by Brooks, Abby
I steeled myself and delivered the news. “It’s a great deal and there’s a real bed.”
“It is hard to pass up on a real bed,” Mom conceded.
And with that, the conversation moved on.
Chapter Fifteen
from: JournalGirl
to: Mr. X
date: August 1, 2018 at 11:38 am
subject: Holy WOW, Batman!
I spent the last couple days trying to figure out how to respond to you. I wanted to come at you tit for tat. You hit me with some deep truths. I wanted to have some deep truths to throw right back your way.
After days of thought, all I have for you is WOW!
Yes.
You nailed it.
When you boil life down to its essence, what matters most is who and how you love.
I wonder, what have you lived through to find such wisdom? Deep heartache? Loss? Are you a young man or an old man? I’d expect you to be older with truth like that living inside you, but, all the cocky BS you left in my journal makes me think you’re younger.
Is that too much to the point?
Am I being too direct?
Under normal circumstances, I think the answer would be yes. But, considering what you said to me in my journal, it seems like you don’t care too much for formality and manners.
So, I ask, how old are you, Mr. X? What have you lived through that brought so much wisdom your way?
* * *
from: Mr. X
to: JournalGirl
date: August 1, 2018 at 11:55 am
subject: HEY THERE!
I can’t tell you how glad I was to see your name in my inbox. =)
I guess you’re right. I really did blast past all the formalities of politeness and manners, didn’t I?
I’m 31. Does that make me an old man or a young man?
Your question made me realize how much I don’t know about you. Your name. Your age. What you do for a living. And yet, I feel like maybe I know you better than anyone else in your life. I couldn’t pick you out in a crowd. I don’t know your favorite color. Or your favorite kind of music.
But I know the sunrise makes you smile. I know you sit outside as often as you can because the vastness of the sky, the birds calling to each other, the hum of cars in the distance, the vague hints of conversation, they all make you feel connected, like you’re part of something bigger than yourself.
I know you cry easily, and you hate it.
I know you are loyal to a fault.
I know you can find beauty in a blade of grass.
And I know you hate raisins as much as you hate feeling taken for granted.
Maybe those minor details like your name, your age, the color of your hair, maybe they don’t matter, because I know you. I couldn’t care less about the packaging around oatmeal cookies. They could come wrapped in a plain paper bag and they’d still be my favorite.
As for me and my ‘wisdom’ as you call it, my mom would say I came this way. I value introspection and growth. I’ve always seen the world differently than anyone else, though I think we all say that, don’t we? To some degree, we all feel like islands, surrounded by people facing slightly different directions, heading down slightly different paths. I wonder how many people actually find someone who meets all their needs, agrees with all their beliefs…
We are each so unique, finding a perfect match might be a fool’s errand.
But there I go again, wandering off after a thought, too shiny not to follow.
You’re right, by the way. I lived through some stuff that spurred my introspection on to a whole new level.
Will you tell me your name?
* * *
from: JournalGirl
to: Mr. X
date: August 1, 2018 at 11:58 am
subject: nope.
Really? You read my whole journal. You know the best and worst of me in a way no one else does and you’re going to avoid my question with an answer like ‘I lived through some stuff?’ Hardly seems fair, now does it? If you can’t tell, I’m unimpressed with your answer.
* * *
from: Mr. X
to: JournalGirl
date: August 1, 2018 at 12:15 pm
subject: RE: nope.
When you put it like that, no it doesn’t seem fair at all.
Do you know how many times I’ve started typing away, trying to explain what happened to me, only to erase it all and start again? This is probably my fourth start on this paragraph. It’s hard, baring myself to you like this. I can see now why you consider me a thief. There’s nothing more personal than the deepest parts of who we are, and I took those from you without asking. Again, I apologize. But at the same time, I’m not sorry at all. It was wrong of me to take what wasn’t given, but if given the chance, I would gladly make the same choice. Think of me what you will.
As far as the stuff I lived through…
I died last year. I came back, obviously. And I wasn’t dead long. But there were times, especially at first, that I wished I’d stayed wherever it was I went.
Coming back was hard. It changed everything. I realized how fragile we all are. I realized that so much of what we cherish means nothing in the end. I was alone through a lot of my recovery and I kept wondering why I was fighting so hard. Why battle through it all when I had nothing to battle for…?
I’m sure I’m making a mess of this description, but the biggest thoughts are the hardest to articulate. It’s probably why so many of us settle for less than our best. Chasing down new ideas means we have to stretch and sometimes that’s uncomfortable.
Honestly, there’s no ‘sometimes’ about it. Change sucks and it’s easier to settle for the devil we know than to risk opening our life to the possibility of even more hellfire and brimstone.
Anyway, after my family showed up, my recovery got easier. I stopped fighting life and started fighting for life. The whole experience brought everything into focus and now, well, now I know that I would do anything for the people who love me. And it leaves me feeling a little lost because so much in our lives is built around stuff and things. We champion the selfish…
“Be true to yourself! Go your own way! Find your passion! Be real! Buy our stuff and you’ll be happy/you’ll show them/you’ll know you’ve arrived!”
Arrived? The only place we’re aiming for is the grave. Life is movement, sometimes fluid and graceful, sometimes harsh and jolting, but things are always moving and changing. I don’t want to ‘arrive’ because that means it’s time to stop. I fought too hard to ever stop again.
Life is supposed to be about the journey, but all too often, we’re so focused on where we think we’re going, we never appreciate where we are. I can’t tell you how many times I thought I would finally be happy when I achieved this goal, or obtained that thing, only to get there and find myself still craving more. So I’d change the goal. Or find a new thing. It’s a constantly moving goalpost of unfulfillment.
It’s all so hollow, but it’s the only way people relate to each other—name brands and life goals and the like. And now that all I want to do is slow down and simplify and draw my family close, it’s like I’m standing alone while everyone wonders what the hell I’m going on about. Last year, I opened my eyes and saw everything there was to see and it’s AMAZING, but everyone else is standing next to me with their eyes squeezed shut, trying to get me to understand why I sound crazy. I just want to shake them. To yell at them. OPEN YOUR EYES…!
When you boil it all right down to its essence, that’s why I left you that note in your journal. It’s why I stole your thoughts, your dreams, your fears, and your passions. Because I saw something beautiful and I couldn’t let the moment pass without speaking up. Life is too short and too fragile not to say what you mean and go
after what you want. Why sit frozen in fear when you can move?
Speaking of your journal, I have to ask, have you found a solution to your problem yet?
And please, what’s your name?
* * *
from: JournalGirl
to: Mr. X
date: August 1, 2018 at 12:30 pm
subject: you don’t give up, do you?
Found a solution to my problem? I suppose you mean the problem that brought us together in the first place? The problem that spurred the most embarrassing journal entry of all time?
No. I have not. But, given all the stress of discovering a cheating fiancé, I suppose that’s natural. It’s not like I’ve had a chance to really experiment all that much either.
And for the record, no, I’m not comfortable talking about this.
I’d rather talk about you.
You died??
And you’re back??
I have so many questions and I’m not sure they’re mine to ask. All I can say is that I’m glad you’re back. And I’m glad you didn’t censor yourself when you found my journal. I might have been furious with you at first, but now, I guess I feel touched to have mattered. And I’m glad that we’re talking. Glad to get to know you. The world needs more people like you.
It’s funny that you keep asking for my name without bothering to sign your own. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?
Katydid
* * *
from: Mr. X
to: JournalGirl
date: August 1, 2018 at 12:32 pm
subject: RE: you don’t give up, do you?
A nickname, huh? I can respect that. But tit for tat, isn’t that what you said? A nickname for a nickname. Last year, people started calling me Skywalker.
* * *
from: Katydid
to: Mr. X
date: August 1, 2018 at 12:33 pm
subject: RE: you don’t give up, do you?
Skywalker?? You do live in your mom’s basement, don’t you?
* * *
from: Skywalker
to: Katydid
date: August 1, 2018 at 12:35 pm
subject: RE: you don’t give up, do you?
LOL! Is that what you think of me? That’s the thing about nicknames, Katydid. You don’t usually get any say in the ones that stick.
* * *
from: Katydid
to: Skywalker
date: August 1, 2018 at 12:36 pm
subject: RE: you don’t give up, do you?
You do have a point, as usual. So, tell me, how did you get such an epically nerdy nickname? Gaming? Role play? Spill it, Skywalker.
* * *
from: Skywalker
to: Katydid
date: August 1, 2018 at 12:36 pm
subject: RE: you don’t give up, do you?
Nope. It’s your turn. My ego is already stinging from your swift and brutal judgement.
* * *
from: Katydid
to: Skywalker
date: August 1, 2018 at 12:40 pm
subject: RE: you don’t give up, do you?
My swift and brutal judgment, huh? I don’t know how I feel about that.
I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you when it comes to nicknames. Mine came about because my mom loved my long, spindly legs when I was a kid. Add that to the fact that I used to hum the same little song over and over whenever I got involved in a project, and she told me I was just like a katydid—a bug that gets its name because its song sounds like it says ‘Katy did, Katy didn’t’ on repeat. Believe me, if I could have picked a different name, I would have. I hated being compared to an icky old bug.
Now. Skywalker. Explain.
* * *
Cat
I glanced up from my phone and realized I’d been sitting in a gas station parking lot for the better part of an hour, emailing back and forth with Mr. X. Or, rather, Skywalker. It was good to have a name for him, even if it didn’t really suit the image I had been building in my mind.
When he didn’t reply right away, I dropped my phone into my purse and turned the key in the ignition. Today was move-in day at The Hut. Since most of my life fit in a few bags in the back of the Jeep, it wouldn’t take too long to get myself situated, which might leave me some time to get to know the Huttons. Or at the very least, to explore the area. I navigated myself onto the road and, at the first stoplight, fished my phone out of my purse and put it in the cup holder, so I could see the moment an email came in.
Chapter Sixteen
Lucas
She finally had a name. Katydid. A smile grew on my face as I stared at my phone, starting from someplace so deep inside, I’d forgotten it even existed. It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t as good as knowing her real name, but it was something. I had one more point of information to flesh out the picture I had of her in my head. A little girl with long legs and a song to hum…and a nickname. Katydid.
When she called me out on living in my Mom’s basement, I laughed. Her joke hit a little closer to the truth than I was ready to let on. After all, I was living in my mother’s house—though the circumstances were different than what I’m sure she had in mind. But, so were most of my siblings, which now that I thought about it, maybe made it worse, even though we weren’t freeloading. Our story was one of those things you couldn’t explain well over text, so I let it be. Maybe one day, when we were face to face, I’d be able to tell her everything.
Explaining my nickname would be difficult. I didn’t talk about what happened to me in Afghanistan, the little bit of heroism that had my squad mates calling me Skywalker—a play on my first name and a reference to the fact that I was willing to sacrifice my life for the life of my commanding officer.
My family knew the details of that day. As did my doctors and physical therapists. The people who were there with me knew, of course. Hence the nickname. But now that there wasn’t a good reason for the story to be told, I kept my mouth shut on the topic. I had no desire to live through it again—especially in front of anyone who might read the emotion that still strangled me. Better to leave that shit in the past.
That was the beauty of emailing with Katydid—I smiled as I used her name—the anonymity allowed me to talk about things that I wouldn’t dare discuss with anyone else. My revelations after waking up in the hospital. The feeling of being the only person in the world with my eyes open. How could I say that to anyone and not have it seem like a slap in the face?
Hey there, little brother, thanks for everything you’ve done for me. Oh, by the way, have I mentioned that I think you’re doing it all wrong? That you’ve got life backwards? By the way, thanks for all the moral support you’ve given me since the accident.
Yeah. That just wouldn’t have gone over well.
Sharing those thoughts with Katydid was easy. It felt like freedom. And reading her thoughts in return? That was pure bliss. It was too early to tell yet, but I thought I had finally found someone else with her eyes open. We both looked at the world in a way that no one else around us did. Maybe that was why we clicked even when we had never technically met. I wondered if she went back to the coffee shop and stared at the men as they walked in, hoping to discover which one was me. If I was still in Galveston, I’d be in that damn place every day, waiting for her.
And maybe that’s why when Wyatt offered to do the new-hire meeting with Cat, I was almost relieved to let him have it. The physical attraction between us was palpable, but my mind belonged to a woman in Texas. Her words had wormed their way into my heart. Maybe, after everything was settled here at The Hut
, I’d return to Galveston and meet her face to face.
Today, Cat was moving into the room next to mine. And for as often as I reminded myself that Katydid was here first, my body was quick to remind me that Cat was here now. And so, I waited on the front porch for her to arrive while mentally composing my response to Katydid. The roar of the ocean kept me company and I rubbed at a sore spot in my thigh, cursing under my breath at the pain.
The week had been stressful. Digging through Dad’s financial records, Wyatt and I found mistake upon mistake upon mistake. And, for reasons I couldn’t quite understand, each new inconsistency we uncovered made Wyatt exponentially more unsettled. When we weren’t working on that, I was either obsessing over Cat’s arrival, or staying up too late rereading random emails from Katydid, trying to glean as much information as I could. When I woke this morning, I needed to clear my head and took it out on my body, pushing too hard on my run.
My leg gave out within minutes of getting started, but I had too much energy to burn, so I pushed past the first warning sign. And the second. And the third. I only stopped when I realized I couldn’t not limp and I paid for it all day. I would pay for it tomorrow, too.
A red Jeep sans roof crawled up the driveway and I stood, shielding my eyes against the sun. Cat’s red hair flowed in the wind. A smile graced her face. And I swore, I heard strains of her massacring Taylor Swift before she caught me watching and turned off the radio. I limped down the steps as she pulled to a stop.
