Away From Here_A Young Adult Novel

by Christopher Harlan

  We laughed and got back to just being friends and talking about the dumb, random stuff that only best friends in high school can talk about. It was the best way I could have spent the afternoon after losing the girl of my dreams. A plate of mozzarella fries and a Coke didn’t make the pain go away, but it was a damn fine start.

  Things were going to be okay. I’d live.

  Epilogue

  Where I realize something I should have realized a very long time ago.

  So what happened? That’s what you’re all wondering, right? You’re probably like, Logan, you just left your sad, seventeen year old, college bound, broken-hearted self eating fries at a diner, talking about peeing in the shower. What the hell happened after all that? A lot happened of course, too much to put here with any degree of detail that does those things justice, but I’ll give you the bullet points of what you want to know.

  Pete and Lindsey got married, can you believe that? I mean, what high school relationship ever lasted past those two weeks after graduation where the respective parties just refused to admit it was over? Exactly none that I've ever heard of. But that's my Boy, he always had a way of making things happen for himself. I never say corny stuff like this, but those two were meant for one another. They got their romantic comedy, pop-song-in-the-background life, and I couldn’t be happier for them. Working on their second baby right now and struggling for a name. I, of course, suggested Logan, but that decision is still pending. I’ll keep you posted.

  What about Mom? Good days, bad days. Functional years and not-so-functional years. Ups and downs, war and peace. Depression 101. I told you that she was a fighter though, and that’s where I got my scrap from. Nothing, not even Depression, can just be insurmountably bad forever. She fought the Bleh something awful for years and she still fights it to this day. Only now she wins some rounds. Last I checked the score was 10-8 in favor of the Bleh, but it’s a back and forth bout. She lives on her own in that same house I grew up in back in the neighborhood. She takes daily walks and volunteers at the local library on days when she can be around people. We talk all the time, and not just about mental illness stuff. We talk-talk. Mother and son stuff. How’s it going? What are you working on? What’s your next book going to be about? That kind of stuff. It’s nowhere near perfect, but that’s how life goes. It’s our version of normal, finally.

  And. . .drumroll, please. What happened to Annalise? I’d love to sit here and tell you a happy story about how she’s doing, how she kept her demons at bay and fixed all the problems in her life. I’d love to tell you that, but the truth is, I really don’t know. She really did leave for Peru in the middle of the year. No prom, no graduation ceremony, no storybook ending to an otherwise illustrious high school career. None of that. A few months later I was gone, too, accepted at Boston University and dorming with dudes who say KA when they meant to say car. Vowels for days. We texted once or twice, mostly with me asking how she was doing and getting something vague in return days later, and then I stopped. That’s how it goes sometimes. The people we love the most exit stage left, never to return, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t leave a mark. It doesn’t mean that they didn’t change us for the better.

  I told her once that even if the world around her was blind, that I still saw everything that mattered. She said that I was different, and that it scared her. I wish she’d known that she was the different one, and I was so very ordinary. I was just a boy. A boy madly and hopelessly in love. I wish she’d known that when I finally mustered the strength to talk to her that day, that I only looked alive, but that I was really in the middle of drowning in a sadness so deep that it almost took me away forever, and that loving her had saved my life in ways she could never understand. Oh well. At least she’ll always have my words.

  So much about Annalise was a contrast: her sweetness and her temper; her openness and the fortress walls she put up around her heart; the illumination her smile could create, and the sadness her tears could inspire. She was as much of a mystery to me as she was the person who knew me best, and maybe she wanted to stay that way forever. Maybe being a mystery was a safe place where no evil could ever find you. It was a place her mom didn’t have the key to, a place that had no coordinates. I’ve let go of the pain and the resentment because, well, it was a long time ago, and the differences between a seventeen year old and a grown man should be severe enough to understand at least a little bit about why people are the way they are. That’s what maturity gives you. That’s what distance gives you. That’s what time gives you.

  But if you’re ready for my last, and weirdest, thought on this matter, I’d love to share it with you. After all, why would I stop now, I’ve told you every other damn thought I had, so maybe you’ll stay with me for one more. When I look back at that time I always wonder about the potato thing. There was so much else going on that I never got the full meaning of the word when she used it, but I think now I do. Potato was I’m mad, Potato was I don’t know how to tell you my sadness; potato was I’m gonna confuse you ‘cause it makes me laugh. Potato was Annalise—complex as hell, and something you needed time to understand fully. But in seeing all that, I missed its most important meaning. I missed it then, and I didn’t even realize it until just now. And it’s so simple that my overly analytical self never bothered to decode the message she was trying to give.

  Potato was I love you.

  It was I love you when I love you couldn’t be said out loud. Damn.

  But don’t despair. Dry your eyes. We end on a good note. These days are good days, ones where the words that always eluded me get put down on paper and actually stay there. No self-doubt, no thinking I’m no good at expressing myself. Anna always told me that I was a good writer, and that I should write for more people than just her. Well, I did. I wrote my first novel, a love story (what else?), and I’m going to publish it soon. It’s about Us, about Our Story. I don’t know what I’m going to call it, or if anyone’s even going to care enough to read it, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I did it. All books need to have a dedication, right? The inspiration for the story. Well, that one is obvious to the point of insulting your intelligence, so instead of saying it, I’ll just leave it for you to read.

  To Annalise

  I don't know where you are or what you're doing. Maybe you're chilling on a Peruvian beach with a good looking dude named Juan, cradling those gorgeous babies I always knew you'd make (hell, how could your babies not be beautiful, do you not remember how you look?), or maybe you came home after a few weeks and started working at the diner pouring coffee. I don't know. Maybe I'll never know. But wherever you are, I wrote Our Story, Anna! I finally did it. I always joked that I'd tell this to people one day because Our Story was worth telling, and you said encouraging things about how well I used my words, and how I should write for more people than just you. Well, like with so many things, you were right. You were right in that way that only you could be. And whether or not you actually thought I’d ever do this, you helped me believe in myself at a time when that was still a rare thing.

  If I'm being honest—and really, was I ever anything but honest with you, even when I didn't want to be—it's been weird to revisit Us. It's been everything that we were: so right, so wrong. So simple, and so very, very complicated. But the truth is that I love my painful remembering; I love those emotions that only come to be when I think back on that time. People get that wrong, you know. They say (that damn Council of They again!). . . They say that there's only one way to experience love. Well, as you once pointed out to me, the Council of They is full of shit. The way I loved you is not the way I've ever loved anyone else, and that doesn't make our love better than any other, but it does make it unique; it does make my love for you a one of a kind, limited edition, variant cover signed by the artist. That was us.

  So wherever you are, remember that you're always Here in these pages, and these pages don't exist in the print you hold, that's just an illusion, they exist inside me, a plac
e you'll forever reside. I hope the cross I got you still sits on your heart so that you always remember me. But if not, here it is, all for you.

  My book.

  My love letter.

  Our Story.

  So, yeah. . .potato.

  Five things I (re) discovered while writing Away From Here that I wanted to share with you.

  Being vulnerable, and allowing yourself to be seen by others is a strength, not a weakness, even when that vulnerability causes intense pain.

  It's okay to be sad sometimes, as long as it's a place you rent and not one you buy.

  Our greatest powers and our deepest flaws are sometimes imperceptibly similar things, and all it takes is that realization to change how you see your condition in life.

  Moms are the most important things in the world, maybe ever. Top 3 at least.

  Best friends are like having a fire extinguisher in your house - they're not always needed, but when they are they're absolute lifesavers.

  Author’s Note

  Where I invite you to tell your story.

  This is a work of fiction based on some very real issues I dealt with when I was the age of the characters in the book. I guess if we’re being honest, the issues of mental illness never fully go away, but hopefully they become more manageable. If you were/are a member of the Kids of Sick Parents club, I encourage you to tell your own story, to share your experiences with the world, and to always remember that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. I encourage everyone reading this to share their stories, as many others have done already, as a comment on my blog at www.authorchristopherharlan.com/blog. I’d love to read about your personal experiences with any of the themes in the book, which are things we all share as part of the human experience.

  Connect with Christopher Harlan

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  @chris_harlan35 (Twitter)

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