The more I think about it, the more I feel sick to my stomach. He's had it hard. And then there's his house, the room he won't let me go into, and the empty place he's come home to every night. It's desolate and empty. That has to be a reason he feels no urgency to make it a home, why he doesn't even bother to furnish the rooms. He's content with how it is and that makes me even more sorry for the way I behaved. He didn't deserve my judgment or criticism.
When I pull into the driveway, I spot Tucker's truck parked off to the side. He doesn't bother parking in the driveway any more since he's usually leaving before me in the morning. I should be the one parking on the side of the road, not him. The guilt keeps piling on.
Because he's the nice guy he is, the outdoor light is on, giving me visibility to the side of the house. He's always considerate.
See that wheelbarrow behind me? You can start shoveling all the guilt in there.
When I open the side door, I notice immediately how quiet the house is. Usually I can hear the faint sound of Tucker's TV coming from his bedroom, but I hear nothing. I check my watch and notice it's only a little past eight. He must have an extremely early morning if he's already asleep.
The house is dark besides one light above the sink, illuminating the kitchen and spotlighting a set of mugs on the counter top. My heart seizes in my chest. Oh, what has he done?
Stacked up like a pyramid is a set of seven teal mugs, one for each day of the week, labeled appropriately in cute cursive. Sticking out below them is a note. With trepidation, I set my backpack on the counter and pick up the note, my hand shaking uncontrollably. I quickly unfold it and read Tucker's signature chicken-scratch handwriting.
Emma,
Sorry about the mug situation. It's only been me, so I never thought of having more. Saw these at Target, thought you would like them. Now you have one for every day of the week.
Tucker
Tears start to fall down my cheeks from the thoughtful gesture. Here I am, barging in on his space and acting like a total priss, calling him names, and he does something like this. Forget the wheelbarrow of guilt; I'm going to need a dump truck.
I hold the note close to my heart and walk toward my bedroom when from the corner of my eye, something bright catches my attention. In the dining room, on the card table, is a bouquet of flowers with another note tucked under the vase. It feels impossible to breathe as I step forward to read it.
Emma,
Thought you might like a little color in the house. Ever since I've known you, having a home and a family has meant everything to you. I'm sorry this place isn't more like a home. I hope this helps.
Tucker
"Oh my God." My cheeks are stained with sorrow, with regret, with remorse for everything I said to him. How can he be so nice when I'm the one who should be apologizing?
I press the other note to my chest and go to my bedroom where I grab a set of pajamas and go through my nighttime routine.
When I reach the bathroom, I feel as though someone punched me in the gut and knocked all the wind out of me. Instead of the plain shower curtain encasing the tub, a white curtain with pink flamingos scattered across the fabric hangs from the railing. On the floor, a matching pink rug. Hanging on the towel hooks are pink, fluffy oversized towels, and on the back of the toilet is a pink flamingo wearing sunglasses holding a margarita glass. A snort of a laugh pops out of me, along with more tears. When I face the mirror, I'm greeted with a note taped to the glass. This one doesn't need to be unfolded.
Emma,
Saw the flamingo shower curtain and went a little crazy. I'm not thrilled about the pink, but fuck, the towels are soft. Also, the medicine cabinet is cleared out and there is a special decorative box next to the toilet for any personal things you need to put in there. Sorry I didn't think of it beforehand.
Tucker
And that does me in. I break down, right there on the flamingo-attacked bathroom. I hold my pajamas in my hands and cry, hating myself. He went through all this . . . for me. He got pink towels for me. He got a tampon box for me.
Peeling myself off the ground, I quickly get ready for bed while thoughts of Tucker swarm through my mind. When I reach for my toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, I immediately notice the absence of his condoms and in place of them, a note.
Emma,
Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Sorry, Em. I hope you can forgive me.
Tucker
That does it. I can't go to bed without talking to him. I don't care if he's asleep. I quickly brush my teeth, wipe the tears off my cheeks, and deposit my clothes in my room. When I reach the bottom of the stairs that lead to his room, I try to tamp down the twisting and churning feeling in my stomach through taking deep breaths. Tucker doesn't want an emotional wreck barging in on him. Be cool, Emma.
Feeling marginally composed, I take the steps one at a time, the creak of them sounding loud within the silent house. If he wasn't awake, he's awake now.