Milkrun

by Sarah Mlynowski

  I need to take a shower. I’m disgusting. My eyes are sticky. I hate when I don’t get washed before going to bed. My makeup is probably all over my pillow. The message button is flashing. How many phone calls did I sleep through this morning, exactly?

  Iris. Iris. Wendy (“Call me back—it’s urgent!”). Iris. Iris. My dad (“Happy New Year, Fern!”). Iris.

  First I search the house again. Under the couch? Nope. In the closet? Nope. Where the hell is my wallet?

  This is the second time I’ve lost my wallet. The first time was at Penn. It was during exams and Wendy and I were going to the library to study. I decided to leave my wallet at home because of the signs posted all over the book stacks: “Thieves lurk here. Keep an eye on your valuables.” So I, very responsibly I might add, left my wallet on the kitchen table, and we went to the library. Four hours later, we returned to find the door slightly ajar. Strange, at first it didn’t register in my brain that someone broke in. I thought the landlord had changed our locks. Wendy pushed in the door, and then it hit me that we’d been robbed.

  I started screaming not to go in. What if someone was still there? But Wendy was already inside looking around. The TV was still there. The VCR, too. I ran into my room. Computer? Check. Printer? Check. Stereo? Check. So we assumed nothing had been taken. All is well, we thought, until two hours later when I couldn’t find my Madonna: The Immaculate Collection. So not only did the idiot steal only CDs, but they picked the two worst collections in Philadelphia. Collectively, Wendy and I owned two Chicago’s Greatest Hits, two Air Supply’s Greatest Hits, one Here Come the Hits (funky 80s mix), one Pretty in Pink, and one The Spice Girls. Inexplicably, they left behind Cyndi Lauper’s Greatest Hits.

  The next morning I realized the CD bandit had also taken my wallet from the kitchen table. When I told my dad, he confidently replied it was a good thing he had told me to photocopy everything in my wallet, in case.

  A good thing. It was a good thing he told me.

  And it’s a good thing I learned from the experience and started making copies in case it ever happened again.

  A good thing.

  Damn.

  Now the song “Time After Time” keeps playing in my head.

  A bad thing.

  I call Wendy.

  “Happy New Year!” she says cheerfully. “I’m glad it’s you. I made a New Year’s resolution.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m quitting my job.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to Europe.”

  “Wen…that’s so not you.”

  “It is now.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. I bought an open-ended ticket.”

  An open-ended ticket! What if she never comes back? What if she moves to Paris and I have to take French lessons just to communicate with her? “You already bought a ticket?”

  “Last night. I was playing around on the computer and I bought it on the Net.”

  Boy, the Net must have been pretty busy last night. Everyone seems to have been buying tickets. “They made you stay at work on New Year’s Eve?”

  “They didn’t make me do anything,” she answers a bit too defensively. “I wanted to finish something.”

  “Do you really have it in you to take off just like that?”

  Pause. “I’m not sure. But I really want to. I want to be happy. And I’m not. All I do is work and sleep. And talk to Bubbe. It’s not a life.”

  “So just get your own place. You don’t have to go across the world.”

  “But I want to! I want to do something crazy. Want to come?”

  No. Yes! “To Europe? I can’t go to Europe.”

  “Why not? I am.”

  “Because…I have a job, an apartment.” An apartment soon to be minus one roommate. “And Iris is here.”

  “Iris? She’s visiting?”

  “Long story. Where are you flying to?”

  “Heathrow.”

  Ah, London. “That’s not fair. You know I’ve always wanted to go to London.”

  “So come.”

  “I can’t. When are you going?”

  “The beginning of February.”

  “In one month? You can’t leave so soon! What if I have an emergency? How will I know where to find you if you’re off gallivanting somewhere in Europe?”

  “So come!”

  “Get real, Wen. I can’t just leave. I told you, I have a job.”

  “So do I.”

  “And I lost my wallet.”

  “Again?”

  “What again? It was stolen last time.” Wendy has this crazy theory that I “fabricated” the stolen wallet story and actually left it at the chocolate bar vending machine at the library.

  “If you say so. Where did you lose it?”

  “If I knew where, it wouldn’t be lost, would it?”

  “False. You could know where you last saw it.”

  “At the bar last night.”

  “You’d better cancel your cards right away.”

  “What a pain in the ass.”

  “You have to do it right away. Don’t procrastinate.”

  But what if I find it?

  Buzz.

  “Someone’s buzzing from downstairs. Hold on.”

  It had better not be another family member coming to visit. Please, please, please, let it not be Janie coming here to fetch Iris. Not that I want my sister to stay. I just can’t deal with Janie right now. Maybe it’s Andrew. I seem to remember him saying something about checking up on me today.

  “Who is it?”

  “Jeremy.”

  Omigod. What is he doing here in Boston? What is he doing at my apartment? I can’t open the door smelling like this. I don’t want to see him. “Come up,” I say and buzz him in. Why did I do that? He can’t see me like this. I’m dirty. He can’t smell me like this. Do I have time to shower before he comes up? I have about three minutes before he’s upstairs.

  The intercom buzzes again. “What apartment are you?”

  “Five-oh-eight.”

  I’m amazed he even remembered the building. The last time he saw the place was when we came to Boston to check it out together. Before he deserted me and ruined everything. Two minutes and forty seconds left.

  When the knock appears on my door, three minutes and eleven seconds later (the elevator must have been stuck in the basement again—I usually hate when that happens, but now I’m thrilled that I had the extra time—my teeth are brushed, my face is washed, my jeans and sweater are on, I’m sprayed with perfume (no time for a dab on each arm, only for one all-encompassing spray), and my hair is tucked under the Red Sox hat he bought me. I hope he appreciates the gesture. I hope he remembers giving it to me.

  Omigod. Jeremy’s here. Why is Jeremy here?

  Knock, knock. I open the door. He’s standing in front of me, wearing a black leather jacket, faded blue jeans, and the black boots we bought together last spring. Why does he always smell so good?

  “Hi,” he says, trying to maintain eye contact.

  “Hi.” Don’t look him in the eye; don’t look him in the eye. I have to stay mad at him. He’s seeing Crystal Werner. He’s sleeping with Crystal Werner. He used at least seven condoms with Crystal Werner. “And you’re here because…?” This question is getting old.

  “Can we talk?”

  I’m confused. “Can we talk?” is a question that usually precedes a breakup. We’re already broken up. “I don’t want to talk.”

  “Please? Let me come inside.”

  “No.”

  “Please. I miss you.”

  Ah. The three words every jilted woman longs to hear besides “I love you,” or “(insert name) marry me,” or “I’m a jerk,” or “Use my Visa.”

  He misses me.

  “Please?”

  And he’s saying please…. “Okay. We can talk. But Iris is here.”

  “She’s in for the holidays?”

  “Not exactly.”

&nb
sp; “Come to my place.”

  So he has a place already. “I’m not going to your place.” Does he think I’m going to fall back into his arms, just like that? Don’t I at least merit groveling?

  “Why do you have a picture of naked people on your wall?” He is referring to Tim’s Christmas present, which is hanging above the couch in the living room. There’s no more wall space in my room.

  “It was a present.”

  “It’s weird.”

  “So don’t look at it.” Is this why he came here? To annoy me?

  “I’m sorry,” he says, gently touching my arm. “Only I’m talented enough to piss you off when I’m trying to suck up. Will you come to the Public Garden with me?”

  A garden? How cute is that? “But it’s winter.”

  “It’s nice out. I’ll keep you warm. Please?”

  “Okay.”

  What’s wrong with me?

  We’re sitting by the swan pond, which presently is swanless due to the season. He takes off his coat so that we can sit on it. Kind of sweet, actually.

  Is it possible he’s changed?

  He doesn’t even care that he’s cold. He’s thinking only about me.

  It’s possible.

  He puts his hand on my knee. “I’m sorry about Crystal.”

  Yeah, me, too. “Is it over?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  I’m kind of curious about the details of their relationship, but I’m probably better off not knowing. I don’t want to know. But—did she dump him? May be he dumped her. But what if she dumped him? Do I really want to be with someone else’s dumpee? What if he just wants to be with me because I live here and she doesn’t?

  I run my fingers over his hand. I notice he’s been taking care of his nails. They’re so square, as if he’s had a manicure.

  He leans over and kisses me. I kiss him back. The familiar feel of his mouth feels nice. I guess we’re getting back together.

  He wants to show me his apartment, so I go. He’s rented a small one-bedroom on Charles. I recognize the gray couch and wall units from his old place at Penn. Boxes are scattered all over the floor.

  “The place is cute,” I remark. He takes my jacket and hangs it up on what appears to be a new purchase—a coat stand. Appears to be a new purchase because the bottom is still sitting in a long rectangular box.

  “Thanks. My mom found it for me.”

  “That was nice of her. When did you move in?”

  “Two days ago.” He runs the tips of fingers against my cheek, letting them linger on the back of my neck. We kiss. And keep kissing. “Want to christen the bedroom?” he pulls back and asks.

  Am I really ready to take him back?

  His hand traces lines up my back.

  “Is it okay if I shower first?”

  “Let me get you a towel.” He pulls out a gray fluffy towel from the linen closet and wraps it around my shoulders. I used to love when he did that. We’d shower together and then he’d get out while I stayed warm under the water spray. A few moments later, I’d come out and he’d wrap the towel around my body, kissing me lightly on the lips.

  The mirror in the bathroom has a row of round halogen lights on either side. Pretty fancy for a guy’s apartment. The sun shines through the horizontal plastic blinds, casting prison bars across the floor’s pale blue tiles. What does he have in the cabinet? I slowly open the mirrored door so that it doesn’t make any noise. I see a small white box. Is that a condom box? Does he keep condoms in the bathroom? Has he already had sex in the shower? Would I be christening the bedroom but not the apartment, since he’s already had sex with some girl behind the navy blue shower curtain that matches the bath rug?

  Wait a minute. Let’s give the guy a chance. He could have bought a box here in Boston, hoping, dreaming, et cetera, that he’d be able to use them with me. How many condoms come in a box again? Ten? Or is it twelve? Who figures out these things? Why not fifteen, or twenty, or one for each day of the month? What is the marketing strategy behind packaging condoms?

  If there are any missing, I’m leaving.

  Oh. The white box is full of vitamins.

  I close the cabinet and turn on the water. Too cold. I turn the faucet knob to the left. Too hot. I hate not being able to find the exact line between hot and cold. I turn the shower on, or try to. I hate when this happens, too. I can’t figure out how to get the shower part going. Why is it so hard to start the shower? There it is. The water is hot as I step onto a prison bar and reach for the soap. He has Dove. I have a feeling his mother came and set up the entire apartment before he got here.

  Hmm. He’s been here for two days. What did he do on New Year’s Eve? If he’s so crazy about me, why didn’t he call me? Was he at Orgasm? I didn’t see him at Orgasm. Did I see him at Orgasm? Did he see me at Orgasm? Did he see me sitting by myself at the bar? Maybe he saw me with Andrew. Maybe he saw me leave with Andrew and is now afraid I’m getting on with my life, worried he’ll lose his hold on me. Will he lose interest as soon as he feels comfortable again?

  Here I am, a complete mass of confusion, standing under his Magic Massager showerhead, the hot water beating against my back. When did I become “the insecure girl”? When did I become the “searches-through-her-boyfriend’s-cabinet-to-count-how-many-condoms-he-has girl?”

  I can’t breathe—there’s too much steam in here. I turn off the water and step out of the stall. I have to figure out what I should do, what I should say, who I should be. I open the window and wrap myself in the fuzzy gray towel and sit down on the tiled floor. If I count to ten, maybe the steam will disappear and I’ll be able to breathe again. One…two…three…If I count to ten, maybe by then the answers will come to me. Four…five…six…

  Do my attempted romantic relationships fail because I’m destined to be with Jeremy? Or because I’m afraid to let myself like someone else, care about someone else, admit that Jeremy and I are over?

  Am I in love? Or am I afraid of not being in love?

  Seven…eight…nine. Ten.

  Maybe we are meant to be together. The fact that we keep getting back together has to count for something.

  “Jer?” I call out. “Come here for a second!”

  “Hold on!” he yells from the living room. He opens the door. “It’s too hot in here. Come out.”

  “It’s too cold out there.” I pull his arm and he comes inside, leaving the door open behind him. “Are you in love with me?”

  He stares at me without answering. “I…How can I answer that? I just got here two days ago.”

  Wrong answer. “We’ve known each other for over three years. If you can’t answer that now, you’re never going to be able to.”

  His face turns red from the steam. “Are you in love with me?” he returns the question.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t say I love you. Maybe it doesn’t matter that I’ll always be monitoring the inventory in his condom box. Maybe this is as deep as it gets.

  Maybe the only thing deep here is what I’ve been walking through these last few months. I’d need boots that go all the way up my thighs if I were to stay with Jeremy.

  “I’m going home.”

  He watches me silently, and then leaves the bathroom. I put my clothes on and decide to take the subway. He doesn’t try to stop me.

  As I walk to the station, strands of my wet hair freeze into icicles. As soon as I get home, I’m taking a hot bath. Then I’m canceling my credit cards. Sometimes you just have to suck it up and cut your losses.

  18

  Can I Be Jo-Jo?

  WHEN I GET HOME, SAM AND Iris are sitting together on the couch, watching Law and Order.

  “Hi,” they say in unison.

  “Hi.”

  I join them under the afghan. “Anyone call?”

  “Yeah,” Iris says. “Andrew.”

  My heart stops for a second and then resumes. “What did he say?”

  “I don’t know. He hung up pretty quickly.”


  “Huh? Why did he hang up?”

  “He wasn’t very thrilled that you went out with Jeremy.”

  “Why did you tell him I went out with Jeremy?”

  “Oh, was it supposed to be a secret?”

  Shouldn’t sisters have radar for this type of thing? “How did you know I went out with Jeremy, anyway?” Wasn’t she barricaded in my room when I left?

  “Because after you yelled that you were leaving, I came out to get food, but you didn’t have any, so I decided to order a pizza on Janie, but the phone was off the hook with Wendy on it. Apparently you forgot about her. That wasn’t very nice, Jack. And she doesn’t approve of Jer. Do you know she’s going to London?”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! My sister is in town for less than three hours and already she’s turned my life upside down. I have to call Andrew right now. I run into my room and close the door. His machine picks up.

  I try again an hour later and leave another message.

  He doesn’t call back.

  By the next morning he still hasn’t called back.

  “What do I do?” I ask Sam.

  “He probably has call display. Try him from my cell.”

  It works. “Hello?” he says.

  “It’s me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nothing happened with Jeremy.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  It doesn’t matter? “Obviously it does or you wouldn’t be so pissed off.”

  “Maybe I’m pissed off because I think you’re a bit pathetic.”

  Ouch. That was a bit uncalled for. “Why am I pathetic?”

  “Because even though you say you want nothing to do with him, as soon as he whistles, you go running.”

  “That’s not true. I didn’t go running.” Here again is the problem with lying. What’s the point when the words sound hollow even to me?

  “Your sister said he knocked on your door and you left with him. I’d call that running, wouldn’t you?”

  “What do you expect? I had to give him a chance to explain. But nothing happened! We are not getting back together.”

  “Whatever you say. My bet is that you two are back together before Valentine’s Day.”