Page 4 of Rare Blend
She gives me one of her new motherly stares. “Don’t give up. Something will come along. And you know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to. We love having you.”
I highly doubt the newlyweds with a honeymoon baby arriving in less than five months want me crashing in the nursery forever. The daybed in there is supposed to be for Archie’s mom, who’s planning to fly in from London after the baby is born.
“We’ll make it work with Joanna,” she says, reading my train of thought. “I could probably convince Archie to move his workout equipment to the garage and we can make that room yours.”
I know she’s trying to be positive and helpful, but staying here—no matter how temporary—makes me feel guilty enough. Nothing I can say will change her wanting to fix my current disaster of a life, so there’s no use arguing with her. She’s stubborn like that. I need to figure things out, and I need to do it soon.
Hillary has been my rock throughout this whole ordeal. In some ways, despite being a few months younger than me, she’s been the mother figure I’ve needed as of late.My own mom has been busy living her best life. And I’m happy for her, if not slightly—and only slightly— resentful. You go through your childhood and teen years assuming you’ll grow up one day and not need your parents anymore, only to find you need them even more as an adult. I can’t fault her. She had me young, and I’m sure her current adventure is a way of reclaiming some of that lost youth. I can support it and still be annoyed by it. At least that’s what I tell myself so I don’t feel completely selfish.
The front door opens, and Archie bursts through with his arms wrapped around two large, brown paper bags overflowing with styrofoam containers. I scramble off the couch and grab one of the bags before it slips out of his hold.
“Thanks,” he groans while we set both bags down on the kitchen counter.
“Oooo, what did you get?” Hillary is already tearing into the bags like a wild animal.
Archie and I share an amused look.
“Thai food from that place you like on Roy,” he says.
“Have I told you how much I love you? Because I freaking love you,” Hillary says between bites.
He laughs, shaking his head. “Thank you, love. I’m quite fond of you as well.” He kisses her forehead and removes his suit jacket, tossing it onto one of the accent chairs Hillary doesn’t allow anyone to sit on.
“You’re home early,” he says to me.
“She got fired,” Hillary says, around a mouthful of spring roll. “By dick face.”
“Laid off,” I mumble. As if that’s somehow better.
“You’re joking.” His voice rises to a squeaky pitch, making him sound even more British. “What an idiot. He’s asking for a lawsuit.”
Hillary pinches her chopsticks, pointing them at Archie. “That’s what I said.”
“I never did like him,” Archie claims.
I call total bullshit. Brandon and Archie had standing pickle ball dates twice a month, all of last spring and summer. Archie introduced Brandon to the world of football—aka soccer, and Brandon would often invite Archie out to Mariner’s games after work. They were buddies, but Archie is Hillary’s, and by default mine, so their friendship came to a close when our relationship imploded. It’s nice of him to pretend, though.
It’s one of those things that feels like a punch to the gut if I dwell on it too much. Brandon and I were two halves of a whole. Our lives were so intertwined that his friends became my friends, and vice versa. Brandon’s side of our friend group has been crickets since the breakup. Not even a politeI’m here for you,text. Nada. And to think, I considered Ashleigh and Kiera, the wives of his two best friends, actual friends. They were on the bridesmaid list, which is kind of a big deal. Clearly, I won’t be having any bridesmaids any time soon, seeing as the guy I thought was going to propose to me had other plans, like fucking his secretary. Decades from now, I’ll still be bitter that Brandon turned our entire relationship into the biggest cliché ever.
I busy myself by making a plate even though my appetite is nonexistent and give Hillary a look that says I no longer want to talk about it. One perk of being best friends for most of our lives is that we can speak without saying anything. She gives me a nod before returning to her food.
Forcing myself to eat, I listen to the happy couple chat about their days. He subconsciously rubs her stomach while she reminds him of the CPR class they’re scheduled to take later inthe week. It’s all so easy, so natural. The envy seeps in, rotting my already wounded heart. It sucks feeling like this, like Hillary has surpassed me in some way. Logically, I understand it’s not a competition. But the jaded, broken part of me feels like I’m entering a race and everyone is already at the finish line. What if Brandon was it and there is no next guy? What if no one else ever comes along and I’m the perpetual single friend? I’ll be alone at weddings, pity invited to couples’ trips, and slowly faded out because I’m depressing to be around. I think women have more than proven their ability to lead full lives without a man at their side, but society doesn’t really care about that. Our world was designed for couples, and now I’m like a square peg trying to fit inside a round hole. I don’t know where I fit anymore, and it’s terrifying.
Suddenly, the last thing I feel like doing is being around all the love wafting off them. It’s like putting salt on scabbed over cuts in various states of healing, that reopen at the most inconvenient times.
I quickly clean up after myself and silently make my way upstairs. I think I’ve made a clean exit, but Hillary’s voice calls to me from downstairs.
“You’re only allowed to sulk today and then tomorrow, it’s back to being a badass bitch.”
“Okay,” I shout back, trying to sound positive and not at all defeated, like I feel.
Once I’m inside the nursery with the door closed and locked, the weight of recent events crashes down on me. I don’t want to be angry anymore. It’s such a useless emotion that does nothing but drain me. Today took so much out of me, I’m not even sure there’s anything left. I’m just incredibly sad now. Sad that my life is in this messed-up state. Sad that nothing has gone according to plan. Sad that the future I so perfectly mapped out no longer exists. In the span of a month, a bulldozer plowed through mylife, wrecking everything I thought was stable. My career, my hopes, my dreams, my plans—all gone. Moisture pools in my eyes, effectively breaking the dam.Tears slide down my cheeks like a flood. I’m so taken aback by their sudden onslaught that I pat my face to make sure I’m not imagining them, but sure enough, my palm is covered in wet, streaky mascara. Still crying, I crawl into bed and hug myself. I’ve never felt so broken in my entire life, but Hillary is right. Today I can sulk, tomorrow is a new day.
The morning light hits me like a freight train. There’s a headache sitting behind my eyes from crying myself to sleep, pulsing at an annoyingly rapid pace. I may as well be hungover with how achy every limb feels.
Sliding out of bed, my body snaps and pops, evidence of how tensely I slept, likely balled up in the fetal position. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s well past my normal wake up time. Not that it matters because nothing matters when you have nowhere to be and nothing to do. I flop back onto the bed with a groan, cocooning myself under the heavy down comforter. I’ll just stay in here all day. It’s much safer than stepping out of this room and facing my new reality.
At some point, I must’ve drifted back to sleep, because I wake up to my phone buzzing against the nightstand, practically shaking it. It’s a 1-800 number. Normally I wouldn’t answer, yet for whatever reason, my thumb hits the accept button.
