As I sip on a cup of hot caffeine, I read the fifth email from a local company seeking my photography skills. And I am in complete awe. Doing this photo shoot with Gavin has already opened multiple doors for me. Some doors I wish would have remained closed. The doors trapping my heart and memories in the dark corners of my mind.
I keep thinking of Gavin’s promise to return to me. His promise to fix past mistakes and explain all the things I didn’t understand. But as each day passes, I wonder if he will follow through with his promises. If the perfume from days’ worth of flower deliveries was any indication, he plans to return. The only thought constantly rolling around in my head is how we move forward.
So much of our lives has changed. Adulthood changes people. But so much of what we once had remains untouched.
At one point in our lives, Gavin and I shared everything with each other. There were no secrets between us—intentional or by accidental omission. With the latest revelation—his supposed fake engagement to her—I wasn’t sure I could give Gavin my trust. I want to believe it is possible for us to get back to where we were years ago. The place where I knew every facet of his life and vice versa.
Because the end of us couldn’t be this—an ugly, painful, heart-wrenching reality.
The way things are now, they are so different from when we were younger. What I thought was pain at age sixteen is nothing compared to this vacant space beneath my breast bone. At least, back then, I experienced sensation where my heart resided in my chest. Now, my heart feels numb and hollow. The organ still beats, still pumps blood through my veins, but it only does so to keep me in existence. There is no life behind the rhythm. No real purpose. Just a machine doing its job.
My phone pings with an incoming text. Reluctantly, I glance at the screen. Although I haven’t responded, Gavin continues to text me updates. Last I heard, he fired his agent and broke off his friendship and fake engagement with her. That text brought an actual smile to my face. But we still have a long way to go.
Shelly: You, me, Jonas. Bar. Tonight.
Shelly has always known how to make me smile and laugh. Her simple text does exactly that. Her message short, sweet, and to the point.
As much as I want to be a hermit and hide in my shell of a house, Shelly has the right remedy. A night out with my friends is exactly what I need to boost my mood. To sit amongst the crowd, sip on a beer and listen to people belt out karaoke. The solution to every bad day in history is awkward karaoke.
Cora: Sounds good. What time?
Shelly: Six. We need to grab a good table before the crowd arrives.
Cora: See you at six.
I read through the emails again and decide to accept two of the offers. Respectfully declining the others, I tell them to reach out in the future and check my availability. The two I accept are in the Bay Area. One is for the city of St. Petersburg, who has requested for me to do a cityscape with some patrons. The city is looking to update images for tourism since the city has changed so much in the last five years. They want to show off city life and all the wonderful things the area has to offer. The other offer is for boudoir photos of a couple in Tampa. Details are vague, but enough for me to be comfortable and accept.
After I respond to the emails, I make the mistake of opening the file on my laptop titled “DO NOT OPEN.” Because, for some reason, I am a glutton for punishment.
For the next hour, I scroll through photo after photo of Gavin. From the photo shoot, and times when he wasn’t paying attention. Frame after frame after frame. Years ago, I had photos of us from high school digitized. Those same images were now parked in this folder. And I cannot force myself to look away.
Click. Click. Click.
Cue the tears. And the burn in my nose. Followed by the clog in my throat.
As each image from our younger years passes over the screen, I cry uglier and harder. I tremble from head to toe as my vision blurs and a tight pinch pierces between my lungs. The onslaught of memories set off the full emotional spectrum and it is pure misery. And I welcome every ounce of it.
At least anguish is better than numbness. At least it reminds me I am still alive. Because some days, I wonder if this is one huge nightmare. Some sick, twisted version of hell. Some days, life is hell.
I wake up on the couch, the blanket cocooning me and Luna purring on my chest. The light of day dims, but the sun is still up. I give Luna a few pets before cuddling her in my arms. After a moment, I bolt upright and Luna hisses at me before scampering off.
“Sorry, Luna.”
Shit. What time is it? I told Shelly I would meet her and Jonas at the bar.
I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall, noting it’s five-twenty. Flying off the couch, I head for my room and riffle through my closet. Thank goodness the bar is a short drive from the house, otherwise I would be screwed. After picking out a top and a pair of jeans, I jump in the shower and wash away the pool of sorrow I have been swimming in all day.
Once out and dressed, I feed Luna and grab my keys and wallet. I dash out the door and drive to the bar. Seven minutes later, I park in the lot and step through the bar doors.
I spot Shelly and Jonas at our usual table and walk over to them.
“Hey, you look like shit,” Shelly says, not sugarcoating my wayward appearance.
“You really know how to flatter a girl. Thanks. I haven’t been sleeping much. You’re lucky I got a nap in before tonight, otherwise I’d look so much better.”
I flip her the middle finger. But she knows I’m teasing her.
“Sorry. You know I call it as I see it,” she apologizes with a shrug.
“True. Can we please talk about something else?” I didn’t come out to talk about how depressing my life is. Tonight is about having fun and feeling better. If that isn’t going to happen, I will just go home and wallow alone.
“Yeah, sorry,” Shelly says.
The waitress approaches the table and sets down three beers. Mine is at my lips within a second, half of it down my throat. At this rate, I will be drunk in no time. We order another round and some appetizers.
By the time karaoke starts an hour later, I am somewhere between tipsy and drunk. And it is a nice place to be. In this state, not much of anything matters. Life has no issues. No drama. No life-altering decisions need to be made. It’s all rainbows and unicorns and horrible singers on small stages.
As some overly primped woman sings the words to Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name”, I lean on Jonas. His arm wraps around my shoulder and keeps me from teetering off my stool.
Jonas really is a great guy. I hope he happens upon the right woman one day. As much as we went back and forth, part of me always knew nothing more would evolve between us. Jonas has a big heart and will be perfect for a very lucky lady one day. But that lady won’t be me. And I hope he knows Shelly and I will need to approve whoever this future mystery woman will be. She will have a lot to live up to.
Jonas presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Are you okay?” he whisper-asks just loud enough for me to hear.
For a second, I nod. But the nod slowly transitions, and soon I shake my head before turning my face into his shoulder.
God, I am sick and tired of crying. My bloodshot eyes ache and feel as if they are swollen to twice their size. My throat scratches every time I speak and throbs with each breath I take. And honestly, I don’t know how much more of this I can handle.
Jonas delicately rubs a hand up and down my back. Says soothing words only I hear. Shushes me and tells me everything will be alright. And his kindness has me on the cusp of crying harder, but I resist. There is only so much my body can handle.
Two lackluster karaoke songs later, we all agree to call it a night. We pay our tab before I stumble out the door. Jonas drives me home in my car and Shelly follows us so she can take Jonas back to his Jeep. The drive is short and filled with low-volume rock music from the radio. Jonas doesn’t speak up while I lean against the window with my eyes closed. Minu
tes later, we park in my driveway and shuffle out. Shelly and Jonas walk me inside, hug me goodnight and disappear out the door.
Once alone, I kick off my shoes and peel off my jeans, crawl into bed and curl into a ball. Luna jumps up on the bed and nudges her head against mine. For a beat, I pet her soft fur and a sense of comfort washes over me as she purrs loudly and professes her unconditional love.
“At least you’ll stay by my side, pretty girl,” I whisper.
As if she understands me, Luna meows in response. I snuggle her into my chest and fall asleep, waking on and off through the night. Throughout the night, dreams of photos and drawings, hand holding and kisses, goodbyes and love letters haunt me every hour. As they do every night. And probably will for the rest of my life.
Twelve
Cora
Twelve and a half years ago
Today is the most important day of my life. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
On this day two years ago, Gavin and I officially started dating. Before he moved to California, we celebrated every possible relationship milestone. One month. Three months. Six months. One year. But today, on our two-year anniversary, I haven’t heard a word from him.
His lack of reaching out to me can easily be blamed on time zone differences. The hour is still early in California, and he is probably sleeping. But a sinking suspicion in my gut tells me it has nothing to do with the time zones. This nerve-laden ache has been getting bigger each day we are apart.
Six months has passed since Gavin left Florida. Six very long, dark months. The last four… I haven’t heard from Gavin at all. No return phone calls or texts. No response to the numerous letters I have mailed him. As if he vanished from the earth. Poof. At one point, I called and asked Mrs. Hunt if Gavin was still alive. She apologized profusely and told me Gavin was not doing well with the transition.
Neither was I, for that matter.
Since Gavin left, life has been complete and utter shit. My mom is lucky if I get out of bed each day. After weeks of tears and depression, Mom and Dad took me to see a therapist. We talked, she prescribed me anti-depressants and that was all she wrote. But pills will never replace my heart. Pills will never make this ache vanish. Only Gavin can do that. And he is gone.
Poof.
As with Gavin, everything I ever loved disappeared. My love for art has been almost nonexistent. School is going down the drain at a rapid pace. The only thing that kept me attending each day was the opportunity to sit under our tree. To trace my fingertips over the carved wood where our initials reside, along with his words only for me. Under that tree was our spot. Will always be our spot. The only physical piece of him I have a connection to every day.
I call Gavin’s house and the phone rings twice before Mr. Hunt answers. “Hello?”
I waited as late as possible, so it isn’t too early on the west coast. Currently eight in the morning in California. “Hi, Mr. Hunt. It’s Cora. Sorry to call so early. Is Gavin awake?” I pick at the hem of my jeans as I wait, nervous.
“Good morning, sweetheart. It’s not too early. But I’m sorry, Gavin isn’t home. He stayed over at a friend’s house last night.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointment evident in my tone. “Okay, thank you. I’ll try calling his cell phone.”
Before I hang up, Mr. Hunt speaks. “Cora? I’m so sorry about everything. I know neither of you is handling this well.”
I bite my tongue to avoid crying in the phone. I wonder if he knows how distant Gavin and I have become. Miles and states aren’t the only things that separate us now, it is also our lack of connection. Our lack of communication.
Is this what happens when soul mates are ripped apart? They drift and fade and become shells of themselves.
“Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” I manage. “Please let Gavin know I called.”
“I will, sweetheart. If we don’t talk again before, have a happy Thanksgiving,” he says.
And I almost lose it on the phone. “You all too.” Then I hang up.
I wait a few minutes, gathering my thoughts and emotions. The last thing I want is to call Gavin and cry during our conversation. Although, nowadays I cry more often than not.
Opening Gavin’s contact on my phone, I tap the little phone image before bringing the phone to my ear. First ring. God, I have missed hearing his voice. Second ring. But not more than I have missed his touch. Third ring. Or the feel of his lips pressed against mine. Fourth ring. And the way he held me close any chance he got. Voicemail.
“This is Gavin. Leave me a message. Or don’t. I really don’t give a shit either way.”
Why isn’t he answering? By now, it seems as if he purposely avoids me. And I don’t know why. Because he won’t fucking talk to me.
Beep.
“Hey, Gavin. It’s me. Your girlfriend. Although that seems questionable since you haven’t spoken to me in four months. Not once. I really miss you. And of all days to not respond to me… guess I should’ve known you’d find someone else to love. Thanks for having the balls to tell me. Whatever. You probably won’t even listen to this. But if you do… Happy anniversary. Hope you have a great day.”
I hang up and throw my phone across the room, screaming at the top of my lungs. And it’s no surprise, no one comes to my room and asks what is wrong. Because Mom and Dad both know. They know what day today is. They know that I have only gotten worse with each passing day. Mom also knows I haven’t spoken to Gavin in months. The longer I don’t hear from Gavin—let alone see him—the more bitter I become. The more withdrawn I become. Whatever his reason for cutting me off, it would have been nice if he made me privy. As it is, I feel like I have been played.
After screaming a few more times, I rummage through my closet. When I locate my art supplies, I yank them down and cast them across my bedroom floor. For the next few hours, I submerge myself in charcoals and my art pad. My fingertips are coated in black coal, and I am certain my face has streaks from where I scratched my face a couple times.
But it doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters.
I draw and shade and accentuate. When I finish the first image, I tear it from the pad and start a new piece. This process happens on repeat for hours. By the time I stop, the sun has begun setting. Three finished drawings lay in front of me, another still attached to the pad and left unfinished. I stare at the three images as a tear drips from my chin and splatters on the charcoal.
The first is a replica of the first day I met Gavin. Both of us sitting under our tree, before it was blemished by his pocket knife. Before it was our tree. I recall that day and how eager he was to make conversation with me. Continually ignoring him, I read my book and secretly memorized the lines of his face out of the corner of my eye. I listened to his breathing pattern and tried to match mine to it. I glanced down at his hands and watched them fumble as he sat nervously beside me.
The second image is a flashback to two years ago. Of Gavin and me at the beach, in the water, kissing for the first time. That day was pure magic. No other day compares to how I felt when his lips grazed mine for the first time. Like an incinerator ignited low in my belly, heat spreading throughout my body in the cool Gulf. And no matter who was looking, we stayed like that for hours in the water. Tangled limbs and hungry kisses. On that day, he became mine, and I became his. Forever.
And the third image makes me blush. In this piece, we are topless. Lips locked. Bodies crushed together. Hands in the other’s hair and groping body parts. This was us. Exposed and vulnerable and losing ourselves in one another. And the night we lost our virginity. A night that will be forever engraved in my memory. Not just the physicality, but also the way his eyes softened and his breath caught and my name rolled off his tongue.
The more I stare at the drawings, the harder the tears fall. Before too many hit the pages, I swipe them away and fold up the pages. The unfinished page stays attached to the pad—a picture of me now. More like a silhouette. Because all I feel is darkness. Nothingness.
Grabbing one of my school notebooks, I open it to a blank page and write a letter to Gavin. One I hope he reads.
Gavin,
Today is our two-year anniversary. And all I want to do is talk to you. But we haven’t talked in so long. Now, I am just empty inside. Lifeless. Moving to California wasn’t your fault. You hate it. I hate it. And there is nothing we can do about it.
I called your house earlier and your Dad told me you stayed over at a friend’s house. I’m happy you’ve made new friends out there. And I’m happy you seem to be moving on without me.
I won’t bore you with my life. Because it’s one big shit show on my end. Maybe I’ll start my meds again, so at least I experience some form of happiness. Even if it is fake. Fake is better than nothing at all. Right?
Inside this envelope are three drawings of happier times. After this, I may just burn all my art supplies. Because anything worth capturing doesn’t exist anymore. Not since you left. Not since you stopped talking with me.
Why? Why have you stopped talking with and writing me? Did you find someone else already? Was I that easy to forget? Am I not even worth friendship?
I hate myself. I hate my life. Hate that I have given you my heart and you’ve stomped on it until it turned to dust.
Does your heart feel like a black hole? Because mine does. It feels like this dark, hollow place that sucks all the happiness from the world and demolishes it.
It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does. You. Me. Us. Who were we to think we would see each other again? We’re fools. Or at least I’m a fool. Because I believed we would. Believed this separation was a temporary blip in our relationship. Something easily fixed after a little patience.
But it seems I was wrong.
Because it feels like you have moved on without me. Left me to rot with the garbage.
Time Exposure (Click Duet #2) (Bay Area Duet Series) Page 9
