Page 15 of Just Friends Forever
“Butwillyou?” He hurries away before I can punch him again, and I follow him to the bedroom. He’s always loved to tease me about Austin. The time he caught sight of my diary page probably didn’t help my cause. My teenage angst phase hit hard… and long.
A few minutes later, I’ve shoved the sheets into the washer. It’s an older, top-loading model. I reach for the detergent, but my hand pauses in front of the containers on the shelf. It’s been a while since I’ve done my own laundry, and there are three containers to choose from.
I look up at Troy, who’s leaning his shoulder against the doorway and watching me with a hint of a smile.
“It’s a new machine!” I defend, grabbing the laundry detergent and pulling off the cap.
Troy steps into the small room and takes the bottle from me. I grab it right back. Or I would, except I’m not quite as strong as him. The post-college years have been kind to him.
I fold my arms across my chest and raise a brow. “Are you about to mansplain doing the laundry? Not very feministy of you.”
“Feministy? I don’t think that’s a word. Also, I’d think most women would celebrate a man doing the laundry. But mostly, I’m hoping to stop you from putting bleach all over Austin’s gray sheets.”
I look at the container, and sure enough, it’s bleach. “I thought I grabbed the detergent.”
“Uh-huh.” He shoots me a teasing glance as he switches out the bottles.
With the press of a few buttons and very minimal pointers from Troy, the cycle gets going. He leaves to send a few emails while I unpack my suitcases, hanging my clothes among the ones Austin has.
It’s strange, being here with Troy. It’s almost made me forget the asteroid that hit my world a few hours ago. I’m divorced. That’s not a word I ever in my wildest nightmares thought would apply to me, yet here I am, newly single.
No, not single. That word doesn’t fit. I’m nowhere near being ready to mingle. I don’t know if I ever will be. It’s not that I’m missing Curtis, either. Sure, I wanted to make things work, but he was always too busy for counseling—too worried how it would affect his image if people found out.
The saying isgo the extra mile,but when it comes to my marriage, I went a full marathon trying to make things work—even after I stopped wanting them to. I just didn’t want to fail. Mom seemed to give up so easily on her marriages, and I didn’t want to be like that.
In the end, though, I lost my will to keep trying when our priorities only seemed to be growing wider apart. I wanted to start a family; Curtis didn’t. I wanted more time to ourselves; he loved the spotlight. It was like the public’s warped view of our relationship mattered more to him than ouractualrelationship.
I hang up the last shirt and look around. The closet looks similar to the one I had in one of my college apartments. I touch a hand to the cold metal bar holding my hangers, just to make sure it’s all real and the last four years weren’t a dream.
They definitely weren’t. I have about a zillion Google results to prove it. Part of me wishes theywere, though, and that I could get a do-over.
My phone dings, and I brace myself when I see Mom’s name on the text.
MOM
Our cruise ship is about to enter international waters, but I saw the news and had to text you. How could you not have told me?
Stevie
I’m really sorry, Mom. Legally, I couldn’t tell anyone.
Also, Mom is not the first person I’d go to for relationship advice.
Mom:Hm. Well, congratulations, baby girl. Divorce can be the best thing to happen to a woman!
She would certainly know. She’s done it three times.
Stevie
Thanks, Mom. Have a great cruise!
Mom
I’ll call you when I’m back. Mwah.
I tend to my most needy virtual pets and jump when the dryer buzzer signals the end of the cycle. I get the sheets out and smile as the armful of scented warmth heats me through. Contrary to my attempts to seem very capable in the laundry room, I haven’t washed my sheets or made my own bed in an embarrassingly long time. Curtis’s schedule kept us crazy busy, and then when we separated, he insisted on having hired help for that stuff.
Troy helps me put the sheets back on the bed—I had forgotten fitted sheets are the spawn of Satan—and I’m starting to feel the toll of the day once we finish around ten. Life trauma is exhausting, even if it’s the kind you’ve been expecting for months.
