A Little Time
RECOMMENDED TRACK: Rachel Platten – Bad Thoughts
I didn’t talk to Misha for most of Saturday.
That wasn’t my intent, not really. I declined breakfast Saturday morning, then got distracted covering a last-minute shift at work. My phone hadn’t charged right on its crappy cable overnight, and I didn’t realize until it died right after I’d texted him to beg off going to the party. When I got home, I plugged it in without turning it on. Maybe I was subconsciously avoiding him.
I channeled my energy into jotting down some thoughts on my hypothetical thesis for the next year. My conversation with Adrian had inspired me to think about adaptations into musicals a little more, and I spent time digging into the ones I thought were especially interesting. It kept me occupied for hours.
As soon as I turned off my school-brain, though, I missed Misha. The apartment felt bigger without his large presence, and not a good kind of bigger. A lonely kind of bigger.
I turned on my phone and saw just a few texts from him earlier in the day. I considered calling him. But I knew he’d be at the Sig party—probably already in the thick of it. He might not even hear the phone if I called.
So I went to bed, intent on reaching out the next day, apologizing, and talking to him about how I felt. I’d convinced myself the feelings were legitimate enough to talk about and had planned out how I’d say so. I was back on solid ground.
I thought.
The earth shook while I slept.
I woke up at 8 a.m. when my phone’s do-not-disturb turned off and alerted me to a slew of texts. I yanked up the phone and looked at the one at the top of the stack.
It said, “I’m sorry.”
It was from Misha.
All the dread I’d felt at Dina’s approach, at the video Vi sent me, snapped back into place like a crack of lightning.
Misha’s texts, all from after midnight, were a mess that told me everything and nothing all at once.
I dismissed the thread and tried to inhale. Breathe. Stay calm. He just did something stupid. Something he thought I would care about. That he needed me to know didn’t mean anything. For a dare.
He reached out to tell me. He’s being honest.
But what if whatever he did meant something to me?
The rational part of my brain read the texts like a story, pieced together what had probably happened. The part that was trembling wildly flipped to my other messages and sure enough, there was one from Vi with a link to an Instagram post.
Dina’s.
She had posted a video of some girl jiggling up to Misha and asking him something with a perky little smile. He said something back, and then she kissed him.
Not a short kiss.
Not a closed-mouth kiss, either.
The text on the post? A vague “I told you so” that was clearly meant for me.
I felt a flush of anger and embarrassment flood through me, accompanied by the nasty little thoughts that weren’t just whispering anymore.
You knew what you signed on for.
You knew this was coming.
You weren’t enough.
It’s over.
That thought roared past the others, self-doubt finally quashed by something more paralyzing. The fear that this thing that felt so right might be over already halted my spiral of anxiety in its tracks. I tried to breathe but couldn’t for what felt like forever before my rational thoughts caught up to the distress.
Stop, I forced myself to think, picturing the panic as a car screeching to a halt before it could crash. I dropped the phone to the floor and took a deep breath, then another, and a third.
Breathing came back, eventually, but the weight threatened to bear back down on me still.
So I focused on counting as high as I could, pushing myself out of bed and going through the motions of my morning. I made breakfast. Brushed my teeth. Got dressed. Realized I had tears running down my cheeks when I pulled my sweater on and it rubbed them all over my face.
Then a series of knocks sounded at my door, loud, pounding ones that I knew immediately were Misha. Misha, who remembered when my phone’s do-not-disturb ends.
And my stupid apartment still felt too big.
I trudged over to the door, wiping my eyes, and pulled it open.
Misha moved like he was going to burst in, then took one look at me and took a half-step back. For a split second his face was stricken, eyes blown wide, then scrunched like he might cry, too. I went through a whole fresh spiral of hating seeing him like that while also feeling relieved that he cared enough to do so.
“Emma,” he said. “Can we talk? Please.”
You’re not ready yet. You’re still shivering. He just wants to break up with you anyway.
“Yes,” I said, but I was shaking my head, which was probably confusing. “But…not right now. I need a little time.”
Misha’s brows knit together. “What does that mean? How much time?” He frowned. “This is American code for breaking up, yes?” He thrust his hands in his pockets and stepped further back, like he was going to turn and leave. “Just tell me.”
Don’t let him go.
“No!” I said, reaching out and grasping his jacket sleeve, trying to make sense of my jumbled thoughts. “No, Misha, I’m not—I don’t know what other people mean when they say that. But I just woke up a little while ago. I saw your messages, and…and a video.” I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. Misha’s face fell in obvious misery and he reached out a hand, then pulled it back uncertainly. “I’m upset,” I continued. “And I don’t want to snap at you and say something I regret. I just need time to cool off.”
Misha ran his hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said, looking defeated. “How long?”
I sighed and thought about it, leaning against the door jamb. “Come back after lunch,” I said after thinking about it, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Let’s say one o’clock.”
Too soon. He won’t take it seriously.
But I’d waited too long to talk to him as it was, and I knew it.
“That soon?” He asked, like he didn’t quite believe me. “That is…what, three hours?” He pulled out his phone and looked at the time, then back at me. “Four hours?”
“Yeah. That soon,” I answered.
“I…” That did nothing to ease his visible skepticism, but he nodded. “Okay. One o’clock,” he said. “I’ll come back.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
He took a few steps backwards down the hall, watching me as I closed the door. I turned to throw myself into my armchair, feeling awful. I could tell he was assuming the worst, but this felt too important to navigate while my stomach was still churning with anxiety, while the image of the nameless girl kissing him was still flickering through my head.
I knew I’d forgive him. Already had, a little.
But what did I want after that? He showed up, he wanted to talk, he still wanted something from me, even though a dark corner of my mind felt otherwise. But maybe he still wanted casual flings, too. Maybe I was making things too difficult for him.
You shouldn’t have let him leave. What if he doesn’t come back?
I tried to shake off the intrusive thoughts, snatching up a well-worn book from my shelves. It barely mattered which one. I just needed to break the loop in my head before it went on too long. I flipped open The Witch of Blackbird Pond about halfway through and dug in.
A little over an hour later, I finished—it’s a kids’ book—and shut it with a deep exhale, tucking it back into place. The looping voice in my head was quieter now, and I could think for real.
I glanced at the clock. 10:53. I had two hours to decide what to say to Misha when he came back.
If he came back. Please come back.
Author’s Note
B-Side Track: Regina Spektor – Fidelity
No bonus content this week because everyone’s too upset.
I don’t know about you, but I am a person who cannot hash things out in the moment. Like Emma, I need time to get out of the initial Feeling Fog to make sure I don’t do something I regret.
FUN FACT:
There’s no special symbolism or meaning to Emma reading The Witch of Blackbird Pond here, other than that I really liked it as a kid, and had been thinking about it a little before I wrote this chapter.
What do you think Emma does next? What about Misha? My poor kids.