by Amanda Grace
I can’t hear it today.
I follow a stream of people back to my row but when they turn, I just keep walking. People are staring at me. They are whispering. They want to know what I’m doing, but I don’t say anything. They’d never understand if I told them anyway.
I just keep walking, past the last rows and to the back of the auditorium. When I push through the exit doors, the sun is so bright I have to shut my eyes. I stumble over the curb and land on my knees in the grass. Bile rises up before I know it and I puke in the grass, right next to the doors. Tears sting my eyes as my throat burns with it.
Connor finds me. He always does. He pulls my hair away from my face and waits in silence for me to put myself back together. He is so used to a world of pain that he always knows how to respond, always knows when to talk and when to stay silent.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say. I don’t want the world to see me like this. I don’t want them to know what I’ve been reduced to.
He helps me to my feet and we leave while the auditorium erupts in applause.
That is not reality. This is reality.
This is my reality.
June 6
Nine Months, seven days
There’s a street fair in town today, along the boardwalks and the marinas. Connor and I go there so we can have candied apples and stroll up and down the sidewalks looking at things we won’t buy, but we’ll spend all day doing it anyway. Days like these are perfect. They’re just lazy and they don’t seem real, like for a day we step outside ourselves and pretend we’re other people.
It’s sunny today, the first real hot day of summer. I can’t wait to spend the rest of it with him. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself, but I’ll do something, so long as I can stay with Connor during every free moment.
Connor gets lost in a display of baseball cards, and I wander down to a booth displaying dozens of oil paintings. They’re gorgeous. Horses and cows and mountains and the ocean—paintings of every natural beauty I can imagine. I get lost staring at them; the real world fades behind me as I study their bright colors.
But it all turns gray when I hear his voice.
“Hey, stranger.”
Blake. My heart jumps into my throat at the sight of him, but I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t seen him in so long or if it’s because I know Connor is just feet away, his back to us.
He looks good, a baseball cap over the dark hair that brings out his expressive brown eyes. As I stare at him, I think of that day we ran in the forest. I think of that moment, and I play it over and over again as I stare at him and try to keep the panic at bay.
“Hi. Um, it’s not a good time, okay?”
I whisper it. I sound ridiculous. Even I know that.
And he knows why I’m acting like this, because he stands up straighter and looks in all directions, scanning the crowd for his rival.
Connor turns around, as if on cue, and meets his gaze. I see the way his hands slip off the baseball cards he was flipping through and now shoves hard into his pockets as he walks over to us, his quick long strides gobbling up the ground before I can think of a way out of this.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Connor says, his voice loud. Too loud. I know the other fair-goers hear him. I see their stares without meeting their gaze.
Judging me. Everyone wants to judge me.
“Nothing, man. Just talking to an old friend.”
“I told you to stay away from her,” Connor says.
Blake arches one eyebrow. He looks equal parts irritated and amused, as if Connor isn’t a threat to him. “Last I checked, you don’t control what I do.”
My face drains of all blood even though my heart is pounding so hard I can barely make out their words. I start to step closer to them, to come between them, but Connor blocks me as he moves in front of me. Does he think he is protecting me from Blake? Or from his own fists if he chooses to throw them?
“Fuck off, buddy,” Connor says. He has a few inches on Blake, but I know Blake is in the best shape of his life. I can see it on him, all the muscle, taut over his arms and legs as he clenches his fist, looking more defensive than aggressive.
“I don’t want trouble,” Blake says. I know it’s the truth. I know Blake has no interest in a fist fight. “I just want to talk to her.”
“Talking time is over.”
Blake takes one step back, but that’s it. It’s a compromise Connor won’t accept. Connor doesn’t do compromise.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to her,” Blake says. “You’re taking everything from her.”
“I’d say that’s none of your fucking business.”
Blake makes this groan in the back of his throat, like he’s trying hard to suppress the urge to reel back and sock Connor in the face. I’m surprised by it. Surprised Blake possesses that kind of fury. But then Blake gets that sad look again and shakes his head. “You’re crushing her. Don’t you get it? She was a different person before she met you.”
I sit down on the curb because I can’t handle this anymore, and I don’t want people to think I’m with them. I don’t like the pity in people’s eyes or the curious looks as they slow their pace so they can gobble up the drama, like this is some fun television show and not my fucked-up reality.
Connor puts his hands out to shove Blake, but Blake steps away before he connects, which makes Connor stumble. I know Connor is holding back. I know he realizes this is a public place and he can’t unleash the anger he’s bottling inside.
They’re close to cutting loose. So close. They dance around like boxers, but neither of them touches the other.
“What made you do this to her? What do you say to yourself to make it okay?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connor says, his voice growing darker, deeper, every time he speaks. Blake is pushing all the right buttons. I can’t believe Connor hasn’t lost it yet.
“You’re turning her into something else. If you love her, you won’t do this anymore. You’ll let her go so she can get on with her life.”
“Fuck off,” Connor says.
Blake just stares straight at him and shakes his head, a slow, sad shake that seems to last forever. “You’ll lose her eventually and you’ll know I was right. You’ll know she’s above you.” He turns and looks at me. “You have a choice. You’re better than this.”
And then he turns and leaves me with Connor.
He leaves me with the mess he’s so carelessly made.
And for one second, I actually think I might run after him. I actually think I might leave Connor here to just get over it on his own.
But then I look at Connor again and I remember all those whispered promises and all those times I swore I’d always be there to pick up the pieces, to always help him keep everything together, and I don’t.
I promised him. Forever and always.
I promised.
May 31
Nine Months, one day
With my high school career unofficially complete, I become listless. Classes are over but the graduation ceremony hasn’t been held yet, and I haven’t picked up any shifts at Subway, my usual summer job. Connor is at work, and I end up wearing my running shoes, a windbreaker, and track pants. My iPod is turned on full blast and I’m ready to leave every shred of stress behind.
It’s windy today and the surf is frothy with foam, each wave breaking violently as it nears the shore. Seagulls bob along the surface and the sand is littered with debris.
It’s a perfect day to find sea glass. There is so much on the shore that I decide to run a few miles first and pick it up on my way back, or I won’t even be able to raise my heart rate.
I run along the wet section of the sand, where it’s firm, and leave my footprints behind as I pick up a full sprint. I shouldn’t push so hard so quickly; I should warm up and stretch and take my time. But I don’t want to.
It’s been so long since I’ve been able to run. It’s been
so long that the passion has been buried down inside me, twisted up and hidden until I tried to pretend I never ran at all. But as soon as my muscles warm and my breathing picks up that familiar rhythm, everything starts to float away.
Why did I stop doing this? Why did I give it up?
Connor wants me to be happy. He would understand if I told him I was leaving to go for a run. He’d probably encourage it, if I told him what it meant. But somehow something more important is always in the way.
No more. I want to run like this every day. I’ll wake up at four a.m. if I have to. I want it back.
I want me back.
I run much further than I’d planned to, until the fine yellow sand turns rockier and a big jetty extends out into the water. I turn away from the waves and circle back, slowing to a walk as I pant for air. Adrenaline courses through me.
I feel confident. Alive. How did I forget all this?
Back at Connor’s, I empty out the canvas bag onto the work bench in the little garage. I have at least a few dozen pieces of glass, in blue and green and amber. Enough to finish my project. It’s been so hard to find the time to work on it. I thought I’d be done months ago.
I put on rubber gloves and then sort out the glass, putting it into little piles based on size and color. I need small pieces for the spots where the sculpture curves, and then bigger pieces in the large flat spots.
I pick up the bottle of glue and a little red piece. I have three hours before Connor will be back. If I’m lucky I can finish it and give it to him in a couple days, after the glue cures. He would like that. He needs a pick-me-up these days.
I reach over and flick on the radio, and an upbeat country song blasts out. I hum along as I pick up another piece.
Yes, I will finish this today. It has taken eight months of work, and it has grown along with my love for Connor, a physical symbol of how I feel for him. Finally, he will understand how much I love him. He will see it.
And then he’ll know that I mean it when I say I’ll never leave him.
May 28
Eight months, twenty-eight days
I can barely stay awake today. Connor had a bad night last night. His mom called, freaking out, but when he went to her house, no one was home. And he spent the rest of the night worrying about her. I didn’t sleep at all.
I’m leaning on my hand, my hood pulled as far over my eyes as possible, when something drops onto my desk.
Note cards. Dozens of them, with a neat little scrawl filling the lines.
Abby’s handwriting.
I look up to see her staring at me, her eyes empty of all emotion.
“Just read everything on the pink cards. The yellow ones are mine.”
Then she walks away and takes her seat near the front, and all I can do is stare at her.
Our project. Our year-long, half-of-your-final-grade senior project.
I’ve spent maybe a dozen hours on it the whole year. And judging by this stack of cards, Abby has spent twenty times that.
I’ve let her down. I ignored her and put her off and blew her off and …
I let her down.
I swallow the growing lump in my throat and pick up the cards, flipping through them. They’re thick, probably a hundred deep, and neatly numbered. Half are yellow, half pink.
Did she know I would need this? Did she know I wouldn’t know the first thing about our presentation?
“Ann, Abby, you’re up.”
I realize the teacher is staring at me. I nod and pull my hood down and pick up the cards. They’re heavy in my hands, evidence of the ways I’ve disappointed her.
I’m numb with the realization that I deserted her, left her to do all the work. Ignored her as if she meant nothing. Again. Over and over and over.
And instead of seeking revenge and instead of telling the teacher or letting me stand up there mute, she did it all. She saved me even though I don’t deserve it.
I make my way to the front of the room, where Abby is setting up poster boards.
Thank you, I mouth to her when she looks up.
She just nods, that same empty look in her eyes. The sympathy, the warmth, the friendship, it’s all gone. She simply stares back at me as if I’m nothing.
This is her send-off for me. This is the way she’ll wash her hands of me. This is how she can let go of me without feeling guilty for doing it. She knows I’m so wrapped up in Connor that we’ll never be best friends like we were before.
I’ve finally lost her.
This is the end for us.
The realization is so strong my knees almost buckle. When this presentation is over, it’ll be official. I have no friends.
I am alone.
May 20
Eight Months, twenty days
His apartment is silent when I arrive. I stop at the door and think there must be something wrong. It is never silent.
My shoes echo on the laminate in the hallway as I make my way back to his bedroom.
When I push open the door, I’m surprised to see that the drapes are open and light is streaming through. Connor is sitting on the ground holding a guitar, leaning over, concentrating.
“Oh, good, sit down!” He’s happy to see me, like he’s been waiting all day for my arrival, and it makes my mouth turn up in a smile because I remember when he used to do this all the time. It was like he was counting the seconds until I would arrive and we’d be together again.
I nod and go to the chair.
“Tell me if you recognize this.” He has picks on each finger and the sounds of his acoustic guitar fill the room, a familiar melody I can’t place.
He looks at me expectantly when he’s done, his eyebrows raised.
“Wait … I know it … don’t tell me …”
He just plays it again, the notes floating on air. His fingers are quick and graceful as they pluck the melody.
He looks up again. I still can’t place it. I’m desperate, my mind racing, but I can’t place it.
I see the disappointment on his face as he stares at me. As I come up empty. His blue eyes are filled with it, and I scramble, thinking, trying to find the right song.
“It’s Forever Yours,” he says, before I succeed.
“Oh! ” I say, too loud. “My favorite song.”
“Yes.”
I smile at him, try to make him see that I’m pleased with his surprise, but he sets the guitar down. I’ve spoiled it. I didn’t recognize my own favorite song. I took away his moment of glory.
“It took me three hours,” he says.
“Play it again. Please? It was beautiful. Now that I know what song it is, it’ll be even prettier.”
For a second he just strums his hands across the strings like he hasn’t heard me, like he won’t answer at all.
I’m relieved when he nods and picks up the melody again.
I hate it that every little thing has become so important. I have to try so hard every moment of every day to do and say the right thing, or his mood will turn.
And my day will turn with it.
I’m tired of this high-wire act, this balance where I have to be on all the time, where I have to perform whenever the light hits me or risk falling.
As the notes fill the room again I lie back on his bed and stare at the popcorn ceiling. Connor sits just a few feet away from me, but it feels like miles. There is a cavernous hole between us, and I can never seem to fill it.
I know that he spent three hours doing this for me, but it’s empty because it’s not what I want. I want him to stop making everything so hard. I want him to smile at me and I don’t want to see the things in his eyes that tell me it’s not real.
I want him to be whole so I don’t have to try so hard to make him that way.
I want to not care if I make a mistake. I want this to be easy and happy, and I want to not walk on eggshells every moment of every day. I want to say the wrong thing and see him smile anyway.
I want him to hang out with me and my friends. I want him
to come over for dinner with my mom and I want to be able to leave the room and not worry about what they are saying to each other.
The longing is so fierce I feel it in my chest, an ache that makes my whole body weak.
I want to be forgiven for my mistakes. I want them to wash away every day and I want a clean slate. I don’t want them to stack up higher and higher, like a house of cards ready to topple with the breeze.
I want him to leave behind everything from his childhood and look only at the future we have together. I want him to focus on his job and his apartment and pretend he doesn’t have parents at all, that I’m his family and we can find happiness and success together and nothing can touch him.
I want it to be like I thought it was going to be when we met. Like I thought it was going to be the first time I said those three words and realized I meant them.
But he will never let go of his pain. And that is all I want for him.
August 30
One year
I’m rocking back and forth, still sitting on the ground wrapped in a blanket, when I hear it: a car door. The telltale squeak tells me it is Connor’s truck. I’d know that sound anywhere.
My heart seems to spasm in my chest, first half-stopping, and then galloping off in a thunderous roar. My chest seems to heave and pulsate with my heartbeats. Nausea wells up.
Connor is back.
I’m not even sure how long he was gone. I lost all sense of time since I landed here, amidst the mess and carnage. Has it been minutes or hours? Is he back because he’s still angry—or has he realized what he’s done?
This is so much worse than anything before. He must know that. Does he think he can walk in and apologize and hold me?
Would I let him?
I look up at the door. The chain is still locked. So is the deadbolt, which Connor doesn’t have a key to because he lost it. He can’t get in, not until I let him in. Not until I am ready.
