Page 24 of Lying Hearts
“No shit Sherlock. I can see that. But why??” She looks at me like I’m an endangered species that just went ballistic in a zoo cage.
“Use your imagination, genius.” Her mouth shuts and she stays silent. I get up and she follows me into my room.
“Where are you going? What’s the suitcase for?” Her scrubbed-clean faced is squished up with confusion.
“I’m going to Italy, Corinne. I’m moving there. Leaving tonight.”
Her eyeballs are in terrible danger of popping out and bouncing onto the floor. “You’re doing what?!! When?”
“Tonight,” I repeat. “Just booked a flight.”
Nervous laughter. She walks in and sits on my bed like she’s done a hundred times before. “You’re not really moving to Italy. You’re just being dramatic.”
“If you call charging a couple thousand dollars for a same-day flight ‘dramatic,’ then yes. I’m being dramatic.” I glare at her, and continue packing.
Stunned, she watches me roll up my favorite clothes and stuff them tightly into the only suitcase I own, a large forest-green roller. A denial snort bursts out of her nose. She jumps up and races into the kitchen throwing a show-me look over her shoulder just before she clears my doorway.
I chase her. “You’re not the only one who’s unpredictable, Corinne! You don’t believe me?” I grab the computer from the couch, still opened to the flight purchase. Following her into the kitchen, I say, “Oh, I’m going to Italy. Look!” I flip it around so she can see the digital receipt.
She leans forward, reads the flight information and drops the carton of orange juice back down on the counter. “You’re really doing this.”
The way she looks at me, like she knows she’s losing me for real, hits me hard and chokes me up. “I’m really doing this.”
“Oh Annie.” Her eyes tear up and she struggles to speak. It takes her a minute to think of what to say, and then, “I’m so sorry I hurt you this badly.”
I close the computer and hold it to my chest, a silver modern teddy bear. Collapsing my hip to the left, I lean all of my weight on the kitchen counter. “I wish I could blame you for everything, but frankly, that would be a cop out. It’s me. I need to change. I’m not who I want to be.”
“Why do you need to change, Squ…” She remembers I don’t want to be called that and stops herself. “Why do you need to change, Annie?”
I look down to the floor tile, embarrassed. “I feel unhappy most of the time.”
“Oh. What about your last year of college?”
“College will always be there. Look – I’m a playwright, right? What I need to learn, college can’t teach me. I need to see the world. Have new, wild and scary adventures! I can’t stay here, or stay like this,” I motion to my black sweats and baggy t-shirt, then flick my hand toward my newly-shorn hair, “anymore.”
I trudge back to my bedroom to shove my computer in my backpack. I’ll carry it on the plane. Maybe I can journal about the trip, about the changes and my leap of faith into a new life unencumbered by the opinions of those who think they know me. My passport goes in it, too. Plus some gum, fuzzy socks, cash, and a book.
I hear her stand in the doorframe and watch as I pick up my straightening iron. “I guess I don’t need it anymore with this hair. Do you want this?” I raise my eyes to meet hers. “Don’t look like that. This is a good thing.”
“A good thing that’s all my fault.” We stare at each other, not speaking for what seems like forever. “I think you’re making a huge mistake.”
Drier than a desert in August, I mutter, “You should know.”
Her lips purse and she glares at me. “I didn’t know you really liked him – not this much! You always said you didn’t care.” Switching gears, she argues, “And what about all your stuff?” Her hand fans out, gesturing to my furniture, etc. “Am I supposed to get rid of this on my own?”
I walk up and stand very still. “That is such bullshit. You knew in your heart that I had feelings for Brendan. Give it all to Goodwill, Corinne. Except the portrait of us. You can keep that next to your bed so the next time you’re going down on a guy you know I like, but you don’t give a shit about, you’ll stop and ask him to leave.”
She flips around and storms into her own room, slamming the door.
I walk to it, compelled to apologize and feeling a little ashamed. But I’m not the one who started this. This isn’t how friends are supposed to be – at least not the ones I want.
I pull out the handle of my suitcase and roll it to the door. I’ll stay at the airport until my flight leaves at nine thirty, even though that’s many hours from now. I need to get through the international security checks and all that anyway, and they take much longer than domestic. Plus, it’s better than staying here for a second longer.
Turning to look at the small, cozy apartment that has been my home, I feel tears rise from an aching chest, and breaking through to fall down my cheeks. So many memories here. So many nights staying up late with her talking, cramming for finals, eating Rocky Road ice cream and laughing about stupid stuff. I wipe away the fresh tears, along with all the memories. Opening the front door, I walk right into Brendan Clark.
“Oof!” We slam into each other and pull back as if we’re both lethally contagious. He rubs his stomach where my hand and suitcase handle slammed into it hard.
“Sorry!” I reach out and touch his hand. He’s wearing the same clothes he wore last night, a light blue short-sleeved button-up shirt over a white T-shirt and our fingers are tucked under the button-up so that I can’t see the tips. It’s almost like I’ve got my hand inside his clothes. I stare, not moving my hand. “You okay? I’m so sorry!”