The old apartment building is just as dingy and dirty as it was when I left it a week ago.
As my car shutters to a stop in front of the cracked sidewalk leading up to the front door, I
wrinkle my nose. Maybe even a little dingier now. Outside the building, heat paints a mirage on the road
and, above the brown stucco, a few birds flitter by, flying in an almost unnatural zig-zag pattern my Ma would probably attribute to a glitch in the matrix.
And, in a black, plastic garbage bag on the dirt-covered front step of the building sits the last bit of my stuff, set out for anyone's taking.
Because, of course, he couldn't just be mature and hand it to me.
My keys jingle together as I pull my car key out of the ignition, tucking a strand of brown hair behind my ear. The hot air hits my skin like a wall when I get out of my car. Sometimes, I swear the sun thinks LA is some meat that needs tenderizing. If the smell didn't indicate that the entire city was already
rotting, I might even think the same.
I glare at the front door at the apartment, its creme-colored paint peeling, one of the address
numbers next to it missing.
They say your senior year of college is supposed to be the time of your life.
I have no idea what they were talking about because, frankly, well,
mine fucking sucked.
You see, this dingy, brown Los Angeles apartment building is where I had been living for the last
few months–since the sprinklers in my old apartment broke with no explanation and my landlord
promptly kicked me out instead of repairing them. And, for a while, despite the stress of having to replace some things and move everything within a few days, things were great. My boyfriend, Michael, and I had been planning on moving in with each other after graduation, anyway, so my flooded apartment didn't really throw a terrible wrench in the plans.
What did throw a wrench into those plans was me walking in on him licking whipped cream off
my best friend's stomach while "Birthday Sex" by Jeremiah played in the background.
It wasn't even either of their birthdays.
I stare down the bag twenty feet away on the front step. A slight breeze makes the black plastic
ripple a bit and, for a second, I don't even want to go and get it. But my Ma's voice reminding me that
karma is that bitch and how Mother Earth would have her way with me if I ever littered forced me to place one foot after the other. One foot
after the other.
It's been a week-week of avoiding photos, a week of wallowing in my bed as if I could possibly run into him within this gigantic city, a week of tears and of questions and of no answers. But, honestly, I'm over the crying stage. I just don't see a point in wasting tears over a guy who clearly couldn't care less. Besides, if there was ever a good time to get cheated on after a three year relationship, it would be right before you graduate and have to move away and start over, anyway.
Really, the punctuality was impeccable.
The plastic is hot to the touch when I pick the bag up, and, subtly, I try to walk as quickly as I
possibly can back to the car. I don't want to be near that tainted building any longer than I have to. My
old, black chucks slap the sepia-filtered sidewalk as the sun begins to set, and, when I get to my car, I toss the bag into the back seat. The sound of the door slamming echoes around the streets as I slip into the driver's seat, resting my head against the steering wheel.
Flashes of his slightly crooked smile as we laughed at the top of the ferris wheel on the boardwalk after our last midterms ever.
His tongue tracing the center of Tessa's stomach.
Him and Tessa smiling as they clapped at the premier of my senior film.
His wide eyes when I cleared my throat from the doorway, pure shock spilling out from between his lips.
Running down the beach, splashing each other and chasing pelicans.
Him not even bothering to follow me as I ran out, Tessa hurrying to get dressed in the corner.
I don't move my head as I put the key back into the ignition and start the car. The engine begins to hum, and I take a deep breath before sitting up straight. Roll my shoulders back. Shake some hair out of my face. Adjust the rearview mirror, smile at the woman inside the frame even though she doesn't smile back.
Honestly, I'm over him.
Fuck Michael.
Fuck shitty men.
Fuck senior year.
Fuckfuckfuck fuck.
Fuck it all.
YOU ARE READING
Between Then & Now || Currently Editing for Wattys 2022
Romanzi rosa / ChickLitOla Murphy is tired of shitty men in her life-and she's tired of being hung up on shitty men. After her dog dies, her apartment floods, and she discovers that her boyfriend is cheating on her with her best friend, Ola finds herself stuck at her cous...
