Emersyn
I'm pacing back and forth in the living room, phone in hand. After ignoring Lyle's calls for three weeks, I finally called him back and told him I wanted to talk. A talk? Nah, this is a closure trip—grab my stuff and bolt. Furniture? He can keep it to impress his next fling. I just want my clothes, books, and a couple of sentimental items.
My stomach's a pit of nerves as I wait for Marx to come downstairs. The other day, he'd mentioned he'd help me get my stuff back, and now's the moment of truth. As I hear footsteps on the stairs, my eyes flick toward the source of the sound. There he is.
"Hey," I start, my voice betraying a slight quiver. "So, uh. Remember you said you'd help me get my stuff from my old apartment?"
He looks at me, his eyes meeting mine through his glasses. "Yes."
"Do you think you could go now?" I ask sheepishly. "He's kind of expecting me.
"Give me a few to get ready."
As he goes back upstairs I can't help but feel a mix of relief and uncertainty. This would be the first time I'd see Lyle since the breakup, but knowing Marx will be there makes me feel a lot braver.
I feel a twinge of the humiliation I felt when I caught him cheating. The image of him buried deep inside another woman is forever burned into my mind. They were on top of my favorite blanket too. I might take it back just to burn it.
Twenty minutes later, we're in Marx's van, and I'm guiding him to the apartment that I once thought would be my forever home. It feels like a different lifetime now.
Marx made a quick detour to Disorderly, grabbing a few boxes for my things. I hadn't even thought about boxes. I'm glad one of us has put some thought into this.
We pull up in front of the building, and Marx kills the engine. "You ready?" he asks, his words tinged with a seriousness I've grown to appreciate.
I take a deep breath, clutching the strap of my empty duffle bag. "As ready as I'll ever be."
He nods, opening his door and stepping out of the car. I follow suit. It's strange, having Marx here, walking beside me to confront my past. Yet, as we step into the elevator, which is actually working today, and I hit the button for the right floor, there's no one else I'd rather have by my side.
"Just breathe," he advises, his voice low as we ascend.
He must see how nervous I am. Maybe I shouldn't be doing this. Maybe we can just leave. I can rebuy the things I'm missing.
But as the elevator dings, and the doors slide open, I know it's time to close this chapter of my life.
I take a deep breath and step out, Marx following close behind. Here goes nothing.
As we walk down the hall, the old beige carpet seems more worn than I remember. Marx places the boxes he's carrying against the wall next to Lyle's apartment door. I take another steadying breath and then knock.
A few moments later, the door swings open, and there's Lyle. His black hair is as unremarkable as ever, and for a second, he looks genuinely happy to see me. But that expression evaporates when his gaze shifts and lands on Marx.
"Emersyn! Uh, wow, you came. Who's he?" Lyle nods toward Marx, his eyes narrowing.
"It doesn't matter," I snap, my tone colder than I intended. "Are you gonna invite me in or what?"
Lyle hesitates, eyeing Marx once more. "Sure, come in. But maybe he should stay in the hall while we talk?"
Before I can respond, Marx cuts in, "No way."
With that, Marx steps into the apartment right behind me, making it clear that he isn't staying put in any hallway. Lyle's eyes dart between us, clearly disoriented by Marx's audacity, but he doesn't say anything. He just steps back to let us in.
The apartment feels different, yet hauntingly familiar. It's clean—probably because he knew I was coming. I feel Marx's presence behind me, silent but comforting.
"So, you wanted to talk?" Lyle begins, attempting to regain control of the situation.
"No, not really," I reply. "I'm here to pick up my things. My clothes, my books. You can keep the furniture. Most of it, anyway."
"Oh." His face flushes, a look of anger growing. "Do you maybe want to go to the bedroom and talk first?"
"I'm good," I say, making my way toward the bedroom. I can hear Lyle sigh behind me as I enter the room. It's surreal, being here but not belonging here anymore.
I start pulling out clothes from the dresser and closet, shoving them into my duffle bag. Marx silently joins in, folding the clothes neatly and arranging them to fit as much as possible into his box.
Lyle stands in the doorway, watching us. "You're really doing this, huh?"
I pause for a moment, looking at him. "Yeah, Lyle. I really am."
Finally, the clothes are packed, and Marx seals up the boxes with tape he'd thought to bring along. Smart man.
"What next?" Marx asks, looking at me.
"The books," I say, heading to the living room where my collection of novels and keepsakes are still on the shelves. As I start taking them down, placing them in another box, I can't help but glance at Marx. He's right there, as promised. A pillar of silent strength.
Lyle follows us into the living room, unable to mask his irritation. His eyes lock onto Marx every time he moves, sizing him up.
"So, is this your new... what exactly?" Lyle's voice drips with condescension.
"It's not your concern," I retort, putting my favorite novels into a box. "And even if it were, it's really not your place to comment."
Lyle grins, but there's nothing warm about it. "Oh, it's always my place when it's my apartment you're raiding."
Marx steps in front of me, cutting the tension like a knife. "Technically, it's her stuff. She has every right to take it."
Lyle's face reddens, clearly not used to being stood up to. "Who even are you?"
Marx looks him dead in the eye. "The guy helping her move on."
I stifle a smile and get back to boxing up my books. As I'm reaching for a photo frame that holds a picture from happier times, my hand wavers. Do I even want this? I decide against it and leave it on the shelf.
Marx grabs the last box and tapes it up. "You got everything?"
"Just about," I say, doing a final scan of the place. Everything I want is packed. The rest is just memories I'd rather forget.
"Emersyn, can I talk to you? Alone?" Lyle suddenly interjects, trying to assert some kind of control over the situation.
I look at him, then at Marx, who gives me a nod as if saying 'I got this.'
"No, Lyle. There's nothing left to say."
I grab my duffle bag, and Marx picks up the boxes. We move toward the door.
Lyle steps in front of us, blocking the way. "You're really leaving? Just like that? After all we've been through?"
I look him in the eyes. "Yes, Lyle. I really am."
Marx sets the boxes down for a moment and takes a step toward Lyle. "You should move."
Lyle hesitates, then steps aside.
I open the door, and Marx carries the boxes out into the hall. This is so close to being over.
Then, Lyle is beside me, his hand grabbing my arm in a grip that's a little too tight. "Emersyn, please. Let's just talk. Five minutes."
The moment his hand clamps down on my arm, I flinch. Bad move, Lyle.
In an instant, Marx is there, shoving Lyle back with a force that pins him against the wall. "You don't touch her."
"Emersyn," Marx says, his voice icy but calm, "go to the van. I'll be down in a minute."
He tosses me his keys, and I catch them mid-air. Nodding, I move quickly, putting as much distance between me and Lyle as possible. I don't look back.
I get into the elevator, my hands trembling as I press the button for the ground floor. I lean against the wall, letting out a shaky breath.
Lyle wasn't physically aggressive when we were together. Well, not often, anyway. Sometimes, he would shove me when we were arguing, but he mostly hurt me with his words. I didn't expect him to grab me like that in front of Marx.
The elevator descends, and it's like I can feel the weight lifting off me with each floor we pass. By the time the doors slide open at the lobby, I'm starting to breathe a little easier.
I make my way to Marx's van, fumbling slightly with the keys before I get the door open. I climb inside and start the engine, grateful for the blast of air conditioning that hits me. I sit there, taking a few deep breaths to steady myself.
Moments later, I see Marx exiting the building, his stride confident. He opens the sliding door, loading boxes in, before sliding into the front seat.
"You okay?"
I nod, my voice finding its strength again. "Yeah, thanks to you."
"We're done here," he says, his eyes lingering on me for a moment longer before he pulls away, putting the van into drive.
As we pull out onto the street, I look in the rearview mirror, catching a final glimpse of the building that used to be my home. It's getting smaller and smaller, just like the past it represents.
I look over at Marx, his profile focused on the road ahead. I take in his features. The curve of his nose, the lines of his lips, the stubble on his cheek that I want to touch.
I'm glad he was the one with me today. Not that I don't think the other guys could have handled Lyle. I know they could have. But because Marx handled it so well. I can't be for certain the other guys would have been able to keep their cool or not started an argument with Lyle.
Marx let me handle my business. He was there, watching over me, but he didn't interfere until it was necessary.
**
I'm in my room, carefully unpacking the boxes that Marx helped me bring from Lyle's place. Everything smells like him, and I grimace. Pulling out a few shirts, I consider just throwing them into a pile and dealing with them later. Then my phone buzzes. "Mom" flashes on the screen.
Great, just what I need right now.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but the mom guilt is strong. With a sigh, I tap the green button. "Hey, Mom."
"Emersyn, what in the world are you doing?" she cuts straight to the point, no greetings or niceties.
"Mom, I--"
"I talked to Thoreau today. He said he spoke to Lyle. You left him for another man and moved in with him? And now this new man beat Lyle up?"
My mouth hangs open. Lyle's been feeding my family lies? "Mom, you can't--"
"Why are you doing this, Emersyn? Are you trying to ruin your life? Lyle was such a good guy. He took such good care of you. Lord knows you cannot take care of yourself."
My chest tightens. She's not even letting me explain. "Mom, can I--"
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" she finally asks, her tone reeking of disappointment.
"Finally," I mumble under my breath before raising my voice. "Yes, Mom, I do. I did leave Lyle. But not for another man. I left him because he cheated on me."
A pause. "Well, he said that you—"
"I don't care what he said, Mom. I caught him in the act. And the guy he's talking about is my roommate, Marx."
"Roommates? Emersyn, you're too old to have roommates. What's happened to you?"
"Mom, sometimes people have roommates. It's not a big deal."
Another pause. "I need to see where you're living. I can't believe you're doing this."
I really don't want here coming here, being in my space. But I also know she won't stop until she does.
"Mom, now's not a good time. But maybe this upcoming weekend?"
"I'll have to move some things around on my calendar, but I suppose next weekend will work."
The call ends, and I let out a long sigh, dropping the phone on the bed. It's like Lyle's still haunting me, turning even my family against me.