by Erin Noelle
I pull my silver Honda CRV into the driveway of my childhood home and kill the engine. Despite the balance in her savings accounts and financial portfolio, my mom refuses to move out of the house she and my dad bought shortly after they got married, the same one she raised all three of her sons in. She does a great job with the upkeep of the small three-bedroom bungalow, but unfortunately, not all her neighbors can say the same. The area is aging and declining in both value and reputation, and I really wish she’d move somewhere safer that requires less work. But she won’t even consider it.
“Their spirits live here. I can’t leave them,” she’s told me on more than one occasion. And really… what kind of son would I be if I tried to convince her otherwise?
The same kind who’s about to tell her about a woman who will not only win her heart, but also break it when she dies in less than a year.
Scowling at my own contentious thoughts, I slam the door to the truck and stomp up to the wraparound front porch. The knob turns and the screen door flies open before I can rap my knuckles against the glass. Thankfully, my boots are planted firmly on the ground, because my mom nearly bulldozes me over with a massive bear hug.
“My baby boy is home!” she squeals, squeezing my neck until I start sputtering from lack of oxygen.
“Hey, Ma,” I say once she finally releases her death hold on me. She’s always been a bit overbearing, but I think the attack in Pamplona really has her shaken up. “I’m happy to see you, too.”
I kiss the side of her head and usher her inside the house to escape both the stifling heat and stares from other people outside, and immediately, I’m greeted with the mouth-watering smells of homemade lasagna and fresh garlic bread. Any traces of earlier frustration are gone. There’s almost nothing my mom’s cooking can’t make better.
“Come on, into the kitchen we go. I need to put the brownies in the oven and take the bread out. You can make the salad for me,” Ma instructs as she scoots by me, grabbing my arm and dragging me along.
I follow her into the cheery yellow kitchen that truly was the heart of our home when I was growing up, and she wastes no time retrieving the head of lettuce, tomato, and cucumber from the fridge and putting me to work. Memories from cooking for Lyra Saturday night flood my mind as I chop the vegetables, and a sly grin creeps across my face. The girl wasn’t lying when she said she couldn’t cook, which I find funny with as many Food Network shows she has saved on her DVR. But I didn’t mind teaching her a thing or two… especially since she wore my T-shirt with nothing underneath.
“Well, let me ask the obligatory ‘how was your day’ questions before we get to the reason for that shit-eating grin on your face,” Ma says as she walks past me to the oven. “So, how was your first day back at work, son? Anything exciting happen?”
I laugh and shake my head, but keep my focus and concentration on the sharp knife I’m maneuvering on the cutting board. “It was good, typical first day stuff. Nothing too exciting. One kid fell asleep after lunch, and I was gonna let him get some Zs in until he started snoring louder than I was lecturing. So I had to make an example of him by making him stand the last two and a half hours. I don’t think anyone else will be catching a nap in class from this point on.”
“Octavian West, you did no such thing,” she playfully scolds, popping a dishtowel in my direction.
“Oh, I most certainly did,” I snicker. “Little shit can sleep at night when the rest of us do.”
Well, except for the nights I spend with Lyra. Sleep only comes after we both do—several times.
“All right, all right, enough with that. I want to hear the good stuff.” She uncovers the piping hot pan of lasagna from under the foil and places a spatula next to it. “Make yourself a plate and let’s go to the table. I may need to be sitting down for this.”
I do as I’m told, loading my plate up with the cheesy, meaty, gooey goodness, salad, and buttery garlic bread, and then sit in the same chair I’ve sat in since I can remember. Ma sets two bottles of water on the table then serves herself and takes the seat across from me. I shove a forkful of food into my mouth before she has a chance to start her interrogation, stalling the inevitable.
“So good, Ma. You really have to give me the recipe one day. I promise I won’t screw it up.”
She swallows her own bite then shakes her head and wipes her mouth with a napkin. “Don’t even try that crap, mister. I’ll allow you three uninterrupted bites, but then you can eat around your answers. Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod, and then proceed to take three of the biggest bites possible, chewing slowly and methodically, fully aware of her amused smirk while she waits me out.
Fighting my own smile, I finish my final mouthful and wash it back with a big swig of water. The second I place the bottle on the table, she’s got her first question locked and loaded.
“Is it the girl from New York you were with on your trip? What’s her name again?”
“Yes. Her name is Lyra,” I confirm with another nod.
“Lyra,” she repeats slowly. “That’s different. I like it.”
I remember the night at the observatory when she told me about the origin of her name, and my chest constricts. So badly I wanted to take her pain away while she scattered her parents’ ashes around the hilltop, but I knew I couldn’t. It was a goodbye she needed to say on her own terms.
“She’s named after the constellation Lyre. Her dad was an astronomer at NASA,” I further explain before stealing another bite as she contemplates her next question. Honestly, I am a little surprised she’s not grilling me for answers about Annie.
Ma’s blue eyes sparkle around her numbers, reminding me that for the next twenty-one years—until she’s reunited with my dad and brothers in the afterlife—I need to be the best fucking son in the world for setting her up for this heartache.
“How old is she? What does she do? Give me the basic rundown.”
“She’s twenty-three, lives alone in an apartment in Brooklyn, and works as a photographer for Wanderer, the travel magazine,” I say proudly. Talking about Lyra triggers a strange warmth to fill my chest. “We are almost exact opposites. She’s as quiet and reserved as I am social and outgoing. I like all things math and numbers, and she prefers the arts and history. Her cooking skills are lackluster at best, and I’m not sure she’s ever watched a baseball game in her life.”
My mom gasps at that last part, and I stop to chuckle before I continue. “But from the moment we met, the first time we touched, I knew she was different… and I don’t just mean different from me. She does something to me, something I can’t explain. All I know is she’s it—my One.”
“And you never felt that about Annie?” she asks with raised eyebrows.
“Not only were Annie and I so young when we met, but the circumstances our relationship was formed under....” I struggle to find the best way to explain it. “She was my crutch, and I was hers. We used each other for what we needed, but as we’ve grown older, we’ve grown apart.” I shake my head and look down at my plate, not wanting to see any disappointment on her face. “I never should’ve said yes to her proposal, but I didn’t want to embarrass her in front of all those people. Hell, I never should’ve taken her back after she left me for a year. I didn’t want to rock the boat. She was just… comfortable. Easy.”
She reaches across the table and covers my fidgeting hand with hers, calming my anxieties with her simple motherly touch. “Tavian, stop beating yourself up. I understand why you said yes and why you stayed with her. She’s been a huge part of your adult life, and simply because you want to end the romantic part of your relationship, it doesn’t make you a bad person. These things happen. I’m glad you didn’t let the engagement carry on any longer than that night.”
“Did you tell her that when she came crying to you?” I huff, still irritated about her running to my fucking mom to tell on me.
“Her pride and ego are hurt right now,” Ma says matter-of-factly, “and even though
you didn’t turn her down in front of the other people there, she still has to face them and tell them you guys have broken things off. No one likes to be rejected, especially if they know it’s for someone else. You told about her Lyra, yes?”
My shoulders slump as I realize I shouldn’t have brought Lyra into any of the conversation with Annie. A simple “I’m not in love with you anymore, and I think we’ll be better off going our separate ways” would’ve been sufficient.
“Live without regrets, son. What’s done is done. Don’t lose focus on the present by dwelling on the past.” My mom interlaces our fingers and squeezes, drawing my gaze back up to meet hers. “Now, eat up before your dinner gets cold and tell me when I’m going to get to meet Lyra. Do you have any pictures of her?”
We spend the better part of the next hour finishing our dinner and indulging in way too many brownies while I tell her stories about the trip and show her the couple of photos I took of the two of us from my phone this past weekend. I promise her I’ll invite Lyra to my annual dinner at Stan’s Steaks for my birthday, with equal parts nerves and excitement jetting through me at the thought of them meeting. There’s nothing I want more than my mom to love and accept Lyra, but at the same time, it’s also what scares me most.
By the time I leave her house and head to my mostly unfurnished, disaster of an apartment, the sun has long since set and my entire body sags with exhaustion against the leather truck seat. The jet lag, time change, and two sleepless nights I’ve spent here without Lyra are taking their toll. Not to mention I was on my feet lecturing for eight hours today. Yet despite the fatigue I feel physically, mentally, and emotionally I’m more balanced than I’ve ever been. And it’s all because of one woman.
Now I have to figure out how to get her here and keep her here. I want every day of hers I can get.
LYRA
08.03.15
Dr. Rose stares at me from the other side of her desk, slack-jawed and with disbelief etched into every crease of her crinkled forehead. I’m here at my regular monthly therapy appointment, and I’ve just finished recapping the last four weeks of my life to her, starting with the terrorist attack at the Pamplona airport and ending with Tavian leaving my apartment at 4:30 a.m. this morning to catch a train back to Philly to make his 8:00 a.m. class.
He’s now spent three straight weekends here with me, the last two from Friday evening until early Monday morning, stretching out every minute we have together. Our days together are spent roaming around the city and eating at new restaurants, exploring places I never knew existed. While at night, we watch mindless TV and cuddle naked, exploring every inch of each other’s body. The days are fun, but the nights… the nights are everything.
It sucks during the week when he’s not here. I no longer find peace in the quiet of being alone that I once reveled in. His lingering scent on my bedsheets, regular text messages, and nightly FaceTime sessions are my saving grace. That, and my fingers have finally healed enough to where I can operate my camera. I’ve been a picture-taking fool lately, improving my craft while spending as little time at my loft during the day as possible.
“I-I-I really am speechless right now, Lyra,” my therapist sputters with a subtle shake of her head. “The trip was supposed to be a first step on the ladder, not an express elevator to the top floor.”
“But that’s good, right?” I ask, holding her befuddled gaze, forcing myself to not focus on the numbers I know by memory.
She nods and leans forward, resting her arms on the glass surface, her face impassive. “Honestly, I’m hesitantly optimistic and encouraged, but the rapid pace this is all happening worries me a bit. Surviving a traumatic event like you did can affect the way your brain processes information. It can cause you to do things you wouldn’t normally do.”
“Well, it did do that,” I say, not understanding the reason for her apprehension. “There’s no way I would’ve ever gotten in the car with a complete stranger unless I feared for my life and thought it was my best chance at survival. And that uncharacteristic decision led me to meeting someone who makes me want to stop existing and start living.”
“You don’t feel like you owed him something because he saved your life? That’s not what spurred you to say yes to his offer of tagging along with him on the rest of his trip?”
I think back to the day Tavian and I first met. My body trembles at the gruesome memories and the blood-curdling terror I experienced as we fled the airport in his rental car. I recall how his steady, commanding voice calmed my nerves, the way his firm yet gentle touch soothed away the fear. And I remember the conviction in his crystal blue eyes that burned brighter than his numbers when he talked about how his summer trips remind him to live life to the fullest. Adventures that added width and depth to his life, not length.
“No. Of course, I was thankful for what he did, but I never felt like I owed him anything,” I answer assuredly. “It wasn’t until we were in Barcelona, after we were clearly safe from harm, that he asked me to join him. I said yes, because I wanted to go… because I knew in my bones it was what I was supposed to do.”
“And his numbers? Were they a factor in your decision?”
My mouth opens to retort a snide “So now you believe me about the numbers? When it’s beneficial for you?” but I stop before the words come out. Lashing out at my therapist isn’t what I came here to do. She’s only trying to help, making sure I’m not setting myself up for regression.
“It was a combination of a lot of things all at once. I didn’t want to wonder what if later. Like you always tell me, ‘Surrender to what is, let go of what was, and trust in what will be.’” I lick my lips nervously, needing her support more than I’d like to admit. Not having family or girlfriends to talk to about this stuff with makes Dr. Rose my only sounding board, and her approval directly correlates to my confidence in this new outlook on life I’m trying to adopt. “I finally trusted in something other than the numbers.”
Slowly, over several incredibly long, silent seconds, a smile spreads across her sharp, stern features, until eventually, her entire face is lit up and she’s bouncing excitedly in her leather chair. Her expression reminds me a lot of how my mom would look when she was proud of me for acing a test or figuring out how to do something on my own.
“Yes!” she shouts, triumphantly pumping her fist in the air. Her lack of holding back triggers a giggle to escape from my throat. “I didn’t know what or who it would take to break through to you, but I knew it was possible. I’m just sad you had to experience what you did for it to happen. You see, Lyra, you’re not a loner because you don’t like people; you’re a loner, because you like them too much. And with that comes the fear of getting attached, because you’ll eventually get hurt when they let you down or you’re forced to say goodbye. But that’s what life’s about—finding the relationships that are worth the pain, the summits peaking higher than the valleys dip low.”
I nod emphatically, feeding off her enthusiasm. “That’s how he makes me feel when we’re together. That I’m worth it, that he’s worth it… that we’re worth it.”
“Well, there’s everything you need to know then.” Dr. Rose beams at me. “Now the key is not losing focus of that. Do you guys plan on continuing to see each other on the weekends like you have been?”
Another nod as I take a swig from the water bottle she gives me at the start of each session. My anxiety kicks back up when I think about his request before he left this morning.
“Yes, except this weekend he asked me to go to Philly instead of him coming here. His birthday is Saturday, and every year his mom rents out his favorite restaurant for a big dinner. He wants to introduce me to his family and friends.”
Dr. Rose immediately senses the reluctance in my voice I’m trying to hide. “Are you hesitant because you think he’s moving too fast, or because you don’t want to look the people in the eye?”
“I don’t feel like he’s moving too fast, and seeing the numbers will always be un
nerving. I don’t expect that’ll ever change,” I tell her. “But I’m training myself to focus on other attributes. Every day when I’ve gone out in the city with my camera, I’ve been making a point to make eye contact with strangers and to find something about them that I like, whether it be their smile or the color of their hair or the angle of their jaw. I know it sounds weird, but it helps, and it’s becoming easier the more I do it.”
“It doesn’t sound weird at all. Many of my patients with social anxiety disorder use similar coping skills when they’re in large groups of people.” Graciously, she doesn’t mention that she suggested this exact technique to me a few years ago when I first started seeing her. “So if it’s not either of those things, why the apprehension to go to the party?”
Dropping my gaze to my locked fingers in my lap, I conjure up the nerve to admit the root of my fear. “I guess I’m just worried they won’t like me. I mean, I know how to be polite and pleasant, though I’m aware I can be awkwardly shy. But, more than anything, I just want them to like me—to really like me.”
“By ‘them,’ you mean his mom?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug noncommittally, even though she and I both know she nailed it on the head.
Dr. Rose leans back in her chair and her thin lips curve up into a satisfied smirk. “You know, Lyra, I really can’t express how delighted I am to hear you talk today. Before you left on your trip, I felt like you were making real progress. And I was so hopeful that the trip to Florence—the chance to say goodbye to your parents on your own terms—would provide you the peace you needed to stop dwelling in the past and to start living in the present.
“But after the terrorist attack, once I made sure your name was on the safe list, I was worried you’d suffer a substantial regression, and understandably so. This, however”—she gestures her hands at me—“this transformation you’ve made blows my optimistic hopes out of the water. Being nervous about meeting the guy you’re dating’s mom because you want her to accept you is one hundred percent normal for everyone. It’s a sign you truly care about him and want the relationship to progress. If you just show his mom the real Lyra, open up a little, and let her see your feelings for her son, there’s no way she won’t love you.”
