More Than Him

by Jay McLean

  I did.

  The apartment was simple, to say the least. A kitchen on the left, living/bedroom and that was basically it. He had a sofa bed, and his bags and boxes were still unpacked. "This is . . . nice," I told him.

  He laughed. "This will do," he replied.

  I turned in a circle, taking it in. "So, it's like a studio apartment?" I motioned towards his sofa bed.

  His eyes narrowed, as if confused. "Oh, no. There are two bedrooms down the hall." He pointed to a hallway I hadn't seen yet.

  I shifted on my feet. "So, you have housemates?" It was my turn to be confused.

  "No." He opened the fridge and stared at the contents.

  "So, you sleep on the floor of the living room because . . ." I waited for him to finish my sentence.

  He closed the fridge door, turned, and leaned against it, and then exhaled loudly. "Because I have this thing with needing to be able to see and hear the front door," he confessed.

  Our eyes locked, focused on each other, as if doing so for long enough would help me understand what he meant. Or maybe it might make it easier to explain why we were both here together, but not together.

  Finally, I looked away, not being able to handle the intensity in his gaze. My eyes roamed around the little space he'd created for himself. Even with the boxes and bags everywhere, it was still neat. Everything had its place. There were piles of clothes in the corner of the room, but they too were folded and stacked perfectly. Apart from those items, the apartment was empty. There were no personal touches, no decorations, no lamps, no pictures; nothing.

  "I like what you've done with the place," I teased.

  He reached up into a cupboard and pulled out a packet of something.

  Gummy bears.

  He placed a bowl on the counter and started taking all the red ones out. "Funny," he retorted, not looking up from his task. "Actually, my ex-girlfriend was into all that interior design stuff, she had an eye—" he cut himself off, but then raised his head and stared off into the distance. His eyes narrowed. "Huh," he said to himself. "I've never called you that before—an ex-girlfriend, I mean. It just seems wrong. You're just so much more than that, you know?" He turned to face me. "We were more than that, right? Or was that just me?"

  My breath hitched. The walls closed in. I couldn't be here with him. Not when he said stuff like that. Not when he didn't know how badly it affected me. "I think I should leave," I told him. I panicked. I didn't know what else to say.

  "No," he said quickly, stepping in front of me and blocking my way. "No, please. Stay. I'm sorry. I won't say stupid shit anymore, please. Just . . . just stay. We don't even have to talk about us. We can talk about anything, or nothing. We don't even have to talk at all." He looked at his hand and shook it again, then blew out a heavy breath.

  I've seen a lot of sides to Logan before, but I've never seen this. I've never seen this type of vulnerability in him. This need for approval or just . . . need.

  "Please," he said again, his voice breaking.

  And I knew it then—how much trouble I was in. Because Logan— he still had that power over me. "Okay," I told him. "I just need some air."

  His smile was instant. "I've got the perfect place." He grabbed his keys and took my hand, leading me out the door and up a different staircase.

  Logan

  I took her out to the rooftop of the building. When I’d first moved in, the landlady told me that this wasn't the type of building that allowed drug use and loud parties. I laughed, and told her that it wasn't me at all. I told her about how much I planned on doing nothing but studying to try to catch up on as much as possible. She’d smiled then, and made me follow her up here. She’d told me that it was the only place in the building that had enough quiet so that my ever-progressive brain would work properly. Only her and I had a key, and no one else knew it existed. I bought some outdoor furniture the next day, and this place became my safe haven.

  I tell all this to Amanda. She just smiles warmly at me and says, "It's real nice, Logan." Like I'm a fucking kid she needs to talk down to. I know what she's doing. I saw it in her eyes when I practically begged her to stay. I knew she pitied me, and it's probably the only reason why she was here with me right now. But I didn't care. I'd take anything she gave me. I walked us over to the outdoor sofa set I bought and motioned for her to sit down.

  "So," I started.

  "So," she replied.

  "How's Ethan?"

  Her shoulders visibly relaxed. Maybe she'd be happy to talk, as long as it wasn't about us. "He's good. Him and Lexi have been dating for a few months now."

  I sat back and tried to feign comfort. Inside, I was a wreck. I tried to hide my shaking hands in my pockets as much as possible, but I couldn't do it from a seated position. "That's good, right?" I asked. "I mean—are you okay with that?"

  She shrugged. "Yeah, I'm happy for them." She brought her legs up and under her. "And Tristan lives with us now, so it's kind of like old times—like high school."

  "So Tristan—he's in my old room?"

  "Um." She leaned back so her head rested on the top of the sofa and she was looking up at the sky. "No. Actually, I'm in your old room."

  I tried not to picture her in our bed, probably with other guys. I didn't know if she was dating anyone, or if she had in the past. Fuck, surely she would've had sex with—

  "So, Logan Matthews—gallivanting aimlessly around the world for an entire year. That must have been fun—I bet you drove the ladies wild." Her tone was part mocking, part teasing and part anger, and I felt every single one.

  "No gallivanting. Not unless you count sleeping on dirt in third-world countries, and watching sick kids get sicker, gallivanting. And no. No girls."

  Her head whipped to face me, her eyes narrowed. "No girls?" she asked incredulously. "Why do I not believe you?"

  I shrugged. "What about you?" I asked.

  It was her turn to shrug. "Don't really think it's important. Do you?" She slowly turned to face me, and then let out a breath, picking at the sleeve of her sweater. "Tyson moved in after you left."

  I tried for the same reaction she gave me, but failed. "Huh."

  "Yeah," she said, dreaminess in her voice. Fucking Tyson. "He asked if I ever wondered what would've happened between us if I'd never met you."

  My chest tightened. I wondered the same thing all the time. "What did you tell him?"

  "I don't know. Different time. Different place. I guess anything could have happened."

  I didn't know what she meant, but I didn't press further.

  It was quiet for the longest time, neither of us knowing what to say, or how to move on from the awkward conversation.

  She shifted until her long legs stretched out in front of her, with her feet resting on the table. My eyes trailed from her feet, up her legs, over the rest of her body.

  "How are you so neat?" she asked out of nowhere. "Your room, and now your apartment, it's so clean. Why?"

  I had to laugh. "I'm gone for a year, and that's the question you ask?"

  She squared her shoulders. "Fine then—why did you leave me?"

  I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped me. "Actually. You know what? I don't want to know."

  She started to stand, but I pulled her back down and turned my body to face her. She kept looking straight ahead, refusing to meet my eyes. "When I was adopted, I thought that if I wasn't good enough, my dad would send me back, so I kept my room clean and hoped that it was enough, you know? That he might keep me if I was a good kid. That was my way of showing him that I was. I guess it kind of stuck."

  I felt her warm hand cover mine. "I'm sorry," she said, turning to face me. She looked down where our bodies joined. "I didn't know that it had to do with that."

  I flipped my hand over. She brushed her palm softly across mine, and then started tracing my fingers with hers. I watched as she focused on what she was doing. "Amanda?" I croaked out. "You don't ever have to apologize, for anything, ever."


  "Why did you come back?" she whispered. Her eyes lifted and I could see it—her pain. "I thought I was getting over it, over you . . . why did you have to come back and ruin everything?"

  She stood up quickly, and started to walk away. I followed, pulling on her arm to stop her. "Baby." The word slipped out, like verbal vomit.

  "Baby?" she rushed out. "Baby," she repeated, louder this time. Then a rage switched on inside her. She'd gone from upset to pissed, in two-seconds flat. "You don't get to call me baby."

  I let go of her arm. "I know, I'm sorry."

  "Are you, though?" she hissed. Her words were harsh, punishing. "Because you're acting as if nothing's changed. But it has. Everything's changed."

  I reached for her again but she’d stepped back, tripping over herself. Her hands came up, as if protecting herself from me. She had no reason to be afraid. "Stop," she breathed out. "Just stop."

  She turned and headed for the door again. Blood rushed to my ears. I blinked, trying to focus. I couldn't let her go. I couldn't lose her. Not again. "Wait!"

  Her body stiffened.

  "Wait. Please," I said. I was begging, and I didn't give a shit.

  She turned quickly, her eyes glazed with tears. "Wait?" she spat out. "Fuck you, Logan, I did wait. I waited for you at the fucking hospital. I waited for you when I got home, and you weren't fucking there. I waited a week before showing up at your house and begging—fucking begging—for you to take me back." She pushed against my chest. I fell back a step. "And then I waited for you to come back to me. But you never did, Logan. You never came back." She wiped her tears and sniffed once, straightening her body. Then she looked me square in the eyes, and through gritted teeth, said, "You just fucking left me."

  Her words left me shattered.

  10

  Amanda

  My body shook from the anger that overcame me. He had no right.

  I watched the emotion on his face. He looked dejected, broken. Good. Maybe he understood just a small amount of how he’d made me feel.

  His shoulders lifted with each breath, as if struggling to find the air. It felt like an eternity. "Baby," he said again.

  And something in me snapped. I lost control. I didn't mean to do what I did next.

  My palm stung the instant it made contact with his face. I don't know what was louder, the sound of the slap, or my gasp that followed.

  "Shit." I stepped forward. "Logan, I'm so sorry." My hand reached up to cup his face, but his sturdy grip on my forearm stopped me. He pushed my arm away forcefully. I wanted to cry. I'd never want to hurt him, especially not like that.

  "It's fine, Amanda," he croaked.

  I'd broken him.

  I shut my eyes tight and let the tears fall. "Logan." My voice was strained.

  He licked his lip, and then wiped it with the back of his hand. That's when I saw it—blood. It didn't effect me the way it used to. We'd studied something similar in my psych class, and I'd learnt to control it. I'd taught myself how to mentally separate the site of blood from Ethan's accident.

  I cursed under my breath and stepped forward, but he took a step back, afraid of me. I let out a sob. "Logan," I said again. I didn't know what else to say.

  He looked away from me. "I think maybe you should leave. I'll walk you to your car."

  I just nodded and followed behind him. We walked to my car in dead silence. He opened the door for me when I unlocked it. He even made sure I was seated properly before he closed it. But he didn't say a word. I wound down my window and opened my mouth to speak.

  "It's fine," he said, interrupting me. He placed his hands in his pockets and took a step back. "Take care, okay?"

  I held it together long enough to nod and pull away from the curb. It wasn't until I got home and under my sheets that I let it out. Tristan came in after a few minutes and wordlessly joined me. He wrapped his arms around me, and assured me that whatever was happening—it was going to be okay.

  I looked into his green eyes, so similar to Logan's. "I don't think it will be this time."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  So was I.

  Logan

  Five flights of stairs later, I was back in my apartment. I triple-checked the four deadbolts on the door before finally throwing myself onto the bed. "Fuck." I rubbed my tender cheek and tried to ignore the metallic taste of blood on my lip. Reaching into the small box next to my bed, I felt around until my fingers skimmed the worn leather of the book. I pulled it out and fanned the pages, looking for the first blank one. The picture fell out. It was beyond faded, but it didn't matter. It could've been completely erased, and the image would still be etched in my memory. I had the same one on my desk back home. Home. There was no such place for me. Not unless you counted Amanda as home.

  I flipped to the beginning and read the first sentence I ever wrote.

  *

  Five weeks post Amanda.

  There are no dates here. Only time passing with each moment.

  Dear Diary—says the twelve-year-old girl in me.

  Manny, one of the guys in the field with me, told me I was depressed. I don't think I am, but whatever. He said 'Loma, go write down your shitty feelings in a journal and you'll feel better.' Loma—that's me. Apparently it stands for LO-gan MA-tthews. It's a thing here. I asked him what his name stood for; he looked at me like I was crazy. 'It doesn't stand for anything, asshole, my name's Manny.'

  So that's Manny.

  I don't know if he was kidding or not, but here I am, writing my shitty feelings in a journal.

  I miss her.

  That's the only feelings I have.

  I miss the absolute shit out of her.

  If I sit around and question the reason I'm here, I get even more depressed. Fuck. Manny was right.

  Location: Africa

  Am I doing this wrong? Should I be writing where I am at the beginning? Fuck it.

  Nightmare count: 16

  On the upside, every day I'm here, I feel like I'm doing something good for the world. If I were to die today, people would say, 'Hey, that Loma asshole was saving the world one cholera vaccine at a time. Also, he missed the shit out of his girl.'

  Amanda.

  Fuck.

  Whose stupid idea was it to write a journal? This shit doesn't help. Stupid Manny.

  *

  Seven weeks post Amanda.

  Today, this kid called me Sir. And then he kicked me in the shin. The kid next to him laughed. Their laughs were so contagious I found myself smiling. It kind of hurt. I imagine it's what old leather feels like when it has to form to a different shape.

  A new guy started today. Jason Malone. We call him Jamal. Doesn't suit him at all but now it's stuck, and he has to deal with it.

  We're still going strong with the vaccines.

  I'm still missing the shit out of her.

  Last night I dreamt about her. It felt so real, that when I woke up I actually walked around our camp looking for her. I even whispered her name a few times, thinking she might really be here.

  Maybe I've gone crazy.

  Legit, certifiable-type crazy.

  Jamal asked if I had a girl back home.

  I told him I didn't want to talk about it.

  He said 'Pic or I call bullshit.'

  It made me think of the picture back home on my desk. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it. There was no problem seeing it in my mind.

  Then Jamal called me out, asked me if I was about to cry.

  Fucking Jamal.

  Nightmare count: 20

  *

  Ten weeks post Amanda.

  I'm crying.

  A woman just brought her baby in. She was crying hysterically. I took one quick look at her child, and knew whatever it was she needed us to do it was too damn late.

  I turned away and puked.

  Manny told me to go back to our tent.

  So that's where I am.

  In the tent, crying my ass off, and questioning how the fuck I'm going to be a do
ctor one day.

  Diary, if I ever complain about my life, tell me to buck the fuck up and get over it. Shit could be a hell of a lot worse.

  *

  Ten and a half weeks post Amanda.

  A little girl came in today. She was holding her brother's hand. They could've been twins. She told me her name Amuhda. Definitely the highlight of my day.

  Nightmare count: 21

  *

  Fourteen weeks post Amanda.

  I laughed today. You'd think I'd be happy about it, but I feel like shit. I wonder how she's doing. I wonder if she ever laughs. I fucking hope so. Otherwise, all of this would have been for nothing.

  We were moved from the field to more admin-type roles for the time being. They do that. Change things up. I'm not complaining. Even though it's still kind of a campsite, this one has actual roofs, walls, and showers.

  Last night, Jamal's girlfriend called him. He wasn't around to answer, so Manny did it for him. Manny—being Manny—told his girlfriend that he'd been sick the last three days with the worst case of diarrhea he'd ever seen. Which is pretty bad, considering one of our main goals here is to treat the disease. Apparently, it was so bad he had to wear adult diapers and was in quarantine. He even referred to him as Jamal. I don't know what his girlfriend was thinking.