Bellamy's Redemption

It wasn’t the expectation of a visit from him that was keeping me awake, however. It was an old habit that had been with me for as long as I could remember. I’d done it at classmates’ houses and at camp, while on vacation with my family as a child, and later as an adult, lying awake at soon-to-be ex-boyfriends’ apartments; I was memorizing it all, sensing on some unutterable level that despite it all supposedly being mine for the taking, I might never be back.

When the alarm went off, I couldn’t even remember having closed my eyes.

Chapter 33

My apartment felt like a cold, grey tomb. The first thing I saw was a heap of mail cascading over my front hall floor. As I turned on lights and looked around, I discovered that my home was much smaller and not nearly as nice as I remembered. I parked my luggage beside the hall table and knelt on the floor, scooping up the mail into a tidy pile. I realized that I’d paid my rent, cable, and utilities a few months ahead, but somehow forgotten about my credit cards. A knot of panic twisted in my stomach. I hadn’t been back for five minutes and the reality and responsibilities of regular adult life were depressing me.

When I’d walked up to my apartment, I had looked over to the row of five tall windows that represented Pete’s space, and they’d been dark. It was a grey, drizzly afternoon and I thought if he was home there’d be a light on. It was possible he was sleeping. Or working. I wasn’t sure if I should stop by his place or not. I turned on all my lights and put on some music so he would know I was home. I’d let him come to me.

I had left the heat set at fifty degrees to save money and I’d forgotten to ask anyone to take care of my houseplants. Between the lack of water and warmth, they were all dead. I got a garbage bag from the closet in my kitchen and poured the plants inside, stacking up their pots to be washed. The radiators started working and as the apartment warmed up, I felt a little better. I changed into old sweats and an old t-shirt. I hadn’t looked this casual for months. I found a beer in the back of my fridge and opened it. This slobby version of myself felt pretty good.

I wanted to call my friends but I had been contractually sworn to secrecy. They would want to know if I was still in the running and I wasn’t sure I could trust any of them enough to share details with them. I’d agreed not to talk to anyone outside my immediate family until after Bellamy made his final choice. Until he proposed.

I needed to call my parents, though, to tell them that they would need to participate in the Meet-the-Fam date. I was pretty sure my mom was going to freak out when she heard the news. Only, how was I going to call her? I realized then that the producers still had my phone. It must have been a mistake. How would they let me know the details about my Meet-the-Fam date? I decided I’d better check my email. But then I realized that along with canceling my landline before leaving, I was also without internet, since my contract had expired.

My relief about being alone was starting to fade. Now I felt isolated. Panicky. Invisible. Just as suddenly my frumpy attire started to get to me. Why was I wearing old clothes? I looked like a grey, melting lump of dust. Who would want to look like that? No one. I started to cry. Was I having post-reality television depression? I had to talk to someone now!

I decided I would just have to go over and borrow Pete’s phone and use his internet. I had no other choice. It wasn’t that I wanted to see him, I told myself, so much as any human. And of course I needed to call my mom. I’d already been home for nearly an hour without contacting her. How rude of me. I mean, she’s my mom.

I changed into jeans and a sparkly, sequined top and poked my head out into the hall. It was dim and quiet, and smelled of curry and wet wool. It made me miss Paris and Venice and everything else. I began to sob, but I tried to control myself. Between gasps, I listened. No sound came from Pete’s apartment. No light came from beneath his door. I started to close my door again, thinking there was no point in even trying, but then I decided that there would be no harm either since he most likely was not there.

I tiptoed to his door and put my ear to it, listening. Nothing but silence. I got down on my hands and knees and listened at the bottom of the door. Still nothing. I tried the door, gently, but it was locked. I looked around me at the empty hallway and decided no one would know if I investigated a little further. I slinked down and spread out on the cold floor and tried to look underneath the door. I could see what appeared to be the edge of a fringed rug. Why was there a fringed rug in there? I didn’t remember Pete ever having a fringed rug. Did he still live there? Was this someone else’s apartment now?

A horrible emptiness filled me. What if Pete was gone? I had to figure out if this was still his apartment. I sniffed at the bottom of the door, trying to detect anything familiar. I stuck my hand beneath again, the little bit I could fit, trying to grab at the rug. I could just barely move my fingertips enough to jab at the stringy, dirty fringe. These doors had to be in violation of fire safety codes, I decided. Perhaps it was time for me to move away. Of course it was. I’d be living in Arizona soon, right? This part of my life would be a receding memory growing fainter and fainter. One day I wouldn’t even know it had happened.

After several tries, my desperate little finger scrapes were able to pull the rug a little closer. I scooted back away from the bit now poking out beneath the door and took a look around me; the hall was still dark and silent. I thought I heard something several stories down but it didn’t concern me. I gave the fringed edge a yank and was able to slide nearly the entire rug out into the hall. I knelt there looking at it, puzzled. It was a flowery, hippie-like rug of fairly high quality. Newish. A bit dirty but not terribly so. I was completely perplexed. I began trying to slide it back into the apartment, only to be interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind me.

“Emma? Is that you?” said Pete’s voice.

I jumped up and spun around, leaving the rug half in and half out of Pete’s apartment. Despite my tears, I was smiling. I couldn’t help myself; the smile came through my tears like sunshine.

“Pete,” I started to say, but my voice trailed off. He wasn’t alone. There was a girl with him. By girl I mean woman. Everything seemed to come to a thudding halt. I became acutely aware of the curry hallway smell and of my own strange nightclub attire.

Pete and this woman were both bundled up in winter clothes, each carrying a couple of bags of groceries. Reusable bags. Not something Pete had ever been on board with before. He and this woman looked very… domesticated. Comfortable. She was wearing his scarf that I’d made him for Christmas. She was beautiful. Snowy and red-cheeked and bright like cherries on ice cream. Her beauty was a punch in the gut. Her friendly smile was a slap across my puffy, splotchy face.

“Emma, this is Krissie. Krissie, this is my neighbor Emma.”

I couldn’t speak. Krissie. I knew that name. The pillow fight girl. I just nodded. Despite her snowy mittens and bags of wine and navel oranges and other signs of sweet abundance with my man, my man, the one I knew I truly wanted, only him, no other, no other, she came forward and put that snowy mitten straight out to me like someone waiting to receive a baton and said, “Emma, it’s so nice to meet you.”

I shook my head then turned it into a nod and my hand, more civilized than the rest of me, extended and limply offered itself. An embrace of cold, wet, confident wool enveloped it and moved it up and down twice, firmly. As Krissie stepped back my hand stayed between us, curling in space like a dead spider. A moment later my brain reminded it to drop down by my side. I shoved as much of it as I could fit into my pocket to keep it out of trouble.

Pete set down his bags and came forward, offering a tapping little hug. It felt nothing like the Pete I remembered. His eyes said nothing. There were no hidden messages transferred in that moment. It was as meaningful as brushing past a cold rack of parkas.

“Pete,” said my mouth. Like my hand, it did its own thing.

“You’re back. Does this mean you’re not going to be Emma Timberfrost?” he asked cheerfully. His banal enthusiasm was a flashback to awkward drive-home chats with the dads of kids I’d babysat in high school. Before I had a chance to answer, he bent down and retrieved his groceries from their I like big books and I cannot lie canvas totes, pausing to carefully arrange a carton of organic brown eggs.

My nodding head settled on a stupid, slow wobble and I took a few steps back, edging along the wall, stepping in a bit of slush. “I’m not at liberty to say,” I whispered.

Krissie tilted her head in bemused confusion. She was a Pomeranian. I was a Chihuahua.

I took another step back. How far away was my apartment? I looked over my shoulder. Too far. Much too far way.

“Did you need anything?” asked Krissie. Less brightly. She looked concerned about the crazy person in the hall.

“Ugh,” I said.

“Are you feeling alright?” asked Pete. He looked genuinely concerned, but in the generic way a good citizen gets concerned about suffering strangers.