On the way up to our floor, I mull over the last conversation I had with Timothy. On the phone, in my parents’ bedroom. It wasn’t a bad call, I don’t think, but it wasn’t exactly great, either. Things between us were strained, for the most part, and I’m sure a lot of it is my fault. I just don’t know how to make it up to him, after all this time. It’s so easy to fall in with who I’ve always been before. He makes it easy to argue with him, to piss him off. Why should the burden of fixing our relationship rest solely with me?
Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe he’ll be happy to see me—there’s always a first time for everything. Maybe he’ll be glad that I’m home.
Maybe I should just stop wavering about it, I think, dragging the suitcase out of the elevator and down the hall to our doo
