucks. You know, six months ago, I felt like I had everything figured out. Now, I’m starting over with nothing.”

I move uncomfortably in my seat, the drab surroundings becoming more apparent with each passing second. Crystal’s untimely fall from grace is my boring reality, the reality I’ve lived for almost a decade, and coming to terms with that fact is rather depressing.

“I didn’t meannothing,” she says, having caught on to my reaction. “Obviously, I have you. It’s just, the way you live your life is different from the way I’ve always lived mine. You’re happy with so little.”

Is that what people see when they look at me? A happy minimalist? It’s certainly not how I view myself. I’m over thirty with no real career. No romantic partner. My closest friends aremy old college roommate and the people I met less than a year ago at Mystery Maidens.

When I reflect on my life, the good and the bad, my failings and accomplishments, it makes sense why I am where I am. I think it makes sense why Crystal is here, too, although she’s reluctant to admit it. It’s impossible to outrun our pasts, even if she appears miles ahead. Neither of us really deserve a happy ending after the mistakes we’ve made.

“Sorry for being such a Debbie Downer.” Crystal stands, tightening the towel around her once more. “I just need a good night’s rest. I’ll be fine.”

“You always are,” I say, taking my laptop out of my messenger bag.

Crystal is about to turn into her bedroom when she pauses. “How about you? I forgot to ask about your day.”

“Uneventful. I lounged around the apartment most of the day before meeting up with the writing group at McCallie’s.”

“I think it’s cool you’ve found people that are into the same thing as you,” she says. She’s leaning against the bedroom door, no doubt offering friendly conversation as a thank you for her free living arrangement.

“Yeah,” I say. “Their feedback is really helpful.”

Despite our long friendship, Crystal and I have very little in common, a fact that becomes more obvious each day we live under a shared roof. She never reads books. She’s an early bird who works hard during the week only to go barhopping on the weekends. If I’m not working a shift at the restaurant, I’m back here, in this cramped apartment, writing unpublished stories that may never go anywhere at all.

Still, there’s history between us. You can’t find that with just anybody. No one will ever understand the harder parts of my life like Crystal. Our shared trauma bonds us to one another.

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