Perfect for Me by Claudia Burgoa

Author:Claudia Burgoa [Burgoa, Claudia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Literally Alpaca Publications, LLC

Chapter Twenty-One

Elliot

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. ― Pablo Neruda

“Is there anyone home?” Kyle calls out as we enter Hazel’s apartment.

“Are we expecting someone?”

“No, I told you that Hazel is in Santa Cruz,” he retorts. “Happily tearing down the walls of her old house.”

He pulls out his phone and shows me a picture of the debris that she posted on Instagram.

“She’s planning on staying there until five o’clock.” He looks at his watch. “I promised to help her with the walls and her bookcases. We have about ten hours to finish the job.”

Thanks to him, today I take another big step toward showing Hazel that there is something worth saving. Our friendship, but also us. Our love never died. I’ll show her we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives together.

The first step is reminding her of our plans. Confirm that I can make her dreams come true. Like the one where she owns as many volumes as the Library of Congress. Or at least a room dedicated to one of her biggest passions, books. It would be filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Among other promises I made, one was to build her a house with an extensive library. I’m not in the position to offer her that just yet, but at least I can create a home for her books.

As I survey the apartment, I’m saddened to see that her essence isn’t here. Only her distinctive aroma permeates the space. There are no flowers around, but their scent lingers. The living room area is bigger than I predicted from the outside.

Maybe the extra space will allow me to construct a built-in bench under the window so Hazel can read in there. I scan the area for a personal touch, something that suggests she lives here. Nothing. The hardwood floors need polishing. The walls are white, and the leather couches make the place look elegant.

This reminds me of her office.

It’s cold and so unlike her. She’s warm, filled with color and different shapes. I imagined her house would have tapestries or a few pieces of art hanging on the wall, and she’d definitely have flowers and souvenirs from places she has visited.

On the other side of the wall, I spot several cardboard boxes. I march toward them and read the scribbles with black ink. Books Box # 7. Every box says the same. It only changes the number assigned to it. Two of them read frames, fragile, handle with caution.

“Awe, you made the bookcases,” Kyle mocks me, pointing at the stuff I’m unpacking. “Do you want extra brownie points, my Eagle Scout?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I warn him. “Where’s the paint?”

“I had to see what I’m painting. She didn’t say much during our text exchange.” He shakes his head, pulling his phone. “She said, ‘I’ll be a rebel and paint the walls red.’”

“That’s all she said?”

Taking a few steps, I reach for his phone and read the texts before he makes up shit.

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