by Layla Hagen
"No you won't. Not without fighting with yourself." A knot blocks the air in my throat, and my next words come out broken and weak. Like me. "And you're not ready to have that fight. Look at yourself."
"I want to fight for you."
I smile, reaching out to caress his cheek. "Love shouldn't be a fight in the first place, James."
He grabs my hand in his, kissing my palm. "I'm sorry I'm not more than this. But I want to become more for you. I need you to take that chance with me."
When he told me, on our first night here, that he wanted to change, that he wanted to become more, I believed him. So much that I wanted to take a chance with him, even though taking chances terrifies me. I wanted to do it. For him and for me. But if I don't even have the certainty that he loves me… I have nothing. We have nothing. I can't take chances on that.
He presses my palm to his cheek as if wanting to meld with me. I think he knows what I'm about to say.
"I can't, James. I'm sorry."
He closes his eyes, kissing my palm again, then lets my hand fall. "Of course you can't. I don't blame you. I'm a risk taker, and even I wouldn't bet on someone like me." He takes a deep breath, straightening up. "You… you deserve someone who can give you the certainty you seek. It was selfish of me to ask you to do this. If I'm being honest, I expected you to tell me you wouldn't stay with me before I set up things for us here. But I kept hoping. I should have given you more time to think. I'm sorry."
I don't know why I am not crushed. Why I am not crumbling to dust, even as the weight of his words looms around me, poisoning the air I breathe. And then I realize what protects me, like a layer of ice. A thin one. But I'm grateful for it.
Shock.
At how resigned he sounds and looks. He recites the words as if they were mere facts that led to the logical conclusion that two people as different as we are cannot find a way to be together. He kisses my forehead, his lips melting my feeble protection in one shattering second. I catch a whimper before it escapes my lips. When he pulls away, there is a flicker in his eyes. It tells me that he, like me, is about to break apart any moment now.
"I'll leave you alone to change."
The reception desk is empty, so I just call a cab by myself then wait for it in front of the hotel, glancing over my shoulder every other second, my mind terrified that James will come out. But there are other parts of me—those that crave his touch at night and those that hurt and need his healing words. And those parts desperately wish he would do just that. Come out, take me in his arms, and whisper that he loves me. But he doesn't, and his absence claws itself through all parts of me, torturing my skin and burning my insides. It's like a poison, his absence. A devastating poison, with the power to burn me alive from the inside out, one cell at a time.
When the cab arrives, I throw the backpack on the backseat, and slump next to it, my whole body shaking.
"Stanford," I tell the driver.
He looks at me in the rearview mirror, an eyebrow raised. "It's five o'clock in the morning, Miss."
"I bloody well know the time," I bellow. "Would you like me to draw you a map of the way there?"
The man stiffens in his seat. "No, that's quite all right, I know the way." The car shoots forward the next second, throwing me against the seat. I remain there, holding my knees against my chest, waiting for the tears. Waiting for the poison inside me to slither itself into the darkest corners of me, filling me up, until it will overflow. It's beginning to do so already. Tears dance on my eyelashes and I blink them away, letting them glide down my cheek. I don't bother to wipe them away, or withhold them. While last time I feared that by letting the tears out, they would never stop, now I am certain that if I don't let them out I will explode in a thousand pieces, unable to ever rebuild myself again. Yet as I give in to the pain, succumbing to streams of tears and violent sobs, I wonder if that wouldn't be better. Perhaps then, I couldn't feel the pain anymore.
When I get out of the cab at Stanford, there is no one in sight anywhere. But I knew that, of course. I told the driver to take me directly to Stanford even though it'll be hours before the university opens, because if I went home I would have crashed in my bed, and it would have been much longer than a few days until I got up this time around. With no way to get inside the building, I just sit on the grass outside, leaning against an oak tree. I get out the textbook from my backpack and open it to the chapter we were assigned to read for today. I already went through it a few times, but I start rereading, hoping to distract myself. No chance. My tears blind me, and the swift morning breeze envelops me in James's smell, that clings to my skin like a thick layer of honey—a merciless bearer of the memories of his body on mine. Perhaps I should have gone home, so I could take a shower and scrub the smell off. I know even if I had done that, the memories would still linger. Piercing. Excruciating. How could they not when everything around me, down to the warm California air, reminds me of him? It hits me again, stronger than last time I left James, at the charity event—the desire to run. To be somewhere, anywhere but here. But I'm not a dollar richer than last time, so there's nothing I can do but grit my teeth and stay here. I cling to the hope that when I get home I'll bury myself in one of my fantasy books and get lost in it, seeking refuge. But somehow, I don't think it will work. Since I met James, my reality is too vivid to be able to hide from it in fantasy worlds.
My phone rings, and I think it must be my mum, because no one in California would call me this early. But the number on my screen is from the U.S.
I answer the phone, frowning. "Hi. This is Serena McLewis."
"Hi. Ms. McLewis, this is Andrew Larson."
My stomach gives a jolt, and I spring to my feet. He is one of the guys who interviewed me at the investment bank in New York.
"I hope this is a good time for you to talk," he says.
I barely refrain a snort. I don't know in what world six thirty in the morning is considered anything other than a half-arsed, downright rude time for calling. Granted, it's later in New York, but they could show some consideration. Judging by the intensity of their application process—a two-hour online test, followed by a phone interview, and then five in-person interviews in New York—they have everything but consideration for their applicants. For all I know, this is just another test. Applicants who don't pick up the phone, or sound groggy, are disqualified.
So I do my best to sound cheerful and energetic. "This is perfect."
"I have good news for you, Ms. McLewis. My team would like you to join us full-time starting this summer."
For a moment or so, my mind goes completely blank. Then my mind recovers, instructing me to say thank you, or great, but no words get past my lips. I just stand petrified on the grass, feet wide apart, mouth hanging open, wondering how on earth I got the one job I was least counting on getting. The most competitive one. The highest-paid one. The one that would be a godsend to have on my CV.
Larson sounds much less full of himself when he continues, probably interpreting my silence as a lack of interest. "Now, I have no doubt you have some very attractive offers to consider, but I have to say that working for a Wall Street bank such as ours will be very beneficial to your career, long term."
My next words leave my mouth without me remembering thinking them. "I accept the offer."
"Fantastic," he says, noticeably relieved. "This is the best decision you could make as a new graduate…"
As he starts recounting all the reasons for which my decision is fantastic, I seem to slowly come back to my senses. But instead of panic creeping in, at the realization that I just agreed to move across the country, relief overwhelms me, every muscle in my body suddenly feeling as light as a feather. If I could extend my arms now, I'm positive I could fly by sheer will, even as the deep breath I'm taking fills me with James's smell. And the relief is not due to the reasons Andrew Larson is enumerating. It's because I finally found a way to make the memories fade away quicker: a place where I can rebuild myself.
/> Three thousand miles away.
"You did what?" Jess asks, her mouth hanging open. I didn't think it was possible, but her face grew a few shades redder than it had when I told her a few minutes ago that I broke up with James. "What do you mean you accepted the job offer in New York?" She's sitting on the kitchen counter in our apartment, her good leg and the bandaged one rocking from one side to the other. I look away from her. Well, not her exactly. I dropped the black backpack next to her, and I can't stand the sight of it one second longer. It's enough I had to carry the damn thing around with me all day, a constant reminder of the past weekend. It seared my heart every time it bounced against my back when I wore it, every time I glanced at it.
"Why are you so worked up?" I ask, taking another mouthful of taco. Bless Jess and her love for cooking. I ate nothing but a salad at lunch today, and it's almost eight o'clock in the evening. "You want to move to London."
"I always wanted to go somewhere else, see new places. You didn't."
"Well, now I do. I'm going to fly there in two weeks for a few days, to sign the contract, and also look at apartments." This was an extra bonus Andrew Larson mentioned toward the end of the phone call. A trip to New York paid by the company. Whether this is company policy, or he just wants to make sure I sign the contract fast so I don't change my mind, I don't know. But I gladly took his invitation, because it'll provide me with the escape I need so much. I just wish I could go sooner. This week. Right now, if possible.
Jess squints her eyes. "You're leaving because of James, aren't you?"
I don't answer right away, first swallowing the last bite of taco, trying hard to keep my cool. "A job on Wall Street is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity." My voice comes out surprisingly even.
"Wall Street my ass. You just want—"
"I really don't want to discuss this, Jess," I snap, the effort of withholding my anger proving too exhausting, on top of all the other things I'm trying to withhold. Tears. Sobs.
Jess sits up straight, her eyes wide at the sudden change in my behavior. She stares at me for a few seconds, and maybe she can read the desperation in my eyes, or she remembers my breakdown from last week, but she says something I never thought Jess would say. "Fine."
"Thank you for dinner." I put my plate in the dishwasher.
"No problem," Jess says, grinning. "Just know that you'll be starving for a few days soon enough. I talked to the museum in London today, and they rescheduled my interview earlier. I'm flying there in two weeks, and will stay a couple days." Her eyes are sparkling, and only now do I see that under the flag of Britain she painted on her cast, is now a poorly sketched portrait of Prince Harry. I grin, too.
"That's great news, Jess. Listen, it's not that I'm not happy for you, but I absolutely have to go to bed early today. I'm exhausted. "
Her smile fades a little, but she nods. "Sure."
As I jump in the shower, it hits me how little time I have left to spend with Jess. Until now, the possibility of us getting separated after graduation was just that, a possibility, depending on whether Jess would actually move to London. Now it's a certainty. Ironically, because I made it so, though I know Jess will get the job in London. I also know she'll accept it in a heartbeat. The two friends, inseparable since I moved to the U.S., now splitting up—both traveling to new places to start this next, scary (at least for me) phase in their life. Some would see this as proof of how alike Jess and I have become. But I know better. It's proof of how different we are. She wants to move to London in the search of a fresh adventure. I'm not moving to New York to search for something.
Like the coward I've always been, I'm moving there to run away from something.
No matter what I tell others, I can't deny the truth to myself. I sounded pretty convincing today, when I told Mum and Aidan about my decision—both were far too happy with the news to actually need any explanations. I babbled on anyhow. It was good for practice. Maybe if I repeat the words often enough, I'll succeed in deluding myself to believe them. I start saying them out loud, the hot water in the shower running over my skin. It's the best choice for my career. I'll get the highest paycheck there, which means Mum and Dad will finally get to have a decent life. I repeat them again and again, but instead of coming to believe them, tears, hot as the water running over my back, start streaming down my cheeks. It doesn't matter how often I repeat them. I know I would've never seriously considered moving away if it weren't for what happened between James and me. Which not only makes me a coward, but also weak. My heart stings in my chest with every beat, every breath, bringing new waves of tears.
My mum used to say that sometimes it's all right to be weak. To allow oneself to wallow in pain for a while. She said it made the pain fade away faster; it made pulling oneself together easier. I wonder what she would have to say if she knew that I'm allowing my weakness to decide my future.
I lied to her today; I couldn't bring myself to tell the real reason I wanted to move. It's been a long time since I was honest with my mother. I know exactly when I started hiding things from her: when James entered my life. I should have realized then how wrong it was if I felt the need to hide it from my own mother. If I'm honest, I did realize then, but I didn't have the strength to break away from him.
I do now.
Perhaps it's not weakness, after all, what I plan to do. Perhaps it's strength, if strength is what remains after weakness rots the body and the mind to the core.
I drive Jess to the airport with the windows rolled down, because the AC in her archaic Prius has stopped working at the worst time. Jess sits with her hands in her lap, her fingers fiddling with her black cotton skirt. She wears a white simple shirt with the flag of England on it. She drew it herself on the shirt, identical to the one she had drawn on her cast, which her doctor removed three days ago. From time to time, I see her hand sliding to her knee, pinching the skin as if she still can't quite believe her leg is freed up from all the bandages. But her newly found freedom isn't why she's been silent the whole trip, biting her lip as if she's determined to wreck it. For the first time ever, Jess is nervous. Her flight to London is in a couple of hours, her interview tomorrow. I would attempt to soothe her, but I'm twice as nervous as she is, because my own trip to New York is in two days. I don't bring up the subject, though. For one, I don't want to steal her moment. And also, Jess makes a point to purse her lips and mutter incomprehensible sentences under her breath every time I bring up New York. To my astonishment she never once brought up James. My fingers grasp the wheel firmer at the thought of him. He hasn't called at all in the past two weeks.
Not that I wanted, or expected, him to. But this didn't keep my stomach from clenching in a painful twist every time my phone rang. I buried myself in work and assignments, using every free moment to talk to Jess about London, giving her tips of all the things she can do in the short period of time she'll be there. As such, I gave myself no time to dwell on my misery. Except at night. Even the nights I was too exhausted to cry myself to sleep, I didn't escape the pain. It found a way to taunt me, a way I couldn't defend myself against—nightmares.
I drop Jess at the airport, and she promises to call me as soon as she arrives in England. I have no assignments or work left, so as soon as I get home I put my headphones on and turn the volume of the music to the maximum then proceed to clean the entire apartment. I fall asleep fully clothed after I'm done. No nightmares.
Jess doesn't call me the next day. I check my phone every other hour while I waste my butt away sitting in the most boring, daylong course I've had the misfortune to have to attend at Stanford. When I arrive at home, I pack my stuff for New York to have something to do, though I have no classes tomorrow, so I could technically spend the whole day packing. I'm flying late in the evening. I check my phone before I go to bed, but there's no text or missed call from Jess. There is still time for her to call me, though I dearly hope she'll remember the time zone difference and not call me in the middle of the night.
She does just that, of course. When my phone rings, waking me up with a start, I tap the nightstand in the dark, fully intending to turn it off, but accidentally answer. Grudgingly, I put the phone to my ear, holding my eyes firmly closed so the light of the screen doesn't blind me.
"This is a really lousy time to call, Jess," I mumble.
The voice on the other end of the line freezes me in my bed. "I think Jess knows that."
I bolt into a sitting position, cursing that I haven't checked who the caller was. "And why don't you know that, James?"
"I know that too," he says. "But I'm too desperate. Don't hang up."
I don't hang up, although every bone in my body tells me that would be the smart thing to do. His voice thrusts thorns in my skin and my heart, and I know that the second I hang up, the intensity of the pain will crush me. Right now, his voice numbs me, even as it pierces me to the core. So I need him to speak.
"What's wrong?" I ask, curious in earnest. There's a lot of noise in his background, but I'm certain he's not in a bar. Where is he then?
"I… um… need your help." He takes a deep breath. "My programmers have fucked up a part of the code on our online platform, and I'd like you to help us fix it."
I frown. "You know half of Silicon Valley, and you call me of all programmers? I'm not half as skilled as those brainiacs you know."
"You're as skilled as they are, Serena. Don't try to convince me of the opposite. Besides, every programmer I know is already here. They've been here for hours. We're not getting anywhere."
So that's what all the noise is. He's in his office. I look at the phone. It's two thirty in the morning. "Why do you think I'll make a difference?"
"Another pair of eyes is always welcome when it comes to this, you know that."
