Books by Cynthia A. Rodriguez
The Mystic Waters Series
Mystic Waters
Chasing the Tide
Other Books
Crashing Souls
Souls Collide (Crashing Souls #2)
The Sound of Serendipity
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
EVOL. Copyright © 2018 by Cynthia A. Rodriguez.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America.
Cover design © Sofie Hartley, Hart & Bailey Design Co.
Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC
First Printing
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Day 381 Post-Gavin
PART I
Day 381
Day 380
Later That Day
Day 379
Later That Day
Day 378
Day 376
Day 375
Day 374
Day 373
Day 371
Day 368
Day 365
Day 360
Day 355
Day 350
Day 340
Day 335
Day 330
Day 327
Day 325
Day 323
Day 320
Day 319
Day 316
Day 314
Day 310
Day 308
Day 295
Day 285
Day 250
Day 100
Day 50
Day 8
Day 2
Day 1
PART II
Day 1 Post-Gavin
Day 42 Post-Gavin
Day 87 Post-Gavin
Day 95 Post-Gavin
Day 232 Post-Gavin
Day 365 Post-Gavin
Day 375 Post-Gavin
Later That Day
PART III
Day 381 Post-Gavin
Later That Day
Day 382 Post-Gavin
Day 385 Post-Gavin
Day 386 Post-Gavin
EPILOGUE
Day 650 Post-Gavin
Acknowledgements
Day 932 Post-Gavin
why is it
that when the story ends
we begin to feel all of it
- Rupi Kaur
For me.
PROLOGUE
Remind me how we fell in love.
Whisper it slowly.
Start at the very end,
And meet me back at the beginning.
Day 381 Post-Gavin
There are dirty dishes in the sink.
I think this to myself as I add another mug to the ones already piling there and make a mental note to wash them later. Especially since I might be having company other than my sister after work.
My lips twitch at the thought, a small smile gracing my face.
I pull one of my teal chevron-patterned curtains aside to see what the weather looks like. Gray skies, sad masses of clouds that look ready to cry any moment. The watch on my wrist shows me I have less than a minute to get the hell out of my apartment and on the T, not looking forward to the bodies pressed against mine on the subway. I grab my bright yellow umbrella by its hooked handle and, on the way out, my gaze falls on the stack of worn journals tucked between some of my favorite novels on my bookshelf. They’re bound together by mournful black ribbon. I almost reach out to touch them, as if they aren’t all the way across the room.
Instead, I turn on my heel and rush out of the apartment, nearly forgetting to lock the door in my nostalgic haze.
Don’t do it, Denise.
The words are like a safety net, keeping me from plummeting into the abysmal grief that hits me from time to time.
And damn it, I didn’t have the patience for it today.
I reach for my CharlieCard and make my way through the crowds of people rushing to make it to work, same as me. The only difference is, they’re wearing business attire while I’m decked in distressed jeans and Adidas shell top sneakers.
Through the rigmarole of maneuvering through the crowds, swiping my card, and getting on the right subway line, glimpses of the past jolt me. I’m walking through a hellish mausoleum, a place where my memories were once laid to rest.
If I squint my eyes, the couple seated a few feet away looks just like we used to; so wrapped up in each other—too wrapped up to see the impending demise lurking off in the corner. If I close my eyes, I can feel his smile against my cheek.
I fight against the urge to.
Instead, I reach up and wipe my fingers against the phantom sensation, as if I’m cleaning off some invisible smudge. Without thinking, I tuck my face into my shoulder and keep my eyes on the windows that only show the tunnel we’re zooming through.
The car stops, and I push through, past the sickeningly sweet couple, to get off at my stop. No more memories, nothing else to deter me from having the spectacular day I’m hellbent on having.
“It’s going to be a great day,” I chant to myself over and over and soon I’m reaching for the door of the first store I’m working at today.
I’m greeted by young women talking over one another, pointing fingers, and one older woman standing amidst the chaos with a panicked expression.
“Denise,” someone screeches and, in an effort to keep my optimism intact, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I feel like I have a grip on my sanity, I open my eyes and respond with a smile.
“What’s up?”
“Well,” the store manager, Paige, starts off, “one of the girls left the back door open and now we’re missing boxes of shipment.”
I snort and Paige groans, hiding her face with her hands. Her usually pin-straight blond hair has flyaways every which way and when she drops her hands, I notice how pink her cheeks are.
“What am I going to do?” The question is shrill.
I adjust my purse’s shoulder strap and sigh as I decide to offer the advice I’d given her many times before.
“You have to start hiring quality workers, Paige. We talked about this.” I put my arm around her shoulders and walk us out of earshot of the others. “The pretty ones get the shoppers in here, sure. But try for pretty and responsible. Or, hell, just responsible.”
Poor Paige. But anyone could’ve seen some sort of disaster coming just based on the employees manning the store. Paige is freaking out and they’re still in the front of the store, arguing amongst one another.
“You might want to . . .” My phone vibrates, and I see my sister’s name, but I let it ring, trying to diffuse this situation. “Might want to get the girls working on something,” I finish telling a pacing Paige. She nods, and I scroll through my phone to call management, unsure what the missing shipments mean for me since the items inside those boxes were what I was meant to display.
After speaking to the very patient district manager for a few minutes, I’m told to switch a couple of mannequins up and head to another store.
By now the doors have opened and a few morning shoppers are sifting through racks and neatly folded piles.
I spy one of the employees with her arms crossed, rolling her eyes at the mess one particular customer is making as I walk to the backroom to put my things away. I remember those days, I think to myself with a smile and shake of my head.
I store my jacket, crossbody bag, and umbrella in the back and get to work. I start removing clothing and accessories from the mannequins and walk around the sales floor, comi
ng up with styles that are vastly different from one to the other but also reflecting the specific section of the boutique each of the mannequins is set up at.
Mixing denim with tulle for one, fishnets and sequins for another, leather and lace, humming the old Stevie Nicks song under my breath.
I always loved “Leather and Lace.” Certainly more than the heavy techno that was currently playing in the store.
“Denise,” I hear Paige call from the register, pulling my focus from my task. My hands pause their quick work and I look over at her.
“What’s up?” I tug at the top I’m adjusting on the mannequin. The same top is hanging in all available sizes on the wall and I make a mental note to move them to a closer rack.
“Your sister’s on the phone. Says it’s an emergency.”
The mannequin hits the ground with a thunk as I rush to the front of the store.
I forgot to call her back. What if . . .
I don’t let myself finish the thought.
Nothing can stop me from making my way to the phone, my worry intensified, but then I hear my name again, this time quiet and a little unsure.
A voice I thought I might never hear again.
“Denise.”
I almost walked right past him. Almost.
There is no question in his tone. He knows it’s me and I know, as soon as my name is uttered, that it’s him.
My feet have no choice but to turn so I’m facing him, some distance between us.
Your feet point toward what your heart wants. The memory echoes in my mind and I fight several urges; to hit him, to hug him, to beg him to never leave, to tell him I never want to see him again.
To tell him all I ever see is him, even when he was half a world away.
He looks a little broader, with more facial hair. My fingers itch to reach up and scratch his beard just to see his lips purse the way they used to.
That hellish mausoleum I’d walked through earlier this morning had shit on the living and breathing man in front of me. It was like all those thoughts simply created a path that led him right to my doorstep. Or, in this case, to my job.
Ignored texts over the year and change since we’d last talked because I knew, deep down, him telling me that he missed me and vice versa was never going to fix anything. And so, the last thing I told him . . .
Don’t tell me you miss me if you aren’t going to do anything about it.
Here he is.
Challenge accepted.
“Gavin,” I whisper.
I want to ask him what he’s doing here but it’s a stupid question.
What grown man comes to a boutique that caters to young, trendy women, alone?
And I start to question . . . is he here to purchase something for someone new in his life? Had he found what he’d been looking for all along? I glance at his left hand, to the finger sitting between his middle and pinky, letting my breath go when I see it’s bare.
Then I look at his face, at his eyes, and I know.
He’s here for me.
Intentions, intentions.
“Why are you here?”
His presence is overwhelming and all at once I realize I’m standing in front of a familiar stranger. Someone I once knew, someone who once knew me . . . some days, better than I knew myself.
And here we are.
“Well, I’m not here to shop,” he answers with a chuckle, but my face remains stoic. I once loved the sight of his amusement.
If I’m being honest, I still do.
But that’s my little secret.
“Denise? Everything okay?” Paige asks, an edge in her voice.
I glance at her and back at him and . . . it all comes rushing back. The crying and the frustration and the sheer anguish.
I shake my head at Gavin and continue walking to the register. But he grabs my wrist.
It’s a light hold. Nothing to seriously keep me from walking away. Still. Coupled with the hold he’s had on me all this time, I stop so suddenly, it fucks with my equilibrium a little.
He moves closer, his mouth near my ear. I can feel his breath as he exhales and then inhales before he finds the words to say.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t know what to do and . . . I’m so sorry that I didn’t try.”
I think back to those journals sitting on my bookshelf, wrapped in black ribbon, and to the trek here, filled with both pleasure and misery at the thought of what we’d shared. I think about the last year without him and about the months prior when he wasn’t there, physically and emotionally. And I think about the moments between us that made it impossible to just walk away from him; the laughter, the adventure and conversations, the love.
Our love was filled with too many highs and lows to be pushed aside for a narrow path.
“I’m sorry, Denise. Even after all this time. I need to apologize for everything.”
What do you say to the man who’s finally telling you everything you want to hear but . . .
“Denise?”
A third, male voice chimes in and only one word comes to mind.
Fuck.
There is no “one”
Just the ones who hurt us,
They become monuments in our past;
Points of pain.
I thought you’d be more soothing than singeing.
But you proved that even the fire that warms can burn.
Day 381
Some of the most devastating wounds are unseen. No blade, no bullets, no fists, can hurt you the way some simple occurrences can. Stacked on top of one another, they collapse, taking you with them.
Innocent bystander turned unfortunate casualty.
I wasn’t aware of that for the greater part of my twenty-six years on earth. And I thought, silly me, that the pain I’d endured thus far would’ve been enough. Surely, life was through doling out these shitty cards of theirs. But, no. Not yet. I must be a collector for all of the shitty cards I held.
“We need to stop talking after I leave,” I hear him say.
After you leave? Why not start now?
That’s my pride, I remind myself. Because I’m terrified—terrified—to have him side with my pride and that be that.
I heard this before and I’d been bold in response that time. But this time was different.
This time, he wasn’t wrong. This time, he was standing in front of me, acknowledging that we’d turned into something neither of us could find a way to get through without ripping each other apart along the way.
But I fight logic because I love him, in a selfish and now toxic way.
All along, I’d seen the end coming. From the moment I met him, I knew this was something that would end, as all things do. And when it ended, it would fucking kill me.
“That’s fine,” I whisper.
Pride.
Tell me you want to leave, and I’ll hold the door open for you.
But I’ll secretly beg you not to leave me. It’s all in my eyes.
The eyes I keep trained on the comforter covering my bare legs.
Beg, stay, leave, goodbye. These words swirl in my mind and I fight every one of them. This time, I wouldn’t fight him. I’d let him decide on his own what he wanted. If it wasn’t me, I’d accept it and let him go.
I’d find my peace. On my own.
“. . . if we meet up at some point later down the road . . .”
I want to look at him, remember his features as he walks away, only offering me some bullshit idea that maybe we can get past this and be better people to one another.
But I can’t. Not when I’d already given him my better and this was what it’d come to.
Unrealistic.
What he’s saying is so unrealistic. Why not just call this the end? Now I deserve this kindness? Now I’m allowed possibilities when it comes to he and I?
“Close the door behind you,” I say as I turn away to face the wall.
Literally. Figuratively.
Take your open doors and shove th
em up your ass, Gavin.
At the last moment, I turn, just in time to see him slip out quietly.
More unseen and devastating wounds.
In the beginning, the song was sweet,
But somewhere along the way, the melody darkened,
We are the bones of what we used to be.
I am melancholy in your midst; mourning and morose.
Day 380
Silence has its own sound. It can speak to you in a way that noise could never reach. It slides between your shoulder blades and tap, tap, taps at your heart, reminding you that you’re the only noise in the room. Your uneven breathing, your heartbeat, the sounds of your movements. You’re the disruption.
I can’t stand the quiet. As I braid my hair, I try to figure out what to say to make it different. I need a game plan . . . something to remind us of the glue that holds us together. Even if it’s hardly doing its job. I hold onto the hope that although things aren’t as solid as they once were, we’re together and together, we can fix this.
We’re better together than we are apart. We can fix this.
Maybe.
Or maybe I’m chasing a dream; another relationship I had at another time with another man who happens to look just like the one lying in my bed.
Who knows? After last night . . .
I lean back and peek outside the bathroom to check if he’s awake and when I see him lying on his back, his hand on his bare chest and his eyes looking at the ceiling, I immediately straighten. We can fix this, but I’m terrified to try. So afraid to try but even more terrified at the idea of failing.
What if we can’t fix it? I secure my second French braid with a rubber band. I’m sure to pick up the stray hairs that fell from my scalp because I don’t want to give Gavin any reason to be annoyed with me. I tiptoed around my apartment earlier, sure to clean up after myself and avoid the things he hates. I didn’t climb on top of him to wake him up, I fed the dog and blew out the candles before I forgot, which happens more often than it should. The last one is something we used to laugh about. We don’t laugh about it anymore. We don’t laugh about much anymore.
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