Because when I’m around him, I’m surprisingly good at maintaining a neutral expression and acting like nothing’s wrong. The minute we’re apart, though, I feel myself unraveling. Most nights, I can barely make it to my car before I start shaking. I haven’t eaten dinner—or much of anything—in weeks. I get home, strip down to my underwear, and crawl under the covers, falling into a coma-like sleep until morning, when I get up and do it all again.
The constant reminders of him (and us) don’t help, either. All the cafés, bars, movie theaters, and other hangouts we used to frequent in my neighborhood seem to mock me as I drive past them. Doing laundry has been especially painful. I’ve taken to hauling my baskets of dirty clothes to a nearby Laundromat, just so I can avoid the room in the basement where our last argument took place.
So lately I’ve been a prisoner in my apartment, which I’ve been busy making a Jude-Free Zone. I’ve snapped in half and thrown away my Snow Patrol CDs, deleting the MP3 files from my computer and player. The few pictures I had of us have been buried in the “cat box,” my photo collection of Sandberg. I don’t want to get rid of them permanently, but it’s going to be a long time before I can look at them again. Maybe someday, when I’m digging through Sandberg’s pictures, I’ll come across them and be able to smile. Or not. I’ll burn them then, I guess. For now, I don’t want to get rid of the evidence that I was at one time worthy of someone’s affection.
And every room at work has some kind of memory attached to it, even the parking garage. But at least I can sometimes fool myself into thinking everything’s okay there. He’s right there in his office, after all. We exchange pleasantries. We attend meetings together. We pass each other in the halls and occasionally meet up at the vending or pop machines.
He even called me the day I skipped work for The Anniversary, because Wanda had sent out an email that I was taking a sick day, and he wanted to make sure I was okay. In other words, he knew that without him, I could be dead and no one would find me until Sandberg had eaten half my face. Of course, I didn’t actually take his call. But after I listened to his stammering message on my voicemail, I texted him the lie, “I’m fine. Thanks.” And I didn’t tell anyone—not even Dr. Marsh—how his concern was more depressing than comforting.
Hank came up from Florida for Christmas, so at least I wasn’t alone on the holiday. But as usual, he spent more time with his friends than me. Not that I blamed him. I mean, who wants to spend time with someone who’s either catatonic or on the verge of tears all the time? I tried to be cheerful, but it required more energy than I had. In addition to the present I actually bought specifically for him, I also ended up giving him the limited edition Psycho box set that I had bought for Jude. It didn’t make any sense, and Hank probably knew that it wasn’t originally for him, but it was the easiest way for me to get rid of it.
I hope it all gets easier when Jude’s gone. And he will be soon.
Today he’s packing up his office. I’ve been making myself scarce, not wanting any part of that project. It was bad enough when he had me back up all of his files onto external hard drives. I had to turn my brain almost completely off to get that one done. As the status bar would creep from 0% to 100% on each transfer, I’d picture a door closing by those same degrees. By the time all the files were finished transferring, I was emotionally exhausted.
Now I walk past his office at just the right (or wrong) time, and he flags me down. “Libby! Do you mind giving me a hand here?”
Heart, hand, whatever, I muse with a sigh. “Whatcha need?” I ask perkily.
“Literally, two more hands,” he says, pointing to a large box in the middle of his office. “If you could hold those flaps closed whilst I tape them…”
I do, affecting the most bored expression I can while I surreptitiously study him. He’s wearing his hair shorter now than he ever used to. Today, since he’s packing and doing physical work, he’s wearing jeans and what he’d call a “jumper,” but the rest of us normal folks would call a sweater. His “trainers” (a.k.a., sneakers or tennis shoes) are new-looking. He smells… well, the best word I can come up with is “nostalgic,” although I know it’s not possible for someone to really smell that way. But it makes me nostalgic. And horny, but that’s a totally inappropriate (and purely physical) response that I must stifle.
“Next,” he says, pointing to a box in the corner.
This one’s so stuffed, it barely closes. Finally, I have to resort to sitting on it to keep it shut. He pulls the tape across one end, then the other, working around me. At one point, as he’s leaning over, he presses his face up against my shoulder and grunts with the effort to pull the tape around. I stand and move away so he can’t hear my heartbeat. I’m suddenly sure it’s externally audible.
“That was a dodgy one,” he states. Although he’s still hard to read (harder than ever), I’m almost positive he meant that more than one way.
“Yep,” I reply casually. “Do you need me to take these to the mailroom for you?” Then without
