para001
tw: heartbreak, vague violent imagery, $10 earthwave garlic powder mention.
When Phoebe woke up that morning, she felt normal for about five seconds. The sun was seeping through her thin blinds, she could hear Misty scratching outside the door, and the lack of alarm had her momentarily excited for the things she could do on the day off she shared with Foster. She stretched out, arm hitting his side of the bed, the sheet cold, untouched.
Oh. Yeah.
She willed herself to roll over, to examine the unslept section of bed cover, where everything seemed preserved in the hours before total destruction. His empty cup of coffee from the morning before, that he brought back to bed with him because it was a rare Sunday off and Phoebe insisted they sleep in before his work-out routine called him. His worn notebook used for recipe ideas, laid almost carelessly on the floor as if it dropped out of his hands as he drifted off to sleep. Rolled off to a corner, half draped by the decorative curtain, the balled-up pair of socks he kept promising to pick up whenever either of them noticed.
She threw herself out of bed then, going over and pulling open his drawer of things. His shirts still neatly folded, his socks and underwear still occupying the space. As if to say, itâll all blow over soon. Iâm coming back.
Fuck, she wanted him to come back.Â
No, he could get fucked.
The scratching almost impossible to ignore now, Phoebe pulled away from the relics of Foster to focus on Misty, the cat rubbing her face as soon as the intern stepped into the living space, purring intently. She must be starving, Phoebe thought as she led her to the kitchen. Foster would have usually been up and fed her by now.
Catâs breakfast down, Phoebe went into auto-pilot mode, beelining back to the bathroom to make sure Misty had fresh litter down, and then back to the bedroom to...she didnât know, actually. What did you do the morning after a break up?Â
She observed the space, finding clues of the chef in almost every nook and cranny. Funny, when he moved in a mere month ago, she was worried he didnât have enough stuff with him. Now, it seemed like his presence was overwhelming. She went back to the drawer, taking out the whole section and, first ensuring Misty wasnât there, lobbying the full thing out of the bedroom door. Handfuls of Fosterâs things â his socks, his shoes, jackets hung up in the closet â all followed suit, creating a mound of clothing in the doorway, which she kicked over as she stormed out. Heading back to the bathroom she grabbed his toiletries to add to the pile. And then she reached the kitchen.
Grabbing a roll of trash bags, Phoebe hastily opened one, and in went his cookbooks, his preferred brand of coffee, fucking utensils she never had a use for in the first place. Useless stuff that made up him, and she couldnât bear the thought of his mark being in her home anymore.Â
She flew open cabinets, raided drawers, anything that was Fosterâs or Foster-adjacent being tossed into the bag. She even went back to fill another trash bag with the slowly growing tripping hazard outside her bedroom door, before going back to where his presence was felt most. All the fucking cooking lessons, all his late night smokes outside her window. The ashtray went straight into the bag. Another artifact of his existence in her apartment gone.
It was when she opened the cupboard usually reserved for seasoning, spices and other condiments did she pause.
There, staring at her right in the face, was the fucking ten dollar fucking Earthwave fucking garlic fucking powder.
Not even thinking, Phoebe hastily reached for it and without missing a beat, lunged it across the kitchen, the jar bouncing off the tiled floor and shattering everywhere, the smell of dried garlic filling the room, a dust cloud settling over shards of broken glass.
It was then, and only then, did Phoebe allow a sob to escape her. She fell to the ground, chest heaving, the sound breathless and hoarse, the stream of tears flowing down her cheeks so strong, her entire face stung from the irritation.Â
How could she have been so stupid? How did she not learn her lesson from her history with Spencer? With what others had told her about Foster?Â
Eventually, her broken heart would mend. Would be splintered and battered in places, sure, but it would heal up eventually. Her trust in people, however? If she couldnât trust the man she felt safest with in the whole world â the first person to truly make her feel like she was home â to be honest about himself, how could she ever trust anyone else?
Phoebe Yates was soft-hearted and weak, full of hope that people were more than their past and believing that they could do better.
It was the hope that killed you, in the end. And, curled up in a ball in her garlic dusted kitchen, Phoebe truly felt like her time was up, that she couldnât go another day feeling this broken.
