Me Vs. Me. Sarah MlynowskiЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Because what? Don’t tell me you’re going to bail. I just turned down someone else because you said you’re coming. I’m not giving you your deposit back, so you can forget it,” she huffs.
Steak knives aside, she does have a point about the deposit. Besides, New Yorkers aren’t like the rest of us, right? They’re supposed to be eccentric. Interesting. “No, I’m not reneging. I just want to confirm with you that I’m arriving tomorrow at 3:30. Will you be home?”
Long pause. “That’s a relief. Although…tomorrow? I don’t know if I can be home.”
“Oh. Okay. Um, well, I have to get in.”
She sighs. Loudly. “I suppose I can leave the keys with the doorman.”
“All right. See you tomorrow. Oh, did my new bed come? It was supposed to arrive today.”
“No, not yet.” She hangs up. Apparently, my new roommate is not of an easygoing persuasion. I will have to remember not to borrow her butter without asking.
I spend the rest of the day on the couch, flipping through the news channels, slowly refolding my clothes and re-squeezing them into my suitcases, and letting the excitement build and boil inside me. I catch myself singing “New York, New York” and doing a YMCA-like dance around the apartment.
“Hi, guys,” Lila says from the door at around four.
“It’s just me,” I tell her, flipping the channel from CNN to TRSN.
I know I have at least ten minutes before she’ll join me on the couch. The first thing she does every day when she gets home is change out of her suit and into her bathrobe and slippers. Then she scrubs her hands, carefully takes off her makeup, washes her face, ties her shoulder-length blond hair into a ponytail on top of her head, takes her many skin vitamins, moisturizes, stops in the kitchen for a glass of water, and then comes into the living room. She works seven-day workweeks and is very into her routine.
“Where’s Cam?” she asks, post-routine, getting comfy on her white velvety couch. “Doesn’t he want to spend every second of your last day with you?”
“We broke up.”
Her jaw drops. “You didn’t! What happened? He wasn’t into the long distance?”
“Kind of. You see, he proposed—”
“What?” she shrieks and throws a pillow at me. “And you said no?”
I recount the whole story, and she stays quiet throughout. Lila has always been a very good listener. She has this way of never making me feel judged. She’s a very soothing person. Like chicken soup without the salt. Almost bland, but in a good way. But Lila also thinks Cam is the best boyfriend ever. She constantly tells me how lucky I am. “Don’t you think it was wrong of him to give me an ultimatum?” I ask. “Stay or go? Why does he get everything and I have to give something up?”
“I suppose,” she says, nodding.
“I had no choice,” I say.
“I don’t know about that. You had to give something up and you did. Cam.”
Gave up Cam? Is that what I did?
She sees the expression of despair on my face and pats my knee. “You’ll be fine. Really. You were never sure if Cam was right for you anyway.”
I wonder if this is true. I didn’t want Cam to be Mr. Right because I was planning on moving. But is he? Was he?
“Finish packing and I’ll order us some dinner. Pizza?”
We order, we eat, we watch TV. We rehash the whole Cam thing. The phone doesn’t ring all night. My dad lives in L.A., although he’s currently working in Australia, and while my mom lives here, she’s working in Florida these days. There must be someone to call to say goodbye to. Although, my social life has mostly revolved around Cam and his family for the past year. Calling them to say farewell might be a little…awkward. There’s Bernie, my old news director, but he’s still a bit pissed off with me for quitting.
After Lila and I exchange tearful goodbyes, I retreat to my room. Before I climb into bed, I pull down the curtain. Okay, fine, it’s not really a curtain but a dark gray sheet that Cam found at his parents’ house and helped me staple to the ceiling to keep out the light. He nailed a hook above the window so I could pull it up during the day. I’m not going to bother removing it in the morning—I’m sure Lila will get around to putting up real blinds eventually. Then I check my Hello Kitty alarm clock (I have to remember to pack this in the morning—it was a gift from my dad when I was eight). It’s eleven-thirty in the evening. The alarm is set for six-thirty, since my flight is at nine. Cam was supposed to take me to the airport. I guess I’ll be calling a cab.
First I hit the radio button to make sure that the volume is on. “Like a Virgin” blasts in my ear. Then I realize I’m cold and sneak back into the living room, rummage through one of my two suitcases and find Cam’s J. Crew cotton long-sleeved shirt that he left here months ago (I wear it when I want to feel warm and toasty), and slip it on to punish myself. Back in the bedroom, his smell wafts over me as I turn off the light. I wrap myself in my pink top sheet that I have to remember to pack in the morning.
Did I set the alarm properly? What if I set it for 6:30 p.m. instead of a.m.?
I sit up and check—6:30 a.m. In six and a half hours. I’m never going to fall asleep. I bet Cam can’t fall asleep either. He’s not a good sleeper when he’s stressed. When he’s working on a case, he tosses and turns and flips his pillow. Bet that’s what he’s doing now.
Poor Cam.
I will not cry. No, I will not—I will n—I wipe the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. What a baby.
How could I have broken the heart of the one person who has loved me so fiercely over the past few years? Why do I think moving to New York will be good for me? What if I’m a failure? What if I never meet another man who will love me as much as Cam does? What if no other man ever asks me to marry him, and I become bitter and bitchy and start to hate all couples and throw up at the sight of any hand holding or Valentine’s Day cards?
I check the alarm. Again. I close my eyes and start to drift into a sad, desperate sleep. Cam…love you…changed my mind…
Blackness.
I wake to an intense headache. Like forks bashing into my forehead and both temples. To go along with the pain, swirls of green hot light burn behind my eyelids.
What the hell? Did I roll off my bed in my sleep? Did my lamp fall on my head?
I open my eyes slowly, intense sunlight spearing my pupils. The pain instantly dissipates. No one is attacking me. But I can’t believe how bright it is in here. Weird, actually. Then I realize why. This morning, of all mornings, the staples holding my makeshift curtain must have finally given out. How appropriate.
What the—
I blink my eyes. Once, twice. Three times. I do not believe what I see.
I’m back in the desert. In the truck. Wrapped in the itchy green blanket.
In Cam’s arms.
2
The Gabby Horror Engagement Show
I am going insane. That must be it. Obviously, the only explanation. How did I go to sleep in my empty bedroom, yet wake up in Cam’s truck?
Unless I’m dreaming. Yes, that makes sense. I’m still asleep. The truck and the desert are just an illusion. How weird is that? Normally a desert isn’t a mirage—normally you’d see a mirage in a desert.
When I put on one of Cam’s J. Crew shirts, his scent tortured me into hallucinations about what could have—would have—been.
What will be.
In my dreamworld,