Thirty

The shattered ceramic has been broomed up when I gently open the door to our place. One dish is wet on the rack by the sink, the bathroom is warm and muggy from a recent shower, and there is a line of orange light from under Dad and Ma’s bedroom door. Their TV is on low, barely a whisper. I have to tiptoe forward and lean against the door to hear.

I barely sleep that night. I send Corinne about a million texts apologizing and begging her to talk to me. I’m so sorry, I’m such an idiot. . . . They all go unanswered. Every motion I hear in Dad and Ma’s bedroom feels like the beginning of an earthquake that doesn’t pan out. And my conversation with Chantale won’t stop playing in a loop in my head. Credit where credit is due, she would make a phenomenal despot. I reread that letter at least six times, and while concrete sleep never quite materializes, I somehow still find myself waking up peeling the letter from the side of my face, so wrinkled it feels like fabric to the touch. I almost miss the little angel and devil at this point.

Before I know it, the sun is beaming through my window, and it looks like we’re in for one of those perfect-weather Saturdays that feels particularly vindictive from the universe right now.

My phone is buzzing up a storm. It can’t be my alarm since my few weekend dog walks aren’t for another couple of hours. Owners tend to enjoy taking their pets on those sunny Saturday walks themselves. I have seven unread texts, and despite my best efforts, my heart skips a beat as I scroll, imagining it to be Corinne.

MING (7 new messages)

I have to remind myself there might in fact never be another text from Corinne. I have a feeling she belongs to that breed of people who Mute, Block, Delete, and Forget, in that order.

I’ve been outside your bldg for 15 mins and still no sign of u

wake up, u bastard

did you leave already??

my bagel is gone, btw

you owe me a bagel

make it a donut

I changed my mind, actually: make it a Cronut

The notices keep coming, so I go to the source and dial Ming’s number.

“Hey, so . . . why are you here?”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” comes the overly cheery reply. “Read my texts. It’s very clear. I’m outside. Either come join me or expect me to start texting you that sci-fi novel I’ve been working on. Sentence by sentence, mofo.”

He will. It’s happened before. I’ve already glimpsed way too much of that thing.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I groan before hanging up. “Find your chill.”