Chapter Seventeen

Nick’s disappearance: day two.

The hotel room is freakishly neat considering the “Please Do Not Disturb” sign hung on the outside doorknob. I’ve been scrubbing the bathroom floor with the supplies I bought at the drug store on the corner. I’ve made the bed half a million times, only to fall against it in despair, and to remake it again.

The television hums softly in the background, providing noise enough to fill the huge gap left when one is alone in a strange place.

Nick’s suitcase sits quietly in the corner, not bulging, but neatly closed. I’ve folded every single piece of his clothing at least twice.

I’m wearing the most stretched-out pair of jeans I own and one of Nick’s baggy t-shirts. The faded, gray cotton hangs on my slender body and reeks of Nick’s cologne.

My knees ache, but I continue to scrub. I pretend that my scrubbing will erase something. Whether that something is Nick or just the dirt stains on the floor is unknown to me, but I decide to scrub until I am sure.

Cinderella scrubbed, and it all paid off, I think, sitting up and wiping my forehead. I run my fingers through my knotted hair. Even if Nick comes back, I’m a total mess. He’d probably just turn around and run out the door again.

I slowly push myself up off the bathroom floor, which, even after all my effort, is still unclean. “Fuck it,” I mutter, throwing the sponge down. “Fuck it all to hell.”

I reach in the shower and yank the knob on high. The water running over my hand is cool for a moment, and then instantly hot.

I unzip my pants slowly and imagine that Nick is behind me. The scent of his shirt convinces me further and I stand there, paralyzed, waiting for him to help in the process of removing my clothing. When his hands do not come my eyes snap open and I shake my head. I kick the pants off and quickly remove my panties to avoid any more wishful thinking.

Removing the shirt, however, is not such a quick process. My fingers run along the bottom hem tenderly, and I pull it over my body. Before completely removing it I hug it tightly, taking it in through my nose and breathing it in through my mouth. A hot tear burns down my cheek, and I push the shirt fiercely off and throw it towards the door.

Once in the shower, I can’t help but imagine the water is thousands of teardrops, scorching their way down my skin.

Why is it that boys think they can spare our feelings by not saying anything? They just leave us in the dark, waiting and waiting and watching for them to come around. Waiting for them to realize what they’re doing, what they’re missing.

Why is it that these things that are so great about you, these things that would make any boy the friggen luckiest man on the face of this earth, why is it that these things that are so plainly there are so invisible to them?

Them being Nick and the rest of his kind.

And I hate how standing in a shower brings all these things together to the point where I can’t tell whether the water falling down my face is crappy hotel shower water or just plain old tears.

And then the phone rings.