The Last Post

by Renee Carlino

  “A hundred percent yes. It would scare the shit out of me, and you know not a whole lot does.”

  My sister had worked at a haunted house as a character when we were teenagers. She was the guy cutting the woman’s head off with a chainsaw. It started when we went to the same haunted house a year before and she didn’t flinch when Freddy Krueger jumped out at her. She just calmly said, “Oh fuck off, Freddy. You suck at this.” After we walked out, she said, “That acting was terrible. I should try to get a job here next year and show these wimps what scary is.” So, yeah, nothing really frightened Melissa, not even getting hit by a car.

  She was right about what I was doing to Laya. I already knew that. Emotionally, I was so cut off. I crawled in a dark hole for months and thought it was appropriate to start stalking a recently widowed woman.

  “I know, Melissa, but what do I do? I want to be in her life.”

  “Just be yourself, Micah. Tell her the truth. You’re a nice guy, a rare breed. Stop looking at her Facebook page and just be in the moment.”

  “That might be the nicest, most sincere thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Come visit me tonight. It’s boring as fuck in here.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “I love you, Micah.”

  “God, Melissa, tell them to lay off the pain meds. You’re seriously so looped.”

  “I’ll see you, little bro.”

  “You’re only seven minutes older than me. But I’ll let you pretend. Get some rest.”

  We both hung up. We knew exactly when to hang up. It was a twin thing.

  Against Melissa’s advice, I scanned Facebook once I was back at my desk, and lo and behold, Laya had sent Cameron a message.

  LAYA BENNETT to CAMERON BENNETT

  I got us a dog named Pretzel. I’m not even completely sure what kind of dog he is. He’s small and sweet and kind of ugly, but I love him. He keeps me company. He’s a bit of a daredevil, go figure. He has a big-pup personality and will stand up to any dog that gets in his way. I want to get some of those Kong chewy things you used to buy for Jeremy’s dog. I think Pretzel would like those. Three. Two. One. See ya.

  Of course, after seeing her post, I couldn’t resist. As soon as I was off work I went to the nearest pet store. They didn’t have anything called Kong chewies. I went to three different places, all over the city until I finally found them. The store was called Pawfect Pet Store and it was pawfect, but they were about to close. The woman working there was actually locking the door when I walked up. I mouthed through the glass, Please, please. I shot her the best puppy-dog eyes I could muster. She looked at me sympathetically. Dog people are awesome.

  “Hi, I’m looking for something called a Kong chewy.”

  She laughed. “Well, we have about seventeen different options for that. Which one would you like?” She pointed to a wall full of items with the Kong brand name on it. I was immediately overwhelmed, so I picked five.

  I ran six blocks. Six New York blocks . . . in the dark, to get to Laya’s. I quickly hopped up the stairs and hit her buzzer. This time I waited.

  She slowly came toward the building’s front door. Through the window I could see her hesitate when she saw that it was me.

  When she opened the door, I started vomiting words, “Didn’t you say, ‘I’m falling for you, too,’ after you left me today with shit on my shoes?”

  She stared, blinking for several moments before she responded. “No . . . but—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. “I need to tell you something.” I handed her the bag of dog chewies.

  “Okay.” She set the bag down, folded her arms in front of her chest, and shivered. She was wearing a T-shirt and sweats, her hair twisted up into a messy bun.

  I was searching for words. “Are you cold?”

  “No, I’m fine. What’s in the bag?”

  “Chewies for your dog.”

  “You read my post.” It was a statement, not a question, and her face held no expression.

  “I did. I’ve read all your posts for a while.” I was telling her finally . . . I was admitting everything. I had to.

  She looked down at her slippers. “Do you know how fucking creepy that is?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  When she looked up, I noticed her eyes were misting over. “So, it was you at the concert?”

  “It was me.”

  “Why?” Her voice was shaking.

  I was fumbling for words. “It’s inexcusable. I don’t know what to say.”

  She pulled her phone from her pocket. “Should I call the police?”

  “Do you want to call the police?”

  “You knew I’d be at the club. You left the damn flowers. To what? Remind me?”

  “No . . . no, that’s not it.”

  “What, you thought you could replace those memories with you instead of him.” Tears were streaming down her face, but her expression was still blank.

  “I did it because the first time I met you, there was a spark—”

  “It’s called static electricity. I was already grieving. Wow, I don’t know you at all.”

  “You do know me. You do. I had good intentions.”

  “Very misguided intentions.”

  “Yes, they were misguided.” It was going to be impossible to talk my way out of what I had done.

  “Right now, I have a lot of words for you,” she said. “But I’m not even sure I want to waste my breath.”

  “Talk to me, please. Just talk.” She looked so sad. It made me feel like someone had reached inside my chest and ripped out my heart and threw it in the recycle bin. What was I thinking?

  “I knew it was you.” The tears stopped. “At least, I guessed it was you.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not very good at being a stalker. You live a million miles away from me and end up on my street . . . twice. You secretly leave shit on my doorstep and just happen to choose the ramen place I mention on Facebook. What sort of defect do you have that would possess you to do this? Why? Why do all of this? Do you have a sick curiosity to know how it feels?”

  “Can we go inside and talk about this?”

  “No way! Are you kidding?” she spat.

  “Oh my god, Laya—”

  “Don’t fucking say my name; you don’t deserve it.”

  “I care about you. I wanted to help. I wanted to know you more, and now I’m looking at you and I feel like the worst person in the world.”

  It was terrible what I had done. Did I actually think leaving stuff on her doorstep related to her experiences with her dead husband would help her? Or was I still really just trying to stay connected to her? I had opportunities to see her. I didn’t need to freak her out; I worked for her father, for god’s sake.

  “You should feel like the worst person. You used my vulnerability to get close to me.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to. That wasn’t my intention. Please, you have to believe me.” I was scrambling for footing.

  “I don’t want to believe this is true,” she said. She still had her phone out, but she hadn’t dialed anything yet. She pocketed it, looking tired, betrayed—I did all of this to her.

  “Where does that leave us?”

  “There is no us. Go home. I’m going to bed.”

  “Wait, please.” She started to close the door. “I wanted to help put you back together. I wanted to build you up again.”

  She paused and stared at me. “We can’t put people back together, Micah. And I’m not one of your projects to build.”

  “I had to try. And then . . . and then I fell in love with you.”

  She dropped her face into her hands and I think she was crying and laughing at the same time.

  “This is insane,” she mumbled. She took her tear-soaked hands and placed them on my face. I held her wrists. Both of us were shaking. “You’re just like me . . . deluded,” she cried. “You were way off the mark, Micah.”

  “I know. I figured
it out. I’m still learning. Please give me another chance?”

  She shook her head. “For what?”

  “What do you need?” I asked.

  “Time and space.” She was still crying.

  “I’m so sorry.” I stepped back, clutching both sides of the door frame. I felt my body weaken. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Time and space, Micah. I know you’re not a bad person. I remember that day in the office. I felt it, too.” She looked away. “God, this is unbearably hard.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, as if checking for someone behind her. When our eyes met again, it was like I was seeing her sadness for the first time. The pain took my breath away. “There’s no us. We can’t be an us right now. Just a ‘something,’ which I can’t define. We are just okay. And that’s all I can give you right now.”

  A small part of me jumped like a drowning man who has spotted a lifesaver in his path. Stepping forward, knowing that it might cost me, I placed my hands on her hips, leaned in, and laid a soft, closemouthed kiss on her lips while she held my face and cried.

  I kept my forehead on hers. “That’s enough. I swear to god, that’s enough for me. Just don’t tell me I’ve ruined everything.”

  “You’re the only person I know who hasn’t told me to stop posting,” she said.

  “I never will. I know why you do it.”

  “Do you?” she whispered.

  “It’s your way, right?”

  “Yes.” She stepped back, wearing a small, sad smile. “Good-bye.”

  “See you, okay?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I walked away without looking back. It wasn’t like the world was ending. She didn’t say we wouldn’t see each other ever again. I still had a desperate hope she wouldn’t give up on me.

  Telling her the truth was the right thing to do . . . even if it felt all wrong in the moment.

  21. Suborbital

  LAYA

  Weeks rolled by . . . time and space. I threw myself into being Pretzel’s mom and into my work at the hospital. I spent as little time as I could thinking about Micah. I couldn’t decide if it was the most terrifying and bizarre thing anyone had ever done for me . . . or if he was my goddamn savior.

  I tried not to picture his face as he stood in my doorway, telling me he had fallen in love with me and how sorry he was.

  I tried not to feel his lips on mine. I tried not to think about what he and I could be, all mashed-up pieces glued together. Mosaics in the park.

  Imagine.

  One Friday, sitting in the cafeteria at the hospital, I checked Facebook on my phone. There was a message from Micah.

  Hi, Laya. I hope you’re okay. So . . . I found a cool little French bistro that has a patio. I didn’t know how to get ahold of Pretzel, so I wondered if you could ask him if he’d like to get breakfast with me?

  I stared at the message for something like half an hour before I wrote back. While it was cute of Micah to frame the invite the way he did, I was still unsure of how I felt, knowing he had been spying on me. It brought me back to a place of fear and insecurity.

  I was lonely and feeling isolated at home. Pretzel was helping me, but as far as I could tell, Pretzel didn’t talk. Sometimes I felt like Micah didn’t talk either, only choosing to talk when he meant it, like when he told me how beautiful I was, and how he wanted to help me. In those short little bursts, he came across as both thoughtful and well-intentioned.

  Back on Facebook after eating an uncooked, dry bagel, I messaged Micah.

  Sure. I talked to Pretzel and he’s OK with having breakfast. What time?

  He messaged back almost immediately.

  Great! Is eight too early? We can beat the rush.

  That works for me.

  I’m glad you want to join Pretzel and me for breakfast. I’m excited to see you again.

  A few moments passed by where I didn’t respond.

  I’m sorry again, Laya. I hope you don’t think I’m a complete psycho.

  At that point I wasn’t entirely sure how to react. I had married a guy who liked to jump out of planes and off cliffs, so could I really call Micah psychotic? I waited to respond.

  He wrote back first.

  Well, I guess you left. I’ll see you bright and early!

  I replied soon after that, feeling bad for not reciprocating his nice comment.

  Sorry, I stepped away for a sec. Yes, I will see you.

  I paused for a moment and once I saw the little light go off indicating he was no longer online, I typed . . .

  I’m looking forward to breakfast as well.

  Toying with him was not my plan. I had to trust my instincts about him despite what he had done. I also had to get out of the house and be social.

  At three a.m. I woke up sweating. I stumbled into the bathroom and took my temperature. It was ninety-nine. I made myself believe it was high enough to call off breakfast. I paced near the front window for twenty minutes, periodically looking out at the flickering street lamp and thinking it reminded me of my emotions. I was on and off again. I kept using Cameron’s death as a way not to address what was going on in my own life. In the dim light of my bedroom I dialed his number again and again, hanging up each time after listening to his voice. Finally, I started talking.

  “Cameron, every time I call you I feel I have less and less to say to you, except that I miss you. I’ve been watching the street lamp outside my apartment. I’ve been watching it for over an hour and it won’t stop flickering.

  “Off and on. Off and on. It’s like my heart beating, slower and slower until it will eventually stop, so that I can catch up to you, wherever you are. Or it’s my brain feeling conflicted about how I should move on. Off and on. Back and forth.

  “Even saying the words ‘move on’ feels like I’m betraying you. What does it even mean? Is it like moving from one house to another, where we eventually forget how the wood floors felt on our feet? Or how the drapes smelled or what it sounded like when the front door was opened? We forget all the senses and just have a fading visual memory.

  “The items I have left, belonging to you, have lost your smell. I’ve lost the last little “almost” tangible piece of you. All I have is pictures, and memories that are fading, turning sepia. Eventually they’ll be black and white and I won’t remember the vibrant spark that you were. The spark I tried keeping so bright only to watch it turn into the flickering light outside my window. I wish I knew what else I could tell you. I wish I could hear your voice telling me what I should do. It’s all happening and I can’t stop it.”

  Eventually, when I fell back to sleep, I was in a dream with Cameron again. We were in his tiny studio in California. I wasn’t sure how I knew this but it couldn’t have been long after we had met. We squeezed onto his twin-sized bed because his room was packed with skis, snowboards, climbing gear, you name it.

  Cameron rolled on top of my naked body and started kissing me all over. His tongue was circling my nipple. He looked up at me and smiled. “I love your boobs,” he said.

  He had never said that to me in real life, and they weren’t particularly special, but that was one part of my body I didn’t hate.

  When he started moving inside of me, he was looking down, into my eyes. He had a faint satisfied smile on his face as his breathing picked up. He came fast and laughed. He said, “Was that too fast?”

  I replied, “No, it made me feel good.”

  He was sated and sleepy-eyed, smiling at me. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I told him.

  “I have to go in a few minutes,” he said regretfully. His callused fingers ran up and down my side, like he was touching the most delicate of objects.

  I started giggling and he started laughing.

  “I thought you weren’t ticklish,” he said. “You know why people are ticklish in certain spots? It’s because our bodies are designed to automatically protect our important vital arteries and organs: under the neck, behind t
he knee for your femoral artery, under your arms for your head—”

  “I know. You told me that already.” But he hadn’t. I had learned it in medical school.

  He moved off me completely, taking away his warmth. “I have to go,” he said, kneeling before me.

  “Don’t say that—you always say that.” I started crying quietly, tears pouring from my eyes, down my cheek, and then dripping onto the pillow.

  His eyes welled up, too. He never cried, but they were tears of empathy. “Don’t cry, please,” he said in a soft, soothing voice.

  “Why are you leaving?”

  “I have to, Laya. I have to go practice.”

  “Practice for what?”

  “You know . . . I don’t have to tell you.”

  He got up and started to get dressed. “But why?” I didn’t understand. “Don’t you want to stay with me?” His room seemed emptier; his equipment had disappeared. The sun was gone and a light outside—the moon, maybe—threw long shadows in the room, across Cameron’s face.

  At the doorway, he turned back, half-dressed. He said, “I can’t.” He didn’t seem happy about my request.

  “But we just had sex.”

  He shook his head. “Are you still using that as a bargaining chip?”

  “I never do. I just want you to stay so bad. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that I’m emotional about it. Don’t you feel the same way?”

  What did he mean by “still” anyway? That was never my intention.

  He stared. “Laya, sex is arbitrary. It’s just an expression. But I love you, I do.”

  “That is such a contradictory statement.”

  He laughed. “Are you trying to outsmart me?”

  “You’re leaving me alone. Again.”

  It felt like the beautiful thing we had just shared, all feelings and emotions, him looking into my the eyes, drawing me in, telling me I was beautiful and that he loved me, meant nothing to him once he knew I needed validation in other ways.

  “I want to stay, too, Laya. I don’t want to leave you, but it’s time. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t believe you want to stay or you would. All your sorrys are starting to blend together into a massive pile of disappointment.” My voice sounded distorted—like it was coming through a PA system. It was my voice and it wasn’t. “Where are you going to practice? I mean really, right now? What is so important that you have to leave right this second at two in the morning? You can’t talk to me? Lie here with me so we can feel warm again? It means a lot to me . . . what we do, here in this room, Cameron. Sex isn’t arbitrary to me. It always meant a lot to me.”