Page 95 of June: Jess' Story
Things aren’t exactly fine. But each day I wake up. I put one foot in front of the other. And each step takes me further away from the fantasyland that was my 40 hours with Alex. That’s all it was. From the time I landed to the time I left his house. That’s .006% of my life. A blip. (Yes, I did the math.)
My days all look pretty much the same lately, but right now, I’m grateful for the steadiness of it. I wake up when Eden does. We eat breakfast in our own apartment, then get ready and head to The Grounds where we get coffee. (I drive Brit’s old car now.) (The Volvo sat parked outside The Grounds for about a week, until one day it was just…gone.) No one said anything about it and I didn’t ask. But I wanted to. I wanted to ask Sandy if she’d seen Alex. Did he come get it? Did Caleb? But then some things are better left alone, too.
Sometimes Brit comes with us for coffee, sometimes we just pick it up and bring it back, and sometimes Eden and I sit and chat with the “rents” as Elodie and Caroline have lovingly dubbed Sandy and Jim. And then I go to work. Eden comes with me, and we sit in Liam’s office while he doles out the day’s to-do list. And then he leaves me to it to manage how it all gets done.
At first I pushed back on Brit because I didn’t want her pity job that didn’t actually include any work, but upon further inspection, there was actually a shit ton of work. It turns out Liam has started a custom build/remodel business, and is a bit crap at paperwork, just like most creatives are.
Paperwork?On it.Logistics?No problem.Arguing with customer service over steel beams that have been delayed another 3 weeks?I’m your gal.Maintaining a healthy relationship?Better look somewhere else.
Inevitably, we end up eating lunch at Brit’s house and then I bring Eden back to the apartment to nap while I bang out the rest of my work. Once she’s up from her nap, we do a FaceTime call with Tommy and Jamie that lasts 15 minutes, and then Eden and I get ready for dinner.
Dinner is, again, a mixed bag. Sometimes we just stay in. Sometimes we head to Colton’s or pick up Maggio’s, and then a lot of times, we find ourselves sitting down for a family dinner with Brit and Liam, a Scala brother or two, and “the rents.” (The girls are back at boarding school now.)
Then it’s the bedtime routine. You know the drill. Bath, lotion, two books, and a song. I put Eden to sleep in the Pack ‘n Play in our room, and then I sit in the living room in my Target pjs and watchThe Parent Trapon an endless loop in the background while I try to get lost in the world of Pinterest. (This is on nights when I don’t have an email from my lawyer that needs attention, because D-Day is coming.)
I don’t actually get lost. I think about him under the pretense that I can’t actually be thinking about him when I’m literally doing these other things. (But I can, and I do.)
Some day, when I’m old and gray, hopefully I’ll be laughing at this weird time in my life. Or maybe I even use it as a cautionary tale in 20 or so years when Eden wants to get married, and I beg her not to do it. Who knows? But each day that passes brings me closer to that end goal. And that’s the goal: Turn the recent past into a distant memory.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Brit has asked no less than 25 times in the last week or so.
“Honestly, nothing.”
“Well, I can’t get you nothing.”
“You can, and you should.”
“I can’t and I won’t”
“Some nice face cream,” I finally say, still pouring over a spreadsheet on the laptop in my lap. (Expensive cosmetics are the one thing I refuse to spend money on anymore.) (Okay, not just the one thing. My new wardrobe is entirely made up of vintage or Target.)
Brit rolls her eyes. “Cop out.” And I smile.
“Really, please don’t get me anything. I’m so close to busting out of this joint (her house) and also, lawyer bills, so the only gifts I’m giving are ones that don’t cost a lot.” Like five nights of newborn babysitting to give Brit a break the first month. Or like me organizing Liam’s entire office so it resembles something The Home Edit would do.
For the girls, I got lucky and thrifted the most amazing vintage bags and furs. (Mob wife style. I’m telling you, it’s coming.) And for Damian, honestly nothing. My presence is his present.
Eden still doesn’t care or comprehend Christmas, and I’m sure between her dads and the rest of the extended family, we’ll have more shit than one kid could ever need. So from me, it’s just a tea set. (Also thrifted.) (Look at me go!)
Sometimes, I get the strangest feeling. It’s that hair raising on the back of my neck, it’s a tingling awareness. And sometimes I can’t shake it. And sometimes I don’t want to, because it’s the feeling I’d get when Alex was around and I’d know before I knew.
It unsettles me, and I shift on the sofa.
The front door opens, and I’m expecting to see Liam traipse in, but I don’t. Alex walks in and he looks…different. He looks great. Honestly, better than ever. And it pisses me off. (Cue every shitty feeling.) His hair is slightly longer, his short beard has returned and is neatly trimmed, and he’s wearing black slacks and a knit polo and…Ferragamo shoes(?) with a long black winter overcoat.
(And I’m sitting here in my thrifted Cal Poly Aquatics circa 1982 hoodie, a pair of $6 black leggings, and chipped toenail polish.) (I have to remedy that ASAP.)
This, it’s just so not like him. And then I get irrationally jealous, because he looks like he’s met someone and they made him over and maybe he has. I can just picture a skinny blonde, waif-like thing holding on to his arm as they walk down the streets of Vienna shopping the Christmas markets. Because he’s carrying about 5 boxes and 10 bags of expensive-looking Christmas presents. Bright orange boxes and yellow bags.Good for him.
He freezes when he eventually notices me. (Still a nobody.Check.)
I’ve been frozen. I don’t get up. I just turn my head and refocus on the spreadsheet. The spreadsheet that is now just a blurring of lines and numbers that have no rational meaning to me.
“What are you doing here?” Brit asks him sharply.
“Dropping off Christmas presents. Don’t worry, I’m not staying.” He says curtly, walking straight to the 12-foot Christmas tree where he quickly drops the boxes and bags and then is out the door again, never sparing me a second look. (I am nobody, it’s officially confirmed.)
Maybe he’s done the math too and realized I barely make up .006% of his life (maybe less) and maybe he has met someone else and he’s already turned me into that distant memory. Again, good for him. (Shitty for me.)