The Years by Kalila Holt

Today, you texted him. “Happy birthday!” said the text. He did not respond, and from here on out, you will not speak again.

A month ago, you saw him while you were on a Tinder date with someone else. At least you think it was him, having a beer with his brother. You kept squinting over your date’s shoulder to check. Your date’s name was Brian, and he did something related to ticket sales. You did not walk over to say hello, and afterwards, you were proud of yourself. You called your mom to tell her that you were moving on. Brian texted you later that night to say what a great time he had and you forgot to respond.

Four months ago, you threw away the mug.

Two days before that, you liked an Instagram post of him and Claire from work on the Staten Island Ferry. You hoped this would make you seem chill and reasonable. Later that night, you spilled a glass of water and started sobbing.

Six months ago, you could not sleep again and you wanted to text him but of course knew you shouldn’t, so you deleted his number. Then you panicked about no longer having his number, so you googled, “how to undelete a phone number” and read a bunch of confusing message boards. Then you smoked a lot of weed but it just made you overly aware of your own body and so finally you texted your therapist, who said you could do a phone session in the morning. Your therapist had nothing helpful to say.

Seven months ago, he broke up with you for the second time. You were in the kitchen of his apartment, which had crumbs all over the floor and a black and white picture of Truman Capote on the fridge. “We broke up for a reason,” he said to you. “This isn’t working, this is bad,” by which he meant your jealousy, your neediness, that you didn’t like foreign films, that your teeth were not straight… You were crying and you wanted him to put his hand on your back but instead he did not touch you at all. He called you a car so that you had to leave his apartment.

Eight months ago, you went to Eve’s housewarming together. “I thought you were broken up,” Eve whispered to you. “Not anymore,” you grinned.

Nine months ago, you texted him, “How’s it going?” and the two of you started talking. He told you all about how they might have to ask Mike to leave the band because his drinking had gotten so bad, but Mike was an old friend and so he felt the need to take care of him but he didn’t know how. You told him about work and how you thought they might offer you a promotion but you didn’t really want the extra responsibility and that made you feel like an unambitious and unappreciative person. Then it was 11pm and he asked if you wanted to get a drink, and then it was 1am and you’d had four frozen pina coladas and put the four tiny umbrellas in your hair, and then it was 1:30am and you were back at his apartment having sex. “This doesn’t mean we’re back together,” he told you afterwards. “I know that,” you said.

Six weeks before that was the night you’d sat in the hallway of his apartment building sobbing for him to let you in until finally you fell asleep out there. When you woke up, your neck was sore all along one side and the guy next door had left you a bottle of water and two-pill pack of ibuprofen.

A week before that had been the blow up at the holiday party. “Claire is one of my best friends!” he shouted at you. You were on the street, wearing a coat that was too thin and a piece of tinsel you’d wrapped around your neck like a scarf. Claire never seemed to need anything. She knew how to sail a boat on her own. She had very straight teeth.

A year ago, you got into this game where you compared imitations of Seth Rogen. His was a little better—he hit the right level of gravelly. The two of you couldn’t stop laughing.

Two months before that, you’d texted to ask if you could come over. “I’m tired,” he texted back, and then for some reason you were crying. “You don’t even have to talk to me, I’ll just sit there silently and look at my phone,” you wrote him. “K,” he texted back. “Have you been crying?” he asked when you showed up. “No,” you said, “are you annoyed that I’m here?” “No,” he said.

Labor Day weekend, you’d gone to Maine. You swam in the ocean and lay in the sun. He kept his hand on your leg. You watched a seagull drop an oyster over and over to try and crack it, and eventually he got up and cracked the oyster for the seagull using a rock. The seagull flew off with it. Everyone on the beach cheered.

Mid-August, you sat on his bed sweating and drinking a beer. “What do you think is your biggest problem in a relationship?” you asked him. He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “I guess that I keep cheating on people.”

At Eve’s Fourth of July party, you guys slipped off and had sex in the bathroom. You couldn’t stop giggling the rest of the night because nobody knew. In retrospect, everybody knew.

A month before that is when he squinted at your mouth and said, “When’s the last time you went to the dentist?”

Two weeks prior, Eve sighed and said, “Okay, well as long as you’re happy, I’m happy.” “I’m happy,” you said.

Three weeks before that, he gave you a mug with a bad picture of his face on it for your birthday. He also took you out to dinner and a play. The play was something he picked out and you didn’t understand it, so afterwards you just asked a broad question about the symbolism because that seemed safe. In bed that night, you admitted that you were afraid you were defective, and that if anyone really got to know you, they would realize you were needy and unsophisticated and a drag to be around. “Everyone is afraid of that,” he whispered. “But you’re not like that at all.”

“Uh…” he said a month before that. “I mean, I am. It’s just something about hearing the word boyfriend that makes me feel weird.”

Four months before that, he’d found you on Instagram, and messaged to make sure you got home safe from the party. It had gotten so late, he’d waited for a G train for 20 minutes. Also, what was the name of that TV show you’d been talking about? It sounded interesting. You couldn’t stop smiling. That wasn’t why he’d found you and you both knew it. The TV show was a reality show called “Are You The One?” and you wrote back to tell him so.

The night before was Eve’s birthday party, and you started talking to this guy from her softball league. He was wearing a shirt that looked like it was from a bar, but that turned out to be a movie reference. He said something disparaging about a girl you hate that made you laugh in delight, and when you walked away to get another drink, he found you again. “You again,” you said. He extended his hand for you to shake. “By the way,” he said, “I’m Henry.” 

Kalila Holt is from Chicago and lives in Brooklyn. She’s previously been published in wigleaf, The Baltimore Review, and Salamander, and she produces the podcast Heavyweight. People are usually surprised by how tall she is. You can follow her on Twitter @kalilaholt.

15 April 2022