We Loved Until We Couldn’t Novel – Chapter 9
Tara — the roommate who loves to hear herself sing — is rushing around the living room, collecting keys, shoes, and a pair of sunglasses.
I’m sitting on the couch, opening old shoeboxes stuffed with bits of my past — things I brought back when I went home for my father’s funeral this week.
“You work today?” Tara asks, glancing at me as she slides on a shoe.
“Nope. I’ve got bereavement leave until Monday.”
She stops mid-motion. “Monday?” She scoffs. “Lucky bitch.”
“Yes, Tara. I’m so lucky my father died.”
The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it — but once it’s out, I realize it doesn’t sound nearly as sarcastic as I meant it to.
“You know what I mean,” she mutters.
She grabs her purse, balancing on one foot while shoving the other into a heel. “I’m not coming home tonight. Staying over at Ben’s place.”
The door slams behind her before I can respond.
We have a lot in common on the surface — same age, same shoe size, both with four-letter names ending in a — but beyond that, not much else connects us. And that’s fine by me. Aside from the constant singing, she’s tolerable. She’s clean, and she’s gone a lot. Two of the most important traits in a roommate.
I pull the lid off one of the shoeboxes just as my phone rings.
Reaching across the couch, I see the caller ID and groan. My mother.
I press my face into a throw pillow and fake-cry before answering.
“Hello?”
There’s a brief pause, and then—“Hello, Iris.”
I sigh and sit up. “Hey, Mom.”
Honestly, I’m surprised she’s calling. It’s only been a day since the funeral — 364 days sooner than I expected to hear from her.
“How are you?” I ask.
She exhales dramatically. “Fine. Your aunt and uncle went back to Nebraska this morning. It’ll be my first night alone since…”
Her voice trails off.
“You’ll be fine, Mom,” I say, trying to sound confident — even though I’m not sure she will be.
There’s a pause. Then, gently, she says, “Iris, I just want you to know you shouldn’t be embarrassed about what happened yesterday.”
I pause.
I wasn’t. Not even a little bit.
“Everyone freezes up once in a while,” she continues. “I shouldn’t have put that kind of pressure on you, knowing how hard the day already was. I should’ve just asked your uncle to do it.”
I close my eyes.
Here she goes again — rewriting reality to make it easier to live with.
Of course she’s convinced herself I “froze up.” Of course she believes that’s why I stood there, silent, at the podium.
She can’t handle the truth: that I didn’t have a single good thing to say about the man she chose to marry.
Still, guilt creeps in. I shouldn’t have done it — not in front of her, not like that.
So I let her version stand. “Thanks, Mom. Sorry I choked.”
“It’s fine, Iris.”
Her voice softens. “I need to go — I’ve got a meeting at the insurance office about your father’s policies. Call me tomorrow, okay?”
“I will,” I say quietly. “Love you, Mom.”
“I love you too.”
The line clicks off.
I toss my phone across the couch and turn back to the box in my lap.
On top lies a small, wooden, hollow heart. I trace my fingers over its surface, remembering the night it was given to me.
The memory hits harder than expected, so I set it aside before nostalgia can pull me under.
I dig deeper through the box, shifting old letters and yellowed newspaper clippings until I find what I was both hoping — and dreading — to see.
My Nora Diaries.
Three of them are in this box, though I know there are at least eight or nine in total. I run my hand over the covers.
I haven’t opened them since the last time I wrote in them.