Don’t wait up.
Are the words that Hunter texts me at 11 p.m. on Wednesday, as if I haven’t been waiting for him to get home for the past three hours. A little late for that, babe, but thanks. The vibrant orange bag that sits on our spotless countertop looks majorly out of place next to the pristine white plates and shiny silverware I set out earlier this evening. I can’t help but laugh at my absurd hope. Whataburger Wednesdays used to be the highlight of my week, but they have become less of a charming couple’s tradition and more of a lonely woman’s downward spiral now that it’s just me scarfing down a 940 calorie patty melt in our empty apartment.
I scoff as I turn my phone face down on the counter and begin to clear the table. Don’t wait up. Those three words have somehow become our new normal.
This is the eighth time in the past two months Hunter has canceled on me to stay late at work. I used to think he was cheating, but any attempt at diving into that conversation usually just ends with me staying with my mom for a couple of nights. And anyways, a quick, but extensive scroll through his phone when he was busy in the shower a couple months ago gave me some semblance of peace. So I don’t bring it up anymore, even as he continues to miss dinners and tread lightly on our hardwood floors after coming home at half-past one. Is it a red flag that I don’t even care enough to keep asking him? I think so.
Which is why I drag myself to our bedroom and pack an overnight bag. Our room smells of lavender lotion and gentle familiarity, a testament to our shared avoidance intimacy. One sure way to circumvent my immediate forgiveness of his repeated transgression is to leave now. Yes, I think, this will give him something to miss.
As I head to my mother’s house twenty minutes later, my head and throat throb in rhythm to Phoebe Bridgers. The feeling is familiar—unshed tears that need space to be heaved and calcified. A feeling that has been pushed down one too many times and begs to be felt. Because of this feeling and the apparent end of Whataburger Wednesdays, I come to the conclusion that tomorrow, Hunter and I will end.
The next morning, the doorbell rings at 9 a.m. on the dot. Hunter waits on my mother’s porch with an awful sort of familiarity, a bouquet of tulips and breakfast sandwich in his hands. When he hugs me and apologizes, I mouth the words silently along with him:
“I’m sorry, Abby. I don’t mean to ignore you, I’m just so overwhelmed at work right now. You know I love you…” Etcetera, etcetera.
I know I should end it now, but the way he looks at me—with such contentedness, like he can’t even imagine me saying no. Or maybe he can’t imagine his life without me. Yes. I like that much better and decide that this will be his very last chance.
The next Wednesday, Hunter stays at the office until 1 a.m. He texts me at 10:30 p.m. this time, saying he’s sorry, of course, and that he’ll make it up to me. At 10:35 p.m., I drive to the Container Store and buy three sets of glass, turquoise Tupperware. I put Hunter’s burger in one of them, unable to ignore the dark cloud of self-disappointment as I put them in the fridge. It feels like a confession, or maybe a white flag.
Instead of going to my mom’s house, I resort to a two-day silent treatment. It’s harder than I want to admit—the unspoken words scratch at my throat, my punishment for swallowing them whole.
Hunter tells me I’m acting like a child. I literally made your lunch last night, is what I think in my head. Nothing, is what I actually say to him. Then he starts ignoring me too, and he’s much better at it than I am.
I break the silent treatment Friday morning, because I have a concert that night. I’ve been playing at the Houston Symphony for the last three years. It’s one of the best in Texas, but my dream is to play for one of the Big Five orchestras. None of them are in Texas though, and it’s become another sore spot us. Hunter is always insinuating that I don’t have an actual career, so why would we move our entire lives to another state just for me to play in another “band,” as he likes to call it.
Tonight, while not our biggest performance of the year, will be my favorite because of the program. We’re doing Carl Orff’s iconic Carmina Burana, which has been my favorite cantata since the third grade. Is it another red flag that I don’t think Hunter will go if I don’t break first? Yes, most definitely. But he tells me that he’ll be there and despite everything between us, I believe him.
I play beautifully, and by the time we reach O Fortuna, I feel alive, all my worldly concerns cast deep in some faraway blackhole. Afterwards, I look for Hunter in the sea of people congratulating the other musicians they came for, bouquets in hand. I pass my friend Cecily with her boyfriend, and she smiles broadly at me, gesturing at the bouquet of pink carnations she’s grasping. The entire crowd is a field of wildflowers, and I suddenly feel naked, clutching only my purse.
“They’re beautiful, Cecily,” I say to her, and I mean it. Finally, I spot Hunter leaning against the wall by the door, scrolling absentmindedly through his phone.
“Hunter!” I wave him over, and I swear, I have never seen him walk slower. I introduce him to my friends, and when he replies in half-answers and asks me if I’m finally ready to go, I don’t think I imagine the looks of pity from my friends.
He also doesn’t bring me any flowers, but tells me that I was amazing, especially in the last piece. He even remembers the name of the song, and I convince myself this is sweet. Those statements alone change my mind about breaking up with him the next day. It has to be soon though because it wouldn’t be fair for me to keep stringing him along.
The next week, I buy myself flowers from a young, sweet-faced girl’s cart after work. Since the concert, I feel like I’ve seen them everywhere, or maybe I just notice them more now. In any case, the farmer’s market is full of them today and the smile on the little girl’s face alone makes them worth it. The first thing I do when I get home is put them in a sparkling, crystal vase.
Hunter surprisingly comes home on time that night, at 7:30 p.m. I’m so delighted by this simple fact that when he asks me who bought the flowers for me, I almost don’t notice his eyes narrow and the way he clips the ends of his words. But I do, and then I process what he really wants to know.
“I bought them myself. At the market.” I am sure to also clip the ends of my words.
“Yeah? Because Mark told me that you’re pretty close with that guy in the orchestra. Bailey.” I cross my arms and turn to face Hunter, my eyebrows raised incredulously.
Bailey plays the French horn in the orchestra and is admittedly a very handsome man, with dark curly hair and long lashes to match, framing stormy blue eyes. He’s hilarious and very kind to me, and I suppose from an outside perspective it could seem romantic between us, except for the fact that Bailey is gay.
“No one has bought me flowers in a long time, Hunter.” I want to look down as I say this but force my eyes to meet his.
“But if he had I would’ve taken them. I would’ve been happy that he noticed me.” My traitorous voice cracks at the end of my sentence, but Hunter has already turned away. Coward. Asshole?
Both.
“You know I’m busy, Abigail. I have a real job,” he says, muttering the last part under his breath. He may as well have screamed it. I certainly do when I tell him that the last time he brought me flowers was to prevent our break-up. Hunter’s eyes widen.
“You—we were going to break up?” he asks. My mouth drops in disbelief, and I quickly close it.
“I—yes, Hunter. I think about breaking up with you all the time.”
“You’ve never told me that. Ever.” His voice is strangely uneven, and I find that I can’t look at him anymore.
“I really didn’t know I had to.”
This time, I sleep at my mom’s house. She insists on buying me Whataburger of course, and when the orange bag looks at me with judgmental pity, I decide that tomorrow, I really do have to end things. Tomorrow. The word tastes sweet.
The next morning, I fling an empty suitcase in my car and practically fly down the highway to our apartment. It lies wide open on the floor of our bedroom, its mouth gaping open—an invitation.
As I throw the last of my wardrobe into the suitcase, I hear the watercolor jingling of keys, and footsteps I know by ear. I sigh, annoyed at my own forgetfulness. He gets every other Friday off.
“Hunter,” I sigh. “There is literally nothing you could say to fix this. I don’t want—” I turn before I finish my sentence and am surprised to not immediately come face-to-face with him.
This is because he’s on the floor on one knee, holding a diamond the size of a quarter in a black box in one hand, fresh tulips in the other. He looks up at me pleadingly, his eyes wet. And scared.
“Please.” Is all he says.
“I—” Is all I say.
The world is ending. It must be, because there is no tomorrow, not anymore. I don’t think there ever will be again.