A Short Story by Marissa Padilla
The day Fiona moved out of their shared apartment, her partner—ex-partner—was the only person to help her move.
“It really is the least I can do, since you’re basically giving me a desirable rent-controlled apartment and all,” he said as they maneuvered a red armchair into the elevator. Fiona squeezed herself into the back corner, her stomach pressed so hard against the armrest of the ugliest piece of furniture in the apartment that she couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t like she could afford the place on her own anyway.
Across town, her new studio apartment gleamed with the potential of a razor blade or a bottle of pills. Oliver, her cat, took a brief look at the place and immediately hid in the back of the shoebox closet.
And it was all hers.
In the kitchen, the oven and refrigerator were parallel and packed together so tight that you couldn’t open both at the same time. There wasn’t a dishwasher. The only space for a microwave was on top of the fridge. Fiona put her mugs and plates in the skinny cupboards, then spent an inordinate amount of time debating which of the two drawers would hold the silverware and which would hold the cooking utensils.
Her mother checked in on her frequently via text. How are you doing today? Feeling better? Have you been going to therapy?
The bathroom was just big enough for one person to squeeze in front of the medicine cabinet. You could sit on the toilet and rest your head on the edge of the sink. Coincidentally, it was perfect for crying. The shower only ever reached a lukewarm temperature, the rest of the time it turned Fiona’s lips blue.
She kept in contact with her ex—or rather, he kept in contact with her. How’s the new place? Is Oliver doing ok? I saw this funny art exhibit today and thought of you.
The main room was built around her reluctant red armchair. The wooden bookcase was positioned to form a reading nook. To suggest a relaxing differentiation from the active reading area, the bed was clad in a sage green comforter. Fiona rarely sat in the armchair, but Oliver often took long, luxurious cat naps on the soft cushion.
When she finally decided to put herself out there again, Fiona felt Bumble was the best place to do it. It was hard to find pictures of herself that did not include her ex. It was even harder to find ones flattering enough to compete in the Los Angeles dating scene. After an hour spent digging through her camera roll, Fiona had only amassed three pictures of herself that didn’t make her want to throw her phone through the wall.
Then came the bio. What was she supposed to say about herself? Hi, I’m Fiona. I’m 26 and just went through a big break up. In my spare time I like to drink a bottle of wine and cry myself to sleep. Cat tax in the photos.
Finally, Fiona settled on what she considered to be a softened version of the truth. Not looking for anything serious atm, just want someone to hold me.
It was simple, yet oddly effective. While the matches didn’t pour in, there was a steady trickle. This was how she met Charles.
Charles was a man in his mid-30s. He knew the best taco stands and wasn’t afraid to stand in line for an hour to get pho. He had a certain dullness about him that Fiona couldn’t help but be fascinated by. Best of all, he always wore a bowtie.
“I’ve been to Italy. I ate pasta and drank wine. It was the greatest two weeks of my life,” he said between bites of asada.
If he had an interest other than food and his polydactyl cats, he didn’t mention it. But when he asked to kiss her and she said no, he didn’t take it personally. He went in for a fist bump instead.
Although their time together could only be characterized as a blip, it was Charles who inspired her to eat dinner with her wine, and it was Charles who inadvertently defined the next year of her life.
“I used to live in your neighborhood, right after a bad break up actually. I remember staring at the walls and thinking to myself, ‘Just breathe. This is not permanent. You are going to do great things.’ And now I work for a company that produces camera lenses for films.”
Fiona started writing again – not because of Charles, not because of anyone really. She wrote about dirty dishes, how the light burst into her apartment when she opened her thick curtains in the morning. She wrote about a woman named Georgia who, instead of murdering her ex-husband, made busts of his visage out of clay and squelched them with a mallet. She wrote about Oliver napping in the red armchair, his tiny tummy rising and falling with each sleepy breath.
You should give up on that crap, her ex had told her, You never finish anything anyway.
She rearranged the furniture in her apartment once a month. Fiona wasn’t sure what the perfect layout looked like, or if it even existed, but if it did she was determined to find it. She moved her desk into the closet alcove, combined the reading nook and sleeping area by putting the red chair next to the bed. She rearranged the books on the crimson shelves. Maybe fiction should be on top, not self-help.
You put so much care into the most useless things.
When Oliver fell sick one night, Fiona stayed calm. She did not panic when he continued to puke. She did not call her ex when streaks of red appeared in the vomit. Instead, she gingerly scooped Oliver into his carrier and took him to the emergency vet. She did not allow the vet tech to sell her on unnecessary services. She stood her ground, and politely demanded he be given the anti-nausea medication. Soon enough Oliver was back to sleeping in his chair. Fiona sat on the ground next to Oliver, her hand holding his paw while he slept.
You would be a terrible mother.
Slowly over time, a bottle of wine became half a bottle. Half a bottle became two glasses. Two glasses became an unfinished glass. Finally, the mostly-full bottle went rancid after being open for two months. Fiona poured it down the drain.
Almost a year had gone by now. While Fiona hadn’t found the perfect layout for her apartment, she had long ago settled on what she considered to be the best. Her lease was almost up. She wasn’t sure if she was going to stay or try to find an apartment with a dishwasher. And a hot shower. And parking. She looked around at the personalized sanctuary she had built for herself, a space that represented the best parts of who she was. And while she would be sad to leave, she knew that the spirit of it all would be with her anywhere she went.
When she got her ex-partner’s Save the Date in the mail, initially she thought it was a joke. It was late-March after all, maybe it was delivered a few days early. She snapped a picture of the perfect card and sent it to her ex. Haha, April Fool’s! You got me.
She was more than a little surprised when she received a phone call in return.
“It’s not a joke. I’m getting married and I would like for you to be there. We were such a big part of each other’s lives for so long, it would feel weird to go into this next chapter and not have you there cheering me on.”
Fiona stared intently at her red armchair, at Oliver snoozing on the cushion covered in his orange fur.
“Yeah, I just remembered I’m actually busy that weekend,” she said.
“Can’t you reschedule? This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”
“For you, I doubt it will be.” Then, she hung up. And when he tried calling back, she let it go to voicemail. The part of her life where she appeased him, shrank herself to make him feel bigger, was finally over.
Then, in a strange moment of bustling consciousness, Oliver came over and rubbed his face on her leg. Fiona was suddenly overtaken by a memory she had long kept repressed.
“Keep your eyes closed!” she said, excitement coating her voice. Doug giggled.
“Even if I opened them, your hands are covering my face.”
“Ok… now!”
Fiona pulled her hands away and Doug saw Oliver for the first time. It was love at first sight.
“You got me a cat!” Doug exclaimed. He slowly stuck his hand out for the kitten to inspect. The curious cat took one sniff, then immediately rubbed his warm face all over Doug’s hand.
“I got us a cat,” said Fiona, “I think we should name him Oliver.”
“As long as he needs me…” Doug trailed off. Fiona rolled her eyes.
“He’s gonna need you until he dies, you big nerd. Well, either him or us. He might eat our faces.”
“I love him,” said Doug, “And I also love you. Thank you for this.” He pulled Fiona into a tight hug, then turned his attention back to Oliver.
“Do you need some more, sir?” he said in a horrible Cockney accent.
Attending Doug’s wedding was an experience that could only be described as surreal. Fiona recognized half the people there, but they were all hesitant to talk to her. Except for Doug’s mom.
“I really thought it was gonna be you up there,” she said, her breath thick with the sweet scent of wine.
Fiona took a seat alone in the back of the groom’s section. Some of Doug’s family gave her a nervous glance. She smiled at Doug, who was standing at the front of the altar looking very put-together, almost shiny. When the bride entered, Fiona stood with everyone else. The couple said their vows, and Fiona couldn’t help but remember what she had planned to say at her wedding. I genuinely like you. I can’t say that for most people, but I can for you.
At the reception, Fiona was planning an early exit when Doug approached her with someone she had never seen before. She was very cute.
“Daisy, this is Fiona, who I’ve been telling you all about,” he said, “Fiona, this is Daisy, one of Monica’s friends. She was just telling me about how she thinks writers are sexy. Have fun, you two.”
That bastard!
“Hi,” Fiona said, holding out her trembling hand. When Daisy shook it, Fiona felt an electric current pass through her.
Just breathe. Just remember to breathe.