by Holly Ryan
She’s getting worked up, so I get her a cold bottle of water from the fridge.
She takes it reluctantly, opens it, and gulps some down.
“I know,” I say, sitting again. “You’re right, I know. And that’s not too much to ask from me.” I reach out to her again. “Baby, I know.”
She moves away. She folds her hands and looks down into them. “Don’t call me that anymore.”
The words strike me in the gut, and I want to double over from the impact. I can’t feel anything anymore; my legs, my hands, even my face … it’s all gone.
Numb.
I no longer exist because she no longer acknowledges me in the way that truly matters.
“You can’t,” I say quietly.
She rages, “What do you mean I can’t? How dare you say that to me?” She looks me up and down. “I can’t? You have no right to say something like that.”
She’s hurt.
And she’s angry.
I get it, Avery. I feel your hurt. Just please let me explain myself better. If only I knew how.
I understand all of what she’s feeling. It’s justified. She has every right to be pissed. She has every right to be beyond pissed. But if she walks out that door and closes it behind her in this kind of anger, I know I may never see her again. This could be my last chance, my last few precious moments with Avery. And the loss of her isn’t something I can bear.
You did it, you dumb schmuck. You told her.
And now you’ve lost her.
That’s the first thing I think when I wake the next morning.
Avery isn’t here. She left, and I had to let her go. I struggle out of bed and struggle equally through all the steps I need to take getting ready for school. Brushing my teeth is hard. Eating is hard. Thinking is hard.
The day is gloomy – both physically and mentally. The sun hasn’t come out once, and the clouds only seem to be getting darker and darker.
I somehow make it to school, and get through my first few classes like a zombie. I can’t stand Chemistry. Our group project is over, so I don’t even have an excuse to talk to her, and the entire time I fight back tears as I know she’s just a short ways behind me.
After, at lunch, I can’t take it anymore.
“Avery,” I say, coming up to her and trying to keep my voice calm.
Avery stops what she’s doing and looks down. Mara gives me an evil look.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Please leave me alone,” she answers weakly. She must be taking this hard, too.
“She said no, Ethan,” Mara speaks up.
I bend down so I’m speaking in Avery’s ear. “Avery, please. Can I just talk to you for a minute? In private?”
Mara begins to stand. “Ethan–”
“It’s okay,” Avery says to her. She lifts herself with her arms against the top of the table, swinging her feet carefully over the bench. “I’ll be right back.”
Mara remains standing.
As Avery walks away with me, she says, “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine,” but the tone in her voice is one of let’s get this over with.
We find a quiet place in the same hallway I once led her down to warn her about Julia.
She stops and faces me. “Here is fine,” she says.
I sigh. “You’re still mad.”
“You noticed.”
“Will you let me ask why? It’s not like I can help who my dad is.”
Her mouth drops open. “Why? You seriously have to ask me that? Because you didn’t tell me, that’s why. You kept it from me. You kept a big, bad secret between us that’s destroyed everything I wanted and everything we could have been. You kept the worst kind of secret, Ethan, and I may not know much about successful relationships, but I do know that kind of shit doesn’t fly.”
Well, at least she said my name again.
“Besides,” she continues, “how am I supposed to know that at the end of the day, you’re not him? That you won’t become him?”
“You’re not, and you can’t.”
“That’s right. I can’t. So? Why did you bring me here?”
I work myself up. I can do this. “Honesty,” I begin. “You’re right. Honesty is important. You want honesty?”
A terrified look falls over her. “No,” she says seriously.
She’s deathly afraid of what else I might have to say.
“You want all of it, so here it is – I was the one who sat by your hospital bed, Avery. I left you the pressed azalia. It was me. I found you in my dad’s paperwork and I had to see you for myself. And you know what? I’m sorry, but I don’t regret it for one second. Because seeing you for the first time in that hospital room was the moment I started loving you.”
Tears flow down her cheeks.
And I can tell she’s back there, to that animalistic place of trauma and fear, because her reaction is to run.
She runs, and I don’t have time to be surprised at her sudden decision. I follow her path until I reach the door she fled through, the same door we once left to hug in the parking lot, the door that is still shudders with the movement of her passing through in a fury. I place my hand on the cold metal to push it open, then pause to peer out the tiny square window. I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of her.
Sure enough, she’s still out there, running away with a grace I never thought possible after everything that she went through. It proves that her grace doesn’t lie only in her body and her movements and the way that she looks; it’s through and through her.
Her leg must be completely healed. I exhale a sigh from deep within, a sigh that I never thought possible for myself.
But I notice something else that shocks me: it’s raining.
I wouldn’t have believed it if someone had told me, but it’s true, it’s raining, and not only that, it’s raining hard.
Just like in my dream.
Is this real life?
I don’t have the luxury of time to think about it, so without any more hesitation, I push through the door. It shudders with my weight just as much as it did hers and it slams shut behind me.
The moment my feet hit the soaked asphalt, I’m wet through and through, covered with rain. It’s uncomfortable and I care, but I push past the caring in order to reach her.
She’s slowing. Her shoulders heave, telling me she’s having trouble breathing and running and crying at the same time.
“Avery, stop!”
She doesn’t want me to touch her, and she makes this clear by spinning around and jerking away when my hand grasps her arm. I don’t release her.
“Ethan!” she stops and yells. She instinctively digs her fingers into my hand. “Let me go.”
Her voice shockingly forceful, I release my grip.
“That was really stupid, you know?” she says. Her voice is hoarse and tight.
I didn’t mean to grab her. That was stupid and I should have known better. I just needed her to stop, just like how I need her to listen to me.
“Look…” I say. I need her to listen so badly, and yet there’s not really anything more to say.
I take that back. There’s everything more to say, at least according to me, but what could be the right thing for this moment?
At least I have her attention. That’s a start. I’ve prevented her from running away in the rain in a stressed out state and losing control of herself or somehow getting hurt yet again.
“You hurt me. Do you know that?” she says.
Oh God.
She gazes into my eyes with intensity and anger, but also with desperation for me to say something, anything, to explain myself.
What can I say?
She throws her hands into her hair and growls. “God, Ethan.” Her body bends in half and she rests her head between her knees. Her hands clutch the sides of her stomach. The rain runs off both sides of her downturned neck, some drops hitting her soaked back with a thud. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I reach both arms out to help her
. If I can get her to my truck we’ll be out of the rain and we can talk about this. Screw school. “Are you okay?” I say.
She rights herself in order to push me away. And she means business: she shoves my chest with her hands and grits her teeth at me. I think she’s still crying, but it’s impossible to tell with her face so soaked with rain.
“Don’t touch me right now,” she says.
“Okay.” I talk through the rain running over my mouth. “Let’s go to the truck. Please.”
“No!” She pulls her hand over her face and laughs. “The last thing I need right now is to be in a damn truck that reminds me of that night. Don’t you get it?”
I hold my hands up. I slowly say, “I get it.” I really don’t, because that must be a detail I’ve never heard about. I have no idea what role a truck played in this thing. But I want to get it. I want to, Avery.
“Do you want me to go?” My voice shakes. I’m not angry. I could never be angry with her. I’m just desperate to give her what she needs from me. “I’ll go.”
She doesn’t answer. She breathes deeply, occasionally licking at the rain running over her lips.
I turn away. And I continue walking until I can no longer feel her presence behind me.
Avery
“Honey.” My mom shakes me awake.
“Mmm.”
“I’m heading out to run a few errands. My phone’s on me.” She kisses my head.
I hear her bedroom door click closed behind her.
Our house is still livable. The smoke was a little misleading; the fire destroyed most of the siding near my room, but thanks to Ethan’s quick action and the good work of the fire department, it was put out before extensive damage could be done.
For now, I’m rooming with my mom. We’re expecting some workers later today, sent by our insurance company to fix my side of the house.
I fondle the white and silver bed sheets, trying to distract myself. The morning sunlight is already poring into the room, but I don’t want to get up. I just want to stay here, lying like I am, thinking about the horrible mess I just made.
How could I have let this trauma get the best of me, even after all this healing time has passed, to ruin the best thing I had going? Okay, so technically he ruined it. I get that. But after, I pushed him away. I put up a wall. I wouldn’t dare let him break it down.
Is that how every one of my relationships is going to be from now on? Even more fucked up, for one reason or another, thanks to what that man did to me?
The thoughts won’t stop until I’ve finally had enough. I jump out of bed and walk over to my new, temporary closet.
Inside, I reach up, feel around, and pull down an old pair of denim shorts from the top shelf.
I don’t care if my scar shows. Not anymore.
Normally I’d take these back over to the bed to put them on, but I’m determined to do this without sitting.
Holding them out in front of me, I slide my good leg into the first hole. Then, slowly, I work on getting my bad leg inside the other. I do it fine (almost perfectly, actually), which surprises me, but I try to hold back tears as I work with the button. It’s fighting me. I try to get the metal button through the small slit of fabric. I work it with my thumb, and I almost have it completely through when it pops out.
I twirl around and grab the item nearest to me, which just so happens to be my journal resting at the foot of my bed. I haven’t written in it since my hospital stay, but I keep in close by for comfort. I throw it hard against the wall, releasing all my emotion in one fell swoop. It hits harder than I had intended, slamming into the wall near my mom’s TV with a bang. It falls to the ground, and I collapse, too, just in time to see my pressed flower lying on the carpet. I don’t know how it got there, but if I had to guess I’d say the rage of the moment had something to do with it.
Sniffling, I crawl over to it. I hope it didn’t break. That would be just what I need right now – to have lost another part of Ethan.
As I examine it in my palm, the flower moves back and forth with my movements. It’s thin and dry, but intact.
I cup it in my hands and remain on the floor, resting my back against my bed.
I take a few deep breaths.
Then I lift my head and whisper into the thin air surrounding me, “I love him.”
Because I do love him.
I love him in a way I’ve never loved anyone – certainly not in the way I thought I loved Cole. I realize this now, and that’s what’s making this so hard for me.
I can’t see or talk to Ethan again.
I don’t think I’ll be able to do either of those things without anger and resentment exploding within me. And even if I could forgive him for what he did, I won’t ever be able to forgive his father.
I think for a minute, still holding the flower, then lower my forehead to my shoulder.
No. I can’t do it.
Maybe if Ethan had come into my life in five, ten years from now … I might have had enough time to get over it, to heal.
The sadness flows out of me, replacing the anger. I want nothing more than to both hug Ethan and push him as far away as possible at the same time.
I want to never see him again, and I want him here, right now, sitting next to me with his arm around me and his face against my hair. I’d lean over and kiss his warm, strong neck once, then I’d look down and see his father’s hands.
I spend the day obsessively organizing my clothes, lounging in front of the TV, and eating comfort food.
My mom hasn’t returned from her errands. After a reassuring text to check in, I’m beginning to wonder if she’s once again taking care of police business, this time due to the fire.
It’s dark outside, and I’ve had enough of this moping. I can’t do this anymore. I won’t do this anymore. I’m still wearing the shorts, and this time I try the button once more with steadier hands. It slips into place with ease, and I drop my hands to my side with gratitude. At least I have something going for me: I can put on my own pants. I grab a dark blue sweater that’s hanging off the edge of the bed and slip that on, too, when I hear my phone chime. I stop what I’m doing.
Please, be you, Ethan.
Wait. What’s wrong with me?
No. Don’t be Ethan. Don’t, don’t, don’t.
I’m about to slide the phone open with my thumb. I’m ready to face the inevitable. If it’s him, there’s nothing I can possibly say that can make this right, so I guess I won’t respond at all. I hold my breath in the split second it takes for the screen and the message to load.
Turns out, it’s Mara.
Should that really surprise me?
hey. missing you. u ok?
I plop down on the bed, sighing as I sink further into it.
I text her back:
i’m ok
Then, in a separate message:
ethan’s finished.
A knot forms in my throat as I type the words. I try to swallow my way through it, as though doing so will push all the emotions down and away.
I reread the words before I hit that dreaded Send button. Those two small, wimpy sentences, so easy to say – I’m ok and Ethan’s finished. How can they possibly go together? They’re complete opposites.
I press Send and close my eyes after I see the messages going through. There’s no turning back now. Ethan is over.
When I hear the sound that tells me the message has been delivered, I get up. I need to get out of here to clear my head. Before I can make another move, though, my phone chimes again.
I look at it.
It’s Mara, responding already.
want me to come over?
It rings again instantly.
i’m coming over.
I need to think about that. I’d love to see her, of course, and I’m sure her presence would help me get my mind straight, but I’d love some fresh air, too. And that might be able to do the same thing.
I know what I’ll say. I’ll tell her it’s okay, she s
hould come. We can go for a walk together.
Just as I position my finger on the first key, the doorbell rings.
That was fast. Maybe she was in the area.
I rush through the hallway as fast as I can, my comfy sweater flying open around my body as I hurry toward the door. It’ll be refreshing to see her. I place my hand on the cold door knob and twist, swinging it open. With a welcoming smile on my face, I cradle my body against the door and look up, expecting to see her familiar face in front of me.
I do see a familiar face, but it’s not her.
And it’s not him, either. It’s not the one who, deep down, I’ve been secretly hoping it would be.
It’s the other him.
The him I’ve spent the last few months trying to forget even existed.
The him who left me there that night, all alone, so cold and vulnerable.
It’s the him who if he had never been in my life in the first place, I would have been better off.
The smile drops from my face. My hand drops, too, leaving the comforting hold of the door and falling to the side of my bare leg.
He’s gazing at me with those stiff, piercing eyes, the ones that are the complete opposite of Ethan’s in every way.
I feel like shuddering. And for a moment, I feel like slamming the door in his face and running away, back down the hallway to my mom’s bedroom; then, slamming that door, too. Just for good measure.
“Avery,” Cole says.
His voice is that of a stranger. Somewhere deep down, that raspy, sultry voice is familiar, but that familiarity is coming from a place that I won’t ever allow to reemerge.
I swallow before gathering the courage to speak to him. “What are you doing here?”
He takes a step forward, reaching out his hand and supporting himself against the doorframe. He’s unsteady on his feet and his words are loose. “I want to see you. Isn’t that okay?”
I take hold of the door once again, blocking him in a nonverbal message that he better not try to come in. It’s a message I doubt he’ll get. He was always thick-headed like that.
