In Case You Didn't Know

Chapter 22

Nathaniel 

"Oh, my god..."

"Son of a bitch, mother fuck–" the litany of expletives reaches me just as I'm turning the corner to the bedroom. Fearing that she has somehow managed to hurt herself in the few seconds that took me to get here, I push the door open briskly, my eyes scanning the room trying to see what's wrong.

I once more have to give it my best shot to not laugh when I see her sitting on the floor, sulky face as she holds her foot.

"What happened?"

"I stubbed my pinky toe." The way that she looks at me reminds me of Ellie when she's caught in the middle of a mischief.

"Here," I reach out a hand to her, "the party has prolonged way too far Miss 'I'm terrible at handling my booze'". I help her up but I'm aware of how she tries to keep her distance from me; maybe all the adrenaline from the living room has sobered her up a little. She sits on the edge of the bed, eyes cast down and teeth sinking on her bottom lip.

"Alex, are you going to vomit?" Please say no. She shakes her head, sighing dramatically as she falls against the mattress. "Do you need anything?"

"Water." She replies after a moment's pause, and I exit the room praying that she doesn't engage in any other shenanigans before I return.

The first thing that I notice when I walk into the kitchen, it's how neatly everything looks. The apartment itself is very...orderly; despite the few boxes on the floor that remain unpacked. When we were dating, she once told me that one of the things she craved the most was a place she could call her own. With a great view of the city, if possible. Well, this apartment has a better view than mine had, and it certainly is larger.

Another roll of the eyes ensues when I open the fridge. It's like one of those aesthetically pleasing pictures. Although, it's no surprise, truly. Even if she tries to hide it, she's very methodical and likes things in a certain way. A stickler for perfection.

Being aware of her habits, and feeling a sense of responsibility giving her current state, I make sure that the front door and every window is locked. When I come back to the kitchen, I verify that the stove is turned off. As I reach a hand to grab the glass of water that I left on the countertop, a large object catches my attention. Looking at it closer, I realize that it is a photo album. The cover is of a deep green and it's not labeled. Unable to cast away the temptation, I open it.

To my surprise, it doesn't contain childhood or family photos. They are all recent shots. The first one is Alexia sporting a proud and genuine smile, red cap and gown, degree in hand. Turning the page, Abigail and Andrew make an appearance, the three of them popping champagne bottles. There's one of her celebrating Christmas with her family, and another in which she's standing in the middle of a bookstore, holding her own book. As I keep turning the pages, one after the others, my gut constricts tighter each time. A bittersweet, tainted happiness slips under my skin.

I've always had a clear idea of what I wanted to do with my life. I was no older than twelve when I decided that I wanted to be a professor. Get married, have a house full of kids. Whenever I closed my eyes, there was a vivid picture of how I wanted things to look. Moreover, I knew what needed to be done to achieve said vision. I followed the outline, to a fault sometimes. Unwitting things happened, certainly. Still, I kept planning, I kept pushing forward.

Looking now at this photo album, air gets knocked out of my lungs. It's scary, because I realize that I would, without hesitation, exchange the storyline that I have followed the past few years for the opportunity to have shared these moments with Alexia.