First Draft Romance

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

By noon Sunday, I manage to get all my boxes loaded into the storage unit. I debated taking my six-cube shelf, but honestly, it has water damage on top, and it sags down in the middle from the weight of all the books formerly piled both on top of and inside it. So, it stays in me and Gina's bedroom, a sad, singular reminder of the other woman who once existed in this space. If she wants to get rid of it, then that's her problem.

I took our photos, because I know Gina has copies, and I also know Gina is the kind of person to purge any reminders of someone she's done with. I'm scared to check her Instagram, but I already know: any trace of me has been, or will be, completely scrubbed away. It'll be as if I never existed in the first place. I'm over our relationship, but that doesn't necessarily mean I want to lose every print photo I have of myself from the past six years.

After I lock the door behind me in our apartment, I lean against the landlord-special-painted wood and take a deep breath, one that turns into an even deeper sigh. Then, somehow—now that it's over, my arms and legs feel like jelly—I drag myself over to the couch and flop over onto the cushions, not even caring to kick my sneakers off like I usually would. I don't know how long I lay there, catching my breath, trying to air out the sweat stink from my armpits.

Then, after I've decided I've had enough lounging about, I take the longest, coldest, bestest everything shower of my life (this is no longer my water bill, after all). I use all of the bougie products that Gina always told me I could use in this tone of voice that made me think she didn't really mean it, so I never did. Once more, I find myself scrubbing her bougie body scrub along my freshly-hairless legs, smoothing the pomegranate and lemon-scented exfoliant over my knees and shins.

I completely shave everything, instead of trimming like I normally do. An everything shave was usually reserved for our anniversary or my birthday, when Gina might have offered to reciprocate some sort of carnal affection. If there was hair there, she'd use it as an excuse to complain. And it's not like I wanted to make her do anything. So, even if she'd offer to do something for me, the second she complained, we were done. But if I was hairless, I guess she simply couldn't think of anything to complain about.

Wow. Now that I'm letting myself think about it, there was a lot of rolling over and going to bed. Or, best case scenario, her sucking on my collarbone while I did it myself. After my little two-minute self-session last night, I'm actually kind of ready to be done with her. I haven't come like that in years.

Once I'm done with my forty-some-minute shower, and my twenty-some-minute post-shower care, I wander out to the living room in baggy boxers and a different University of Iowa shirt I got freshman year of college, trying my hardest to rub my hair dry with the towel. Wet strands slap me in the face, and I wipe my face after I give up, choosing instead to drape Gina's special fluffy towel around my neck.

I make a mental list of what else I have to do before I go. I'm not a complete and total asshole. I'll tidy up after myself—no point in deep cleaning; she won't believe I've cleaned, so she'll reclean anyway, and I don't feel like putting in any kind of special energy to prove myself to my dickish now-ex girlfriend—while I put a load of laundry in. Then, the rest of my day is free until I head over to Kirby and Daniel's.

Only thing left to do is read through the rest of the first half of Roz's draft.

I know I'm going to become completely engrossed again, so I do myself a favor and head down to the basement to start my laundry first, then tidy up a bit. Finally finished, I settle down at the kitchen counter on the less wobbly of our two stools with a fresh cup of coffee.

I stare at the Keurig before I open Roz's document. It's so weird, knowing that I'll never fight with it again. Never have to unfold a paperclip and shove it up the dispenser to try and unclog it. Never run several bouts of boiling water through it to try and make sure it's clean (it was never truly clean). I'll never make cups of coffee for me and Gina again. Never bring the scalding hot ceramic mugs to our bed and hand Gina hers, nudging her over till she settled into my lap, and we'd cuddle in silence and listen to the already bustling city streets beneath us.