Fight For It

by Jessie Harper

  The mention of Abbey brings a fresh wave of irritation. She's nowhere to be found now, of course. Her pretending to comfort me lasted all of five minutes before she was too busy to worry about it anymore. Her glee at having upset Julia only added to my anger after our kiss. None of that should have happened.

  "Look, you don't need to be worrying about that. It's probably not good for you to get so worked up." Maybe this will convince my father to leave it alone.

  "I'll worry about whatever I want to worry about," he snaps. "If I want to worry about my son and his happiness then I'll damn well do that." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Her friend checks in with my nurse every day, you know."

  "Cassie?" This is news to me.

  "The redhead. I don't know her name. But she's probably reporting back to your girl."

  "I don't think I get to call her my girl anymore." It hurts to say that and watching my father's disappointed face hurts even more.

  "What, she's somebody else's girl already?" My father's incredulous question makes me immediately think of Graham. "What?" he prompts.

  "I'm sure Graham's hanging around."

  "Football Graham?" My father whistles low. "But he's been hanging around for a while, right? And somehow she still ended up with you. That says something, don't you think?"

  "I guess." He has a point. “But she walked away. If she’s giving up, I have to let her.” Even if it feels unfair. Even if I don’t get to explain. Even if it makes me angry.

  "And you're forgetting the most important part. You've never told her how you feel."

  I mull this over, settling back down in the lumpy green chair. "But if she won't even talk to me, how am I supposed to tell her anything?" I’m like a kid here by my father's bedside, waiting for him to impart some wisdom.

  "You just keep hammering," my father tells me, taking another sip of his water. "Like with everything."

  "That sounds too simple. And also impossible." I sigh. "I think she's done. Showing up at her house with a boom box over my head isn't going to make difference."

  "A what over your head? Of course that won't make a difference." My father scowls. "But if you want to show her you're sorry and that you're serious, then you keep trying for as long as it takes. Unless that's not what you want." He eyes me suspiciously. "Then you leave her alone."

  "I don't want to leave her alone." I rub my hand over the sore spot over my heart.

  "Then why the hell are you still sitting there? Go home and pull yourself together. Shave, for God's sake. Then get yourself over to her house and try. And then do it again tomorrow. And the next day and the next if that's what it takes."

  "Did you have to do this with Mom?" I'm joking, but hearing that this not-plan has actually worked before would give me hope.

  "No, I get shit right the first time." He smiles. "Refill the ice thing before you go. Your mom'll be here soon and I don't want to hear that you're just lurking around in the hallway. Go take care of things. Fix it."

  I grab the tiny plastic bucket from the tray by the bed. "Okay, okay, I'm going."

  40

  Julia

  The first envelope arrives in the morning. I recognize the neat block letters as Zach's and contemplate leaving it on the porch. But curiosity gets the better of me and I gingerly pick the manila rectangle up by the edges as if it might be dangerous. The boys are at school so they don't get to witness the way I nearly heave it on the kitchen counter or the way I circle it all day, regarding it the way I would a snake. I know Zach wants me to open it, to read what's inside. I'm assuming it's a letter. An apology. Or a goodbye. When Charlie and Noah get home from school, I shove the envelope in the nearest available drawer and there it sits.

  The next envelope is propped against the door when I leave the house the next morning. I have the boys with me, backpacks over shoulders, lunch boxes clutched in small hands when I almost trip over it. This one is bigger than the last one and stiffer, the paper barely crinkling in my hand.

  "What's that?" Charlie asks as I put the envelope in the house. I throw it like a Frisbee and hear the satisfying thwack of it hitting the wall.

  "Just mail."

  "Why isn't it in the mailbox?"

  I shrug my shoulders. "Sometimes they put packages and things on the porch." I'm not about to get them interested in this situation.

  "At night?" Noah asks. He and Charlie consider this for a moment. "They don't leave things on the porch at night, do they?"

  "Why wouldn't they put it in the mailbox? It would fit." Charlie's really thinking about this now. "Then they wouldn't have to get out of the truck and come up on the porch.” He and Noah both seem to think this would be the better idea, especially for a night delivery.

  "Sometimes things get delivered in the evening. We're going to be late; hustle to the car." I herd them off the porch and get them buckled in with only one thought in my head: Zach's been getting out of his truck and coming up onto the porch. My stomach gives a traitorous flip.

  That afternoon there's another envelope. Smaller this time but still shining like a little white beacon against the dark wood of the front door. I half expect to see Zach's glowing footprints on the porch steps. I hold the envelope in my hand and imagine him printing the letters of my name, licking the envelope to seal it shut. Part of me wants to crumple it up, make whatever's inside into a ball and throw it as far as I can. Instead I bring it into the house and add it to the others in the drawer.

  Every so often I pull the growing stack out with the intention of throwing it all in the garbage. But each time I hesitate. There's something to be said for Zach's tenacity. I'm not answering his phone calls or texts but he's managed to make me think about him at least once a day, sometimes two or three times if I get multiple deliveries. But I don't need the persistent envelopes to remind me of the way he smelled, or the feeling of my hand in his. Those memories are impossible to shake.

  "What the fuck is all this?" Cassie's in my kitchen, trying to open a bottle of wine.

  "All what? Did the kids leave that slime stuff all over the counter again?" I'm up from my corner of the couch and sprinting into the kitchen in record time. That stuff stains.

  "What are you talking about? Actually"—Cassie raises her hands in defeat—"don't even explain that. I don't want to know about kids and slime. I'm talking about this." She gestures to the pile of envelopes threatening to slide off the counter and on to the floor.

  "Oh. That's nothing. I thought you were opening wine." I reach into a drawer to find the corkscrew and hand it to Cassie. "There. Did you get out glasses?"

  "Did I get out glasses?" Cassie turns to face me. "No, I didn't get out glasses because I can't manage to reach them over this stack of crazy." She pulls an envelope from the pile. "What are these? There's like a hundred here. I'm just supposed to ignore the fact that you've stopped opening your mail?"

  I snatch the envelope back from her and put it on top of the pile. "It's not real mail. I open all of that, obviously." I lean over the stack and open an upper cabinet. "This is other stuff. Here, glasses." I set them on the counter a little harder than I intend.

  Cassie leans against the counter. "I'm not giving you any wine until you explain this." She gestures like a tornado with her hand.

  "It's Zach stuff." I try to sound as dismissive as possible. "Don't worry about it. Worry about getting the wine."

  "Oh, okay. I'll just forget that there's a huge pile of unopened love letters that you're keeping on your kitchen counter."

  I scoff. "They aren't love letters."

  "Then what are they? Get well soon cards? Old essays from college?"

  "God, Cassie. I don't know what they are. I don't open them."

  "You haven't opened any of them?" Cassie stares at me in disbelief. "Not one?"

  "No, why would I open them?"

  "To see what's inside! Oh my God, Jules!" Cassie reaches for an envelope and starts to pull it open.

  I lurch forward. "No! Cassie, don't open it."
She holds the envelope just out of my reach. "Please don't." I sound desperate. Crazy even.

  Cassie lowers her arm. "You're really serious. You're not going to let me open this?"

  "No. Please, please just put it back on the counter."

  Cassie does as I ask, but eyes me warily. "You do realize how insane this is. If you aren't going to open any of them why don't you just throw them out? Let's get a garbage bag and take care of this right now."

  I don't move. Cassie's right; I should just get rid of all the messages Zach's sent me if I never intend to open them. If I'm serious about cutting him out of my life, about ending things for good, then I should have no problem grabbing a bag from under the sink and shoving the stack of messages inside. Hauling them out to the curb on Sunday night should make me feel triumphant, not on the verge of a panic attack. I should text Zach to tell him not to leave anything else on my porch—better yet I should send Graham to tell him—and then I should get back to my life. My life without Zach.

  "What are you doing, Jules?"

  "I'm getting a garbage bag. Don't rush me." I make an effort to look like I'm moving around, pretending to have purpose.

  "Forget the garbage bag."

  "No, you're right. These things need to go." I can put them in the bag and then go back to fish them out later. She doesn't need to know that I plan to bring them all back in the second she leaves. I make a show of grabbing a bag from underneath the kitchen sink. "See? I'm on it."

  "You're hiding out."

  "I'm not hiding out. I'm right here. In my house." How can I be hiding when I'm still running carpool and going to the grocery store?

  "You're hiding from your feelings." Cassie folds her arms across her chest. "Go ahead, try and deny it."

  "There's nothing to deny. I'm getting on with things. I'm throwing out the letters." I pull the sides of the bag apart and reach for a handful of the envelopes.

  Cassie's hand shoots out to rest on my forearm. "Don't." She pulls me from the kitchen and back toward the couch, snagging the wine as we go.

  Once we're back in the living room and fortified with glasses of wine, Cassie starts again. Now that my envelope stack is out of danger I can relax a little. But not too much because I don't trust myself. I had started to grow too attached to him, to open my heart and let him into my life. I let him into the lives of my sons. If I leave him first, before he has a chance to hurt me again, then I can go back to focusing on getting myself together. I can go back to not caring about the way my heart jumps in my chest when Zach smiles at me or the way his lips melt into mine when he kisses me. I can push down the feelings that were getting stronger by the day and protect myself better.

  "I just want to be done with this. I don't want to have this feeling that I have right now." I put my hand over my heart. I don't want this heartbreak. Doesn't Cassie understand there's no way I can see Zach or talk to him on the phone or read his messages without opening back up a part of my heart.

  "What feeling?"

  I lay my head back against the couch and close my eyes. "Don't make me say it."

  Cassie waits and I know she'll wait forever. She'll make me say what I'm holding inside and once I say it out loud there'll be no taking it back.

  "He broke my heart."

  "Because you have feelings for him. Real feelings? He couldn't have broken your heart, Julia, unless you felt something."

  I nod as a tear rolls down my cheek. I can't be in love with Zach. It's too soon and too reckless. But here we are.

  "If you think you're in love with him then you have to stop running away from him."

  "I'm not running," I argue.

  "Fine, you're not running. You're hiding. You've been hiding behind Graham and me and the boys, refusing to let Zach try to fix things. How is you being miserable a better choice for Noah and Charlie? You can't pretend to want to end things because of one kiss. A kiss that—let me remind you—wasn't his idea."

  I start to answer but stop myself.

  "And don't deny you're still hung up on him. That pile of messages in your kitchen is proof of that. Don't pretend you aren’t going to pull them out of the trash after I leave." Cassie raises one accusatory eyebrow.

  "Then what do I do? I just forgive him?" That seems far, far too easy.

  "Maybe not, that's all up to you. But I would give him a chance."

  "What if I can't forgive him? What if this is really over?"

  "Then it's over. But either way you'll know and we can all get out of this relationship purgatory." Cassie winks and refills my glass. "And then you can get back to being my wing woman."

  "That sounds more like purgatory to me," I tell her, earning an eye roll.

  "Fine, then we can go back to drinking wine on your couch or whatever and you don't have to end up on an episode of Hoarders. Grab all that crazy and start reading. I'll keep your glass full."

  41

  Zach

  I've gotten pretty good at sneaking around Julia's house. I shouldn't be proud of this fact, but I've worked hard to keep from running into her when I leave my apologies on her porch. Early morning is the easiest because I can time it so that she and the boys are still sleeping. I've started to like the drive over there in the dark even though it means there's no chance of catching a glimpse of Julia. I picture Charlie and Noah tucked into their beds and Julia safe and sound in hers and that's enough. I had worried she might not be alone in her bedroom with Graham hanging around, but so far I haven't had the unpleasant experience of finding his car in the driveway before the sun comes up, or of having him meet me at the door to toss me off the porch.

  Every day I leave Julia at least one message. Sometimes the universe gives me other ideas of ways to tell her how I feel and then I'm sneaking onto the porch more than once. The daytime drops are the hardest, but I've found if I park around the block I can cut through the yards to her house without incident. No one's called the cops yet. So much for neighborhood watch.

  The envelopes disappear from the porch. I had thought Julia might just leave them—one big final fuck you. Even now I can't be sure she's opening them or reading anything. They might be going straight into the trash and I wouldn't blame her. I promised her honesty, told her she could trust me, and then I smashed all that to pieces. But even if she's dumping all of it into the bin, the result for me has been worth it. I'm clearer now than I've ever been about what I want, and I've done my best to tell her. If Julia opens the envelopes, she'll see how I feel and if she ever gives me even two seconds to explain I'm more than ready to lay it all on the line.

  Today I'm up before the sun and easing my truck into park under the far streetlight. A neighbor's dog barks as I make my way to the sidewalk, but even he's used to my routine by now. After a few halfhearted growls he leaves me to it and I bounce up the steps. I've got the envelope in my hand, ready to stretch out my arm to put it against the door when the porch light flicks on. It blinds me for a second and I freeze. The sound of the front door opening puts me on alert and I straighten, ready to see Graham's imposing shoulders barrel through the door.

  But it isn't Graham standing in the doorway when I look up, it's Julia and she's obviously been waiting for me. She's got her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and even though she looks like she's been up all night she's the most beautiful thing I've seen in forever. I have to tighten my grip on the envelope I'm holding to keep from reaching out for her.

  "Julia." I need to spit out what I need to say before she slams the door in my face.

  She cuts me off. "Not out here." She looks around the front yard like she's afraid someone might see us together. "Come inside, but be quiet. Charlie and Noah are sleeping."

  I nod, strangling the envelope between my hands. I'm not about to give her a reason to change her mind.

  In the darkness of the kitchen I notice the pile of envelopes on the floor, their contents scattered over the island. It's like she's opened them all at once in some sort of frenzy. I can see all the thin
gs I've put inside the envelopes—all the clues that are meant to show her I can't live without her—arranged in one crazy "I'm sorry." I hand the new envelope to her and she takes it, giving me a robotic "thank you" as her manners override the ridiculousness of this situation.

  Julia's close enough for me to touch, but I don't dare. I'm barely breathing at this point, trying not to break the spell, trying to keep her from remembering that she should be yelling and then throwing me out. Her chest rises and falls and I consider going to her to press my mouth against hers. Maybe I could bypass all the talking and just claim her as mine again, let my body tell her all the things I'm sure I'm about to fuck up with words. But even if that would work, I know it's the coward's way out. The only way to make things right again and have any chance of being with Julia is to do the work.

  She surprises me by opening the new envelope, sliding her index finger into the space along the edge and ripping the whole thing open. The letter I put inside floats to the floor, followed by the hawk's feather I'd found earlier on my run. I've been giving her my signals from the universe—feathers, leaves, heart-shaped rocks—all the things that make me think of her during the day. I hope this is what she's understood when she's found them in the packages, that she's seen that I see her everywhere and I'm always thinking about her.

  Julia bends to retrieve the piece of paper from the floor and I have the shockingly unpleasant experience of watching her read the letter I wrote earlier this morning. My neck burns and anxiety rushes through me, making my skin prickle. I haven't been sleeping well, so I've written her a few early morning, and possibly unintelligible, apologies. I've told her everything I miss about her, everything that makes my heart stop. I've remembered every time I've touched her and told her all the things I still want the chance to do. Those notes are all tucked in the pile I can still see behind her as she runs her eyes over the new page. She blinks and knits her brows together as she finishes and then lifts her brown eyes to meet mine. I'm waiting for a reaction, but she's giving me nothing. I'm growing more uncomfortable by the second.