I don’t argue with her. I don’t have the energy. Instead, I clear the table. I wrap up the leftovers and shove them into the fridge. Maybe I’ll eat something later, if I feel less like vomiting.
She comes into the kitchen. She’s hobbling like she’s in pain.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who physically hurts.
“Sorry,” she says, without clarifying what she’s apologizing for. Breaking up with me? Eating petulantly with her hands?
“Yeah,” is all I say back.
“Thank you for cleaning.”
“Well, you cooked.”
She crosses her arms and hugs herself.
“I’m going to go to bed.”
It’s 7:00 p.m., but I don’t argue with her.
“We’ll leave first thing in the morning,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. I’m already dreading the two-hour drive back to Los Angeles.
“I’m booking a flight to Nashville,” I say. “Do you still want me to get you a ticket to Chicago?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Fine. I’ll sleep in that other bedroom. Good night.”
“Night,” she says.
I grab the bottle of red wine and take it to the smaller of the two rooms. It has twin bunk beds, which feels demoralizing enough to fit the occasion.
I wash Advil PM down with the wine, wincing for my kidneys, and pass out so fast I wake up with my uncharged phone on my chest, ravenous and with no idea where I am, at 5:00 a.m.
The whole thing comes back to me. My eyes ache from crying.
Fuck this. Fucking fuck this whole thing.
I pillage the refrigerator, still wearing my clothes from last night. I eat my Thanksgiving dinner cold, in the dark, directly out of the serving dishes, and then throw the rest in the trash. I don’t bother making coffee. I’m wide awake on despair.
I take a shower. Molly is up when I emerge, sitting with her knees tucked under her on the couch. She looks as gray and drawn as I’ve ever seen her. I don’t think she slept.
Her overnight bag is sitting by the door.
“Ready whenever you are,” she says.
“Let me just grab my stuff.”
I go back into the tiny room to get dressed, and notice that I left the ring sitting on the desk, next to my sweater.
I don’t want to touch it, but I can’t just leave it in some random person’s house in Joshua Tree. I throw it into my suitcase, shove in the rest of my shit, and walk back to the living room.
She’s already outside, packing up the car.
“Got everything?” she asks, when I put my bag in next to the cooler.
“Yep. My flight’s at twelve thirty out of LAX. Can you drop me at the airport?”
She nods.
We drive back in complete silence.
At the airport, she doesn’t get out of the car.
She just looks at me, with bloodshot eyes, as I step onto the pavement.
“Bye, Seth,” she says, like it costs her everything she has to speak those two syllables.
“Bye.”
As it comes out of my mouth, I realize this is probably the last time I’m ever going to see her. So I lean over and kiss her cheek one last time.
“You win the bet,” I say into her ear. “Romance is bullshit.”
She starts crying.
I don’t care.
