I remember thinking during kisses past that him being too close to see my expressions provided good cover. I’m not sure what those kisses meant to either of us. For me, maybe unsatisfying release. For him, I think reconnection that never happened.
I’m still trying to decide what this kiss means when we break it. We pull away slowly, watching each other. He might have weapons behind his back, but somehow I don’t think so. Mine are within arm’s reach.
The emotions racing through me are so bewildering, I’m grateful when he gets up to go adjust the heat settings. I’m not usually a jumpy person, but right now I’m hurtling toward a full-blown panic attack. I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t know what’s going on in Nicholas’s head these days. I certainly don’t know what’s going on in mine. I run to my bedroom, conscious of him watching me all the way up the stairs. Again, it’s like I’m moving underwater, under his microscope, Nicholas’s clever brain decoding messages I’m unknowingly sending with my gait, how far apart my fingers are splayed, the color in my cheeks. It’s never been so obvious that he can see right through me. The question is: how long has he been looking?
I can still feel his gaze pinned on me even while I’m lying in bed, heart thumping erratically, eyes wide open to absolute darkness.
It’s very late when I think I hear the doorknob rattle. I’ve locked it out of habit. Maybe I’m imagining the noise. I close my eyes for a moment, meaning to get up and go see, but when they open again a second later it’s dawn.
I get dressed in the frail morning light and creep onto the landing. Nicholas’s door is ajar, so I tiptoe closer. His bed is empty, the comforter printed with palm leaves peeled back. I know what that blanket feels like against my bare skin. I regard it like an old friend I haven’t seen in a long time, along with the headboard we picked out together. The curtains we picked out together. In those early days we would say yes to anything, floating on the high of trying to make each other happy. I would have slept on a sleeping bag if that was what he wanted.
His new bedroom is arranged the same way as our old one. The mattress is new, since I took our other one. Throwing a quick glance at the door, I sit down on the bed and do a little bounce. This mattress is so much better than mine. My room contains leftovers—the curtains that used to hang in our old kitchen, which means they’re too short and don’t block out enough light. My bedspread is a Christmas throw blanket.
I study the empty space beside his dresser and imagine mine next to it. My nightstand should sit on the right side of the bed, and its absence turns the whole room wrong. He keeps one of his pillows in the space where my head should lie.
It’s a bad idea, lingering in here, but I’m too nosy for my own good. I rummage through his closet, touching all his crewnecks and dry-cleaned suits. The ivory button-down he wore at our disastrous engagement photo shoot. Our smiles were forced in every picture. Between takes, we muttered under our breath and accused the other one of not trying, of not wanting to be there.
One of those pictures is supposed to be in a frame on his nightstand. The nightstand contains only a lamp. My heart plummets, but then I spot the frame hanging on the wall. He’s switched out the engagement photo neither of us was trying in and replaced it with a memory that takes me back to this past winter, days after he proposed. It’s a bit blurry, and my arm is disproportionately wide because I’m holding it out to snap the picture.
According to the red paint in the background, we’re in his friend Derek’s kitchen. It’s Derek’s housewarming party, and as a gag we got him a gun that shoots marshmallows. Nicholas is right beside me, head on my shoulder. At the last second our eye contact abandons the camera, noticing a marshmallow stuck to the ceiling above us. My hand unconsciously strokes through his hair and holds his head to the cradle of my neck in what strikes me as an affectionate gesture I haven’t done in forever. Just like that, a posed picture becomes a candid one.
As soon as the flash went off, that marshmallow fell on Nicholas’s head, and everyone laughed. Did you get that?
No, I got the moment just before.
Too bad.
I wonder when Nicholas had this picture printed. Why this particular shot, out of the hundreds we’ve taken of ourselves? Why would he want it on his wall? Until now, I thought it existed only on my Instagram. Looking at the picture now, feeling these emotions, solidifies into a memory of its own.
I’ve already spent too long in his bedroom—his, not ours—and I need to slip out before I’m caught, but I need to know more. I’m on a mission to closely examine this man’s belongings, the things he touches daily. I’ve seen it all so many times that I’m numb to it, so I have to focus. See through new Naomi’s eyes.
I rummage in his nightstand, fingering each object. His contacts case and bottle of solution. A case for his glasses. Lube, which I might as well throw away at this point. An old charger that’s no longer compatible with his current phone is next. Skittles. A pen and notepad from a Holiday Inn, top sheet containing a smiley face I drew. I pick up a disposable straw wrapper and am about to drop it when I see that the ends are tied together.
And I remember.
A few months ago, Leon went and got take-out Chinese food for everyone at the Junk Yard. Nicholas stopped by while we were eating, odd man out in his fancy black blazer and wingtips. I think the teasing he gets for his typically Rose-esque wardrobe is why he clings to the khakis: See! I can be casual, too.
He’d planned to take me out to dinner as a surprise and didn’t understand that I didn’t want to put aside cheap take-out that wasn’t even that good in favor of driving an hour to an upscale restaurant. I was part of something here, this Junk Yard family. He was the outsider, annoyed that I’d undermined his plans. Annoyed that I had a new family and he wasn’t invited in.
With the surprise dinner thwarted, he wasn’t sure whether we wanted him hanging around. He strolled awkwardly about the shop for a few minutes, clearly tense, shooting us looks whenever we laughed. I didn’t join him while he meandered through the aisles, painfully aware that half of my coworkers didn’t like him. I didn’t want them to tar me with the same brush. Joining Nicholas would be like declaring my allegiance to him, and then I’d be the odd man out, too.
So I stayed where I was and didn’t try to alleviate his awkwardness. Didn’t try to bring him into our conversation. I took everybody’s straw wrappers and tied them into bracelets, which we all put on, even Melissa. Nicholas walked over while I was tying an extra straw wrapper, so I handed it to him. An afterthought.
And he’d kept it. He easily could have thrown it out when we moved, but here it sits. Nicholas’s secret sentimentality.
My throat burns. My fingers curl around the piece of trash, preserved in this drawer like a precious treasure. I hear a fit of coughing from downstairs and return the straw wrapper bracelet to where I found it, then hurry from the room.
When I descend the stairs, I find Nicholas sprawled on the couch, coughing in his sleep. Used tissues clump on the coffee table and floor. He’s twisted up in the blankets like he’s been tossing and turning, shirt riding up to expose a gap of stomach. His hair’s a mess and his glasses are askew on his face. He looks young and flushed and sweet.