by Clark, Kaisa
Once I’ve told him everything I possibly can with those sixteen songs, I begin on the case. I decide to make a collage for the front and back covers. I pour through magazines, clipping out images that remind me of us. There’s a picture of a palm tree to remind him of summer. A picture of an ice cream cone to remind him of all the Ben and Jerry’s we ate together. Of course there’s a grizzly bear and a school of fish and a man winking. I even stumble upon a picture of a girl with tangled hair and I clip that too for all the nights we rolled around in my bed, doing anything but sleeping. I disassemble the entire case and make a label for the spine, titling it Oh My Goodness: The Soundtrack. And then finally, it is done. I have no idea what he’ll think of it, but it’s quite possibly the only way I can really tell him how I feel without ever saying anything at all.
His last shift at the restaurant arrives way too soon. He gets cut first and is rolling his silverware in the back. I spot him when I’m dropping off some dishes and come to stand beside him. He’s pulling off his tie when I reach him and he flips it around my neck, still holding both ends, and pulls me closer. I can’t help but smile and sneak a quick kiss because no one is around, but it’s soft and solemn. It’s nothing like the passionate kisses we’ve stolen in the freezer.
“Want some help?” I ask.
“You’d be willing to roll extra silverware? For me?”
“I’d do a lot more than that for you, Adam.”
He gives me an ornery smile. “I have a few ideas.”
I poke his side and pull half the napkins from his stack.
His expression softens and he stares down at the napkins in front of him. “I’m going to miss this,” he finally whispers.
The way he says the words sounds like he’s saying goodbye. I hate the finality in his voice. I hate the truth behind it.
That night when he comes over I can tell he isn’t himself. He’s quiet, reserved, pensive. He hovers in the doorway, leaning against the frame as though he can’t bring himself to come inside.
He fiddles with his keys before asking, “Want to go for a drive?”
I nod and take his hand, wanting to feel closer when he feels so far away. He drives out past the city lights, just like our first nights together. When we’ve reached the outskirts and it feels as though the whole world is a million miles away, he pulls the car over. We climb out and I sit on the trunk of his car. He leans in beside me, pressing his side to mine as we stare up at the night sky. The moon hangs high and bright, illuminating his face in the darkness.
“I used to look at the stars with my dad as a kid,” I say softy, giving him something new, a different piece of me he’s never had before, hoping maybe he’ll give me something in return. “On bright nights like this he would always say, ‘There’s Alexa’s moon.’ I loved the idea it was up there just for me.”
After a beat he turns to face me, standing between my legs and wrapping his arms around my waist. When his lips meet mine, his kiss is slow and haunting. He barely pulls away, his lips brushing mine as he whispers, “You make it so hard to say goodbye, Lex.”
Without thinking I murmur back, “So don’t.”
His face falls and he presses his forehead into my chest, his fingers knotting in the hem of my tank top. He exhales for what feels like eternity, his breath heavy and weighted and filling up all the space between us with the words we can’t bring ourselves to say.
We don’t have a plan for Thursday night, our last night. I’m assuming I’ll see him because it’s the last night we have together, but we haven’t really talked about it. Go figure.
When he finally calls around eight, his tone is subdued, quiet. “Can I see you?” he asks, all reservation and slow monotone. “I was thinking maybe you could come over here tonight. My parents are out of town for a conference.”
Admittedly I’m excited to see him in his element, hoping it’ll be a tiny window into the real Adam, the Adam outside of work or the confines of my apartment, the Adam he tries so hard to keep to himself. Maybe by inviting me over he’s actually inviting me in.
“When should I come?”
“Now. I’ll text you my address.”
My heart is racing as I hang up the phone. He still hasn’t said anything about what his departure means for us and I take his silence as a clue. As much as I want to see him, part of me is filled with dread. Tomorrow I will say goodbye to my other half. Tomorrow my heart will break into a million little pieces.
I collect my purse and put the CD in a small manila envelope then pull the front door shut behind me. The realization slams into me that the next time I open it he’ll be gone.
As my car edges closer, the houses become noticeably nicer, the neighborhoods more affluent. Pulling in front of his parents’ house, I decide to park on the street to hopefully draw less attention to my presence. Knowing how private Adam is, he may not want my visit getting back to his parents.
I take a deep breath to steady myself, fingering the envelope. My confession. But it suddenly feels all wrong. It feels pitiful. How can I expect sixteen songs to tell him what I can't bring myself to say? How can I possibly hope for more when he’s leaving, when he probably hasn’t brought it up for a reason? It's unfair. It's pathetic. I stuff the envelope into my bag, the weight of hesitation bearing down on me, feeling inept, feeling unworthy.
Adam steps onto the front porch in loose house pants and a fitted blue V-neck, his feet bare. As always he looks completely relaxed and at ease; only his eyes betray a hint of reservation, that and the noticeable absence of his smile. I trudge up the long drive and climb the steps to meet him. He doesn’t say a word, just wraps his arms around me, tucking me into an embrace. I take a deep breath, savoring the way he smells, the real Adam smell.
After a minute he leads me inside. The interior could be clipped from the pages of a magazine. The open floor plan is all dark, hardwood floors and understated furniture. The house is beautiful, if not a bit sterile. There are no family photos, no mementos lining the bookshelves. The focal point of the open room is a wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out on a large, shimmering lake behind the house. The summer sun is setting, casting rays of pink, orange, and yellow hues in every direction. They reflect off the water, filling the evening sky. It is calm and beautiful and absolutely breathtaking. I could stand here and stare at it forever, if only time would stand still, if only tomorrow would never come.
Adam catches me gazing out the back window and comes to stand beside me, wrapping his arms around me once more and pressing his lips to my temple. “See, I told you. You’re my sunset.”
I swallow hard, my eyes focused on the horizon, trying desperately to fight back the lump forming in my throat. So this is what he had in mind. This is what he sees in me. He watches me an instant then tucks his finger under my chin and raises my eyes to his. He kisses me slow and soft and light and even though I’m trying desperately to hold it together, a part of me is already falling apart.
His lips pull from mine and he grips my hand, tugging me from the living room. We descend a staircase then head down a long hallway. He finally pushes a door open and steps inside. The first thing I notice is the aroma. It’s undeniably Adam. I take a deep breath, soaking it in.
“This is it,” he says with reservation. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his house pants before adding quietly, “I don’t really bring people here.”
My eyes move to scan the room, hungry for every detail, any new piece of Adam I can take in. Like the rest of the house, his room is impeccably clean. He has a king-sized bed pushed into one corner underneath a large picture window. It looks out on the lake and that same amazing view of the setting sun. I can almost imagine him lying here admiring the sunset, thinking of me when I’m stuck at work without him. Next to the bed is a desk, above which hangs a bulletin board crowded with thumbtacked photos. I make my way over to get a better look.
Most of the photos are from the last few years. There’s Adam in a group of people holding red pl
astic cups at a party. A large group of guys on a ski slope posing near a tree that’s covered with beads and ladies’ undergarments. Adam dressed up as a ping pong player for Halloween. A group of guys in dark suits outside a swanky hotel. A younger-looking Adam and Damien outfitted in tuxes for what appears to be their high school prom. In the corner of the board is one photo at odds with the rest. It’s an older snapshot of a dark-haired little boy who looks almost like he could be Adam, but not quite. Something in the eyes is different. His face is completely lit up with a huge, infectious grin, as though he’s laughing at something just outside of view. He is absolutely adorable.
I peel my eyes away from the bulletin board and continue taking in the room. Opposite his bed is a large TV stand, the top of which is cluttered with a slew of trophies and medals of all different sizes. When I take a step closer I realize they’re all for boxing. First place after first place. Year after year. State after neighboring state. There are dozens crowding the surface and even more spilling onto a nearby bookcase. In the center of the collection stand the two largest trophies, the plaques inscribed with the words Regional Golden Gloves Champion over two consecutive years, what would have been his junior and senior years of high school. Beside the bookcase rests an acoustic Taylor propped on a stand, an orange pick tucked beneath the strings. The rich mahogany practically gleams.
I bite my lip, astounded. I had no idea he boxed. I had no idea he played. Gazing around his room now, I realize how little I really know about Adam, how little of himself he’s given to me up to this point. By inviting me here he’s allowing me a small glimpse of this side of him, to see something of who he is underneath it all without having to actually say the words out loud. My thoughts flash to the CD and I realize now more than ever how alike we truly are.
I drop my purse next to his bed and sit down. “You have a lot of trophies,” I say with a slight grin, trying to loosen him up.
He sits beside me and the bed softly creaks. “Yeah, there are a few.”
He pauses and I don’t think he’s going to say anything else, in his typical elusive fashion, but he finally does.
“I’ve actually thought about getting rid of them since I don’t really box anymore.”
“Why not?”
“When you turn eighteen you either go to college or go pro. I chose college.”
I look over at his face, trying to read his expression, but nothing escapes him. He keeps every emotion in check as he stares down at the floor.
“They’re kind of intimidating. You could put them in your room at school so everyone knows not to mess with you.”
An odd expression passes over his face and he runs a hand over his hair. “I don’t really think that’s necessary,” he says slowly.
“Yeah, probably better to keep it under wraps. You can keep people guessing that way.” This seems to be his general approach to life anyway, protecting every detail, never giving too much away.
He abruptly stands and pulls his desk chair out. Grabbing his guitar from the corner, he takes a seat and starts lightly strumming. Before long the notes transform, becoming soft and melodic and somehow capturing exactly what I’m feeling. His music reflects every reservation, every fear, every solemn plea emanating from my chest for him to not let go of what we’ve found. I settle back into his pillows, breathing his scent in from the sheets nestled around me, feeling an overwhelming surge of emotion at being in his bed, watching him play this heartfelt music. His eyes are cast down and he’s softly biting his lower lip, his head bobbing in time with his fingers. More emotion plays on his face than I’ve ever seen there before, something dark and intense and sad all at once. I let the music wash over me, drowning out my thoughts, and before long my eyes grow heavy and droop shut.
After a while I register his notes stop and hear him gently return the guitar to its stand. He switches his stereo on low and climbs into the bed beside me. I let out a low murmur as he wraps his arms around me and draws me into his chest. He presses his lips to my forehead, lightly running his fingers through my hair.
I never expected the summer to end this way, with the absolute uncertainty of it all looming over me. I recall Annabelle telling me it was guaranteed no strings attached. How wrong she’d been, and yet how right.
We stay that way for a long time, Adam stroking my hair, me lying on his chest. Eventually his breathing evens out and his fingers still and I know he’s asleep. I peek up at him, savoring the peaceful expression, the sharp contours of his jawline, the dark mess of hair. Whatever this has been, this intensity, this magic, this connection, it’s been worth it. No matter what happens, I feel confident that being with Adam has changed me, made me better, made me whole. If only for a time I found my counterpart, the person who completes me, makes me better, brings me to life. Never before have I been so connected, so in tune with another human being. I have found myself reflected in him a hundred different ways, fallen in love with him for a hundred different reasons, a hundred different times. I wish I could push the dawn away and stay in this moment with this beautiful boy forever.
I awake to the sound of his phone ringing. August twelfth is here. Tomorrow is today. He lays relaxed in the bed as he talks animatedly into the phone, limbs spread wide, none of them touching me. Somber Adam from the night before is gone, replaced with enthusiastic, frat boy Adam. On the phone is one of his brothers from the house calling about finances. When he hangs up the phone, Adam tells me he’s the treasurer on the fraternity’s executive committee and is in charge of getting everyone’s funds organized before they can move into the house.
Adam’s phone keeps ringing into the afternoon. The callers finalize room arrangements, organize the printing of t-shirts, and plan last minute details of the parties they’ll throw over the next week. He tells me how much fun this time of year is at the house and how he’s so excited to get back. I can’t help feeling disappointed he’s so eager for the return. It occurs to me he could’ve stayed here another week until the semester actually starts, but he’s choosing to leave early, to leave me behind. Cold fear washes over me, gripping my stomach, clogging my lungs. Maybe this isn’t what I thought it was. The CD seems so foolish now, put into perspective. I doubt it’ll mean much once he gets back to all the partying and sorority girls.
Before long he stretches and says, “Well I should probably start packing.” I know it’s my cue to leave. A polite dismissal. He busies himself on his phone, silent, his eyes averted as I collect my things. When I’m done he walks me up the stairs and out to my car, but it’s nothing like before. He doesn’t take my hand, doesn’t loop an arm around my waist, doesn’t touch me at all. For the first time ever, we feel disconnected. I can’t seem to break through. I can’t reach him.
We stop at the end of the driveway and he finally moves towards me, draping his arms around my neck. He presses his lips to my forehead then touches his own to that same spot and stares deep into my eyes. I can’t tell what I see there. Sadness? Finality? My heart is hammering in my chest, my whole body weak as putty when he releases me.
Please, Adam. My eyes bore into his. Pleading. Begging. Please say it. Say you want to try. Say you aren't through with this. Say it because I can't. I'm silently imploring with everything I have, willing him to read my eyes, willing him to put into words what this summer has been, what I know he’s felt, what I'm hoping he doesn't want to let go.
But he doesn't.
He doesn't say a word.
My fingers swim into my bag, clutching at the crumpled corners of the envelope. I don't want to give it to him, but I know I have to. This is what I came here to do and if this is truly the end he should know what he meant to me. Before I lose my nerve I thrust the envelope into his hands then turn for my car.
“Drive safe,” I call over my shoulder. I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye.
As I climb in the driver’s side door, he holds a hand up and says softly, “Goodbye, Alexa.”
And that’s exactly what it fe
els like.
Goodbye.
PART III – The Fall
Chapter 14
I wait until I’m out of his neighborhood to break down. I have to pull the car over because I can’t see through my tears. My whole body aches, down to the core. The shift in his behavior today was completely unexpected; I’ve never seen him so cavalier. I truly have no idea if I just said goodbye to the love of my life for good. Fat tears roll down my cheeks, splashing onto my arms and lap. I bite my lip, willing myself to calm down. I suck deep, ragged breaths through my mouth and somehow manage to collect myself long enough to make the drive home. The walk up the stairs to my door is the longest I’ve ever experienced. Once inside, the emptiness of my bedroom resonates around me. I crawl into bed, longing for sleep to bring reprieve. This day cannot end soon enough. My only hope is to sleep it off and pray I feel somewhat better in the morning.
When I blink my eyes open, an intense wave of sadness washes over me. I can smell him all around me, deep and rich and haunting. Just days ago Adam would’ve pulled me into his chest and kissed me good morning. Now I’m painfully alone. Where my room was once the source of all my happiness it now feels bleak and depressing. I pull the blanket tight around my shoulders and move to the couch, attempting to escape the memories playing through my mind.
Annabelle calls my cell phone but I don’t pick up. I can’t bear the thought of talking about him and how we left things. I’m barely holding it together as it is. To distract myself I put my music on shuffle, but every song reminds me of him. Tears stream down my cheeks and I end up falling back to sleep, only to dream of his handsome face, his easy smile.
When I don’t pick up my phone for two days and call in sick for my shifts at work, Annabelle gives up calling and comes over. I answer the door in my pajamas, hair a mess, eyes puffy from crying. I haven’t heard from Adam and his silence has completely wrecked me. Annabelle scans my living room from the door, taking in the tissues strewn across the coffee table, my comforter tucked among the couch pillows. The evidence of my demise.
