HIM

31. The Rest is History

ENNY'S P.O.V

It's been 2 weeks since I've last seen Caleb, each day lasting a month in itself. I sit alone in my apartment, no longer in the presence of Henry who I came home screaming at 2 weeks ago today. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel smug seeing the look on his face as I hurled my shoes one by one at him until he ran frantically out the door. I'm sure the neighbors could hear as I yelled at him never to come back.

There's a collection of empty glasses on the coffee table next to me, and a stack of paper plates on the table in front of me as I sit on the couch, wallowing in my own, for lack of a better word, despair. Some love song radio on pandora has been the soundtrack of my life for the past 14 days.

I called Caleb twice in the three days following the last time we saw each other, and he didn't answer my calls or my text. And I'm afraid to text him again; afraid that I'll come across as clingy.

Maybe I'm just overthinking everything, after all. People do have lives and things to do. Jobless couch potatoes don't take much priority in their lists of important things. And of course, Caleb uses his Caleny account to post stuff as often as he willingly watches romance movies: rarely.

I guess you could say I still have strong feelings towards Caleb, but with him having a 2-month-old son and all, it's hard to really develop that relationship, and I've forced myself to try to force those feelings away. I'm 5 years away from 30 and I'm not getting any younger. I need to pull myself together.

A loud and confident knock on the door to my apartment pulls me out of my thoughts, forcing me to use my muscles to drag myself up and off of my spot on the couch.

"What do you want?" I ask, picking up some of the trash that has collected in this space and bringing it to the trash can in the kitchen.

I hear the twist of the doorknob on the door, and I peek my head out from around the corner to see who's coming into my house. My heart thumps in my chest, suspecting the worst, but when I see the familiar polo shirt matched with a pair of jeans and boots, I am filled with a sense of relief. But I soon tense up again, realizing just how close I am to somebody who I want but can't have.

"Caleb," I state, greeting him. "What are you doing here?"

He turns around, closing the door behind him, and I can instantly see that something's wrong. His eyes are puffy and bloodshot, his hair tousled and unkempt. He's been crying, and who knows for how long.

"She took him and left," He says, barely able to get through those five words before bursting into tears. It hurts me to see him like this. And to think that I was getting all worked up about not getting a text back. How selfish of me.

I quickly make my way over to him, grabbing a box of tissues on my way and hold them out to him, guiding him to the couch, where he gladly plops himself down on the leather. "God, I must look like such a baby right now," he says to me.

"No, no, no. Everybody has to cry at some point, and right now's that time. You have every reason to be upset, so don't hold back." I assure him, trying to make him feel as comfortable as possible in such a time of hurt.

I sit down next to him, leaving a reasonable amount of distance between the two of us, knowing that he'll either want to be hugged or be given space. It's always been one or the other, and I still can't judge when he's in the mood for space or love.

"All she left me was a note saying that she was going to California to live with her mother and said she probably wouldn't be returning. That's illegal, isn't it? She can't just take my child away, can she? Surely I've got some right to full custody."