by A. J. Pine
So I call Jess and tell her the news, then join my brother for the quick drive to my dad’s diner, where the four of us celebrate together.
That night I violate the conditions of my therapy, but only slightly. Maybe our timing was wrong, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love him—that I don’t still. At the very least, I need him to know how I feel and that I’m going to be okay. And because I’ve found my way with words as well as pictures lately, I write.
Dear Zach,
First, I need to warn you that this letter will self-destruct after you read it. Can’t let my doctor know I went back on my word to give up contact with those outside family and longtime friends. So, you know, read this in an open field or something so no one hears the explosion.
So, how’d I do? Figured opening with a joke was the way to go, though my brother says I’m not as funny as I think I am. Guess I should keep this short and sweet, then, right?
If I was allowed to apologize for my addiction, I would. But my doctor keeps telling me I’m not responsible for my body’s chemical makeup, so I guess I’ll tell you all the things I’m not sorry for, k?
I’m not sorry for loving my brother or for wanting to remember him with art on my skin.
I’m not sorry for being able to rock black hair or blue hair or red.
I’m not sorry for needing others to see me as strong even when I wasn’t, and I’m also not sorry for admitting I’m not strong enough to go it alone.
I’m not sorry for loving a guy I thought never knew the real me because I knew the real him, even if I didn’t know his whole story. I understand that now, that we all tend to hide every now and then. But even the pieces of us we don’t show to others—they still make us who we are. And this guy is so filled with light, even after the dark tried to creep in. I want to be like him someday. (He’s you, btw. The guy is you. And I’m not sorry for loving you.)
And finally, I’m not sorry that with all I’ve lost this year, I’m starting to smile more.
I never wanted anyone to say these words to me, because I didn’t believe them, but I do now. I’m going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.
Love . . . always,
Zoe
Chapter Thirty
“If I didn’t have you in my appointment book, I wouldn’t know it was you.”
Dee looks at me with eyes wide, her thick, mascaraed lashes adding a cartoonlike effect. If she was a cartoon, she’d for sure be Jessica Rabbit—unrealistically hot yet real in every way.
“Even your lashes are blond,” she says, staring at me like she’s never noticed this before. But then again, I was always good at covering the subtleties as well as more noticeable things like my hair and skin.
“I had to cut it off again because of how much I damaged it, but it’s starting to grow in.”
I run a hand through what’s grown out since I went pixie again in September. It’s been three months since the start of the physical transformation—or my physical reconnection, as Dr. Greg likes to call it.
“You do natural really well, Blondie.”
I laugh.
“What? You need a nickname. And I have a feeling this one’s going to stick.”
I hand her a form. “I need you to sign and date this. It’s for my therapist. He was not happy about me coming here, and I kinda don’t blame him. I’m a little nervous myself.”
She nods. “What is this, like, some kind of contract?”
“Yeah.” She signs it and hands it back to me. “Though it’s not at all legal. It’s all part of this whole trust thing we’re working on. I can have you do the cover-up, but then no form of body mod for at least a year from today.”
This is the first test, to see if I have to do like I did with alcohol—wipe it out of my life before finding out if I’m addicted. Dr. Greg says I’ve been living with clinical depression for years, untreated, and that only after I’ve stabilized on the medication that’s right for me will we know how much addiction will be an issue for me moving forward.
“The script is small,” Dee says, taking my left wrist in her hand and reading what she inscribed all those months ago. “Should be pretty easy to cover and change.”
It’s as easy as swapping one word for another, for choosing to move forward instead of back.
She leads me to the chair, and I hesitate before sitting. What if Dr. Greg’s worry is more than just that? What if the touch of the needle to skin triggers what it felt like the last time I sat here, chest bared and asking my roommate to ink me with poison?
She must read my mind because she asks, “You still have the flower?”
I nod. But it doesn’t hold the same meaning it did five months ago.
“It’s a reminder,” I tell her, as is the phoenix feather, the Peter Pan quote, the fictional superhero on my shoulder.
“A reminder of what?” she asks.
“Not letting the poison win.”
She lets out a long breath, and I watch her shoulders lower, the first time I notice she’s just as worried as me. But as her tension releases, so does mine. Dee trusts I’m sitting in her chair for much different reasons than I ever was before. And I trust her to trust me.
“Thank you, Delores,” I say as she readies the needle in the machine. I feel so far from familiarity with her that her formal name slips out.
“Blondie, for the last time. It’s Dee.”
I smile. “Okay . . . but only if you call me Zoe.”
Dee nods. Then she gets to work. And when the first prick of the needle breaks my skin, I don’t dissolve into the pain. I stay in the present, Dee and I catching up through nonstop conversation. I feel every sting of the needle, but I feel everything else too.
* * *
Two hours later Dee and I share an order of fried pickles and a couple of Shirley Temples at Lincoln Square Lanes. My knees bob up and down, one of them slamming against the underside of the table.
“You need to chill,” Dee says, looking up from what she’s reading. “This shit is good, and I want to finish.”
I groan, roll my eyes, and go back to admiring Dee’s handiwork on my skin.
To live would be an awfully big adventure.
That’s all it is, swapping out three letters for four, die for live.
Finally Dee looks up, brandishing the comic in my face.
One Life: The Living Adventure of Wandering Wyatt. Written and Illustrated by Zoe Adler.
“Holy fucking shit, woman! You made this!”
My heart swells as my eyes rest on the cover, almost the same as the portrait I drew back in July, the one in my sketchpad that got ruined, but this has Wyatt drawn full body, from head to toe, as he stands at the precipice of a cliff. No fear, no regret, nothing in his gaze other than the desire to keep moving, to go forward on his living path.
Whether my brother had an addictive personality or not, I choose to believe the latter. For him, life was the adventure, but that adventure took many forms. I picture him rappelling down a small mountain or cliff, diving into a river. But I also see him crowded around the coffee table with me, Zach, Mom, and Dad, playing the Game of Life.
I laugh quietly to myself. Thanks for the metaphor, Wyatt.
His life was an adventure until the last minute, and now I can take him with me on mine.
“It’s so good,” Dee says. “I can’t even handle that this is real and you wrote it and drew it and shit. Do I get to keep a copy?”
I give her an enthusiastic nod. “Of course you do. Now the only question is, do you think I’ll get accepted?”
After the pickles, I’m heading to Dark Tower Comics, the place I got to fangirl over one of my favorite artists, to enter my comic in their local debut authors’ panel. My editor already put in a good word, but Dark Tower only takes submissions from the authors themselves. If I get selected, I’ll be on a panel with two other locals in January for a fully promoted sale and signing.
Dee slaps her palm down on the table, and I flinch before nervous
laughter spills out of me.
“They are going to give you a panel all to yourself, and if they don’t, I’m cracking some skulls.”
The conviction in her voice makes me believe that my pint-sized former roommate would threaten violence on my behalf, and I get a little warm and fuzzy just from her offer. Not that I really want her to inflict physical pain.
“So you really like it?” I ask, afraid for the first time to believe a compliment. Because this is my creation—it’s Wyatt—and putting it out there for critical judgment? I don’t know if I’m ready for this. If they say no, I’ll be crushed. If they say yes, I will float on cloud nine for about fifteen seconds until I remember that literary agents get invited to the panel, that my work again will not only be out there for readers to judge but also for those who have the ability to turn my small publishing deal into a career.
“Yes, I fucking like it!” she squeals, and heads turn in our direction, especially those who thought it would be safe to take their kids to lunch at the bowling alley on a Saturday afternoon. “Sorry,” Dee says to no one in particular. “I’m coming with you, by the way. You’re not going to need my help, but just in case . . .” She smacks the palm of her hand with her fist, and we both erupt into a fit of laughter.
“Thank you,” I tell her. Then I wipe my palms on my jeans. “So, I have one more thing to ask you, and it’s kind of big.”
“Spit it out, lady.”
I take a breath and another sip of my drink.
“I don’t know if you remember this, but you told me you thought I belonged here, in the city.”
“Of course I remember.”
“I’ve been working for my dad since I’ve been home, and I got a small advance from the publisher.”
Dee nods but lets me continue.
“I’ve got some money put away, and I’ve convinced my parents and my therapist of what you knew five months ago. I do belong here, especially if I’m going to pursue this comic thing, and I am. I have to. I don’t think I can do anything else, and the stories and drawings pour out of me now, and . . .”
“For fuck’s sake, you can have your room back! That better be what you seem too chickenshit to ask, though I have no idea why you would hesitate for a second!”
Dee jumps up from the table and hops over to mine, kissing me square on the lips with her ever-present cherry lipstick. It’s just a peck, but according to some of our onlookers, we may as well be making out.
“Okay! Okay!” I’m laughing so hard tears start to fall. Maybe I’m crying a little too, but the smile never leaves my face. Of course I want to land a spot on this panel. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything for myself before. It’s that word, myself, that trips me up for the moment. The past five months have been about me, and I can’t help but give myself a virtual pat on the back—maybe even a hug—for where I am now compared to where I was four years ago, let alone four months ago.
“I’ll be okay if I don’t get it,” I tell her.
“But you’re going to get it.”
“But if I don’t . . .”
“You will.”
“I really want it.”
“I know.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Sure, Chicago may have first been named “The Windy City” as a comment to the long-winded politicians of the late eighteen-hundreds, but even for January, today’s wind is brutal. I approach the shop’s back entrance, the employee entrance. And no, I may not be an employee of my favorite shop, but I still get to use the back door like I’m some special VIP, and I have a hard time suppressing my smile.
And fine, so maybe it’s not such a secret entrance, but still. It’s pretty special. Only employees and invited guests get to enter through here, and today I’m an invited guest. With three assistants.
“HFS it’s cold!” Jess yells as we make it inside the back door, one that opens into a not-so-glamorous storage room.
“You’re going to have to translate, dollface,” Patrick says to her. “I don’t speak abbreviated profanity.”
“It’s holy fucking shit,” Dee tells him. “You know you know that one.”
Patrick giggles. He does know that one, but he’s been hell-bent on making Jess slip up for weeks now. Ever since she decided she wanted to go into pediatric physical therapy, she’s been on this cleaning-up-her-language stint. Phase one—abbreviate instead of curse. Patrick’s phase one? Make Jess curse in public. So far Jess is winning, but it’s been pretty fun to watch him try.
Dee and I stand next to each other and take it all in, roommates again for a full three weeks now.
“I knew I wouldn’t have to crack any skulls,” Dee says, and I shake my head.
“I’m really here. Aren’t I?” I ask her.
Jess joins us, wrapping her arms around me from behind. “You’re really here,” she says. “And you know none of us are surprised, right? Big things were always going to happen for you, Zoe. I’m just so glad I get to be a part of it.”
Our little quartet follows the noise to a small back office where the other writers and illustrators gather with Devon, the store manager and the one in charge of organizing today’s event.
“Zoe!” he says, as I approach with my little entourage. “Great. Everyone’s here.” At first I felt kind of silly about them all coming with me. After all, my parents and Zach, Adam, even Bree and Taylor are up front commandeering the good seats in a shop too tiny for such an event. But I’ve spent too long in isolation, and I kind of love this little community I somehow built. Jess has her career path. Dee’s studio is doing better than ever. Everything seems to be falling into place.
Of course I’ve still got work to do. It’s not like I’m suddenly past the grief and the guilt. None of us are—me, Zach, Mom, and Dad. But we’re working on it, together and separately, each one of us at our own pace. Today is a big step forward for all of us, a celebration of a life, a way for us to move on and for Wyatt, in his own way, to move with us.
“Hey, Devon,” I say. “Sorry if I’m late.”
He shakes his head. “You’re right on time. Here, let me introduce you to our other two artists.”
He leads me around the room, greeting the other artists and their families and friends. The panel doesn’t start for another thirty minutes, and when I catch a glimpse into the shop through the small window on the office door, my heart leaps. The place is packed, and guests mingle up and down the aisles, in the rows of seats where my cheering section—Mom, Dad, Zach, Adam, Bree, Taylor—don’t dare move, because they promised I would see them first every time I look out into that sea of faces. Compared to what I expected for a turnout, it is, in fact, a sea.
“Now that you’ve all been acquainted, feel free to relax until the main event begins.”
A chorus of nervous laughter answers Devon’s suggestion, my fellow panelists joining me, the frenetic energy of what today could mean for us causing the room to buzz with excitement. But there is a pocket of quiet, enough for me to hear the music pumping through the store’s speakers. And when the sound of the voice and quiet guitar melody registers, I stagger from where I stand, almost knocking Devon over.
I press my face to the glass, the small rectangular window not enough for me to take in the entire store. I’ve seen the shop before, and there is no possible room for any sort of live performance, especially with the panel set to go. But without going out there now, I can’t be 100 percent sure.
“You okay?” Devon asks, and I spin to face him, realizing I haven’t apologized for almost taking him out.
“Sorry,” I say. “I mean, yeah. I’m fine. I . . . what’s with the music?”
“Oh,” Devon laughs. “It’s a CD. More folksy than our usual playlist, right? But a couple of the Old Town instructors stop in from time to time, and they gave us some free music from a recent recording. Good shit, right?”
I bite my lip, biting back the one feeling I’ve ignored during all my treatment. Longing. For him.
God, it fel
t good to put so much work into myself since I decided to get help, and I can honestly say I’m happy for the first time in months—years, even—unconditional happiness not depending on someone or something. That doesn’t mean that something hasn’t been missing. That someone hasn’t always been lurking in the deep recesses of my heart.
So I stand, and I listen, and I let the music fill the last empty space inside of me.
Cover my eyes. Cover my heart.
Where you begin, that’s where I start.
Love doesn’t wait to heal the bruise.
Uncover the pain. Uncover you.
Ask what I want. Ask what I need.
I want you to trust. Need you to believe.
It’s not my choice. It’s love that will choose.
Uncover the pain. Uncover you.
“Shit, honey! What’s wrong?” Jess gasps as soon as the words leave her mouth, and Patrick lets loose a guffaw until he sees what Jess sees, me leaning against the office door, hand over my mouth and eyes wide.
“Zoe?” Dee asks when I don’t respond to Jess.
So I point up, because I don’t want to speak over the music. This was the song he was working on that day on my balcony. When had he finished it? Performed and recorded it? Is he still teaching at Old Town? What about the showcase? Because right now, timing means everything. Time could give me the nerve to hope.
Finally, when the song ends, I grab Devon’s shoulder.
“When did he . . . did they . . . when did you get the CD?” I ask.
Devon shrugs. He fucking shrugs. How does he not know what this means to me? I know Zach stayed in the city. That much I’d heard through Jess. But I also know the rules—the importance of my treatment. As much as I’ve thought about him these past months, I wasn’t ready. Even now, just over the hump of that six-month mark, am I healed enough? And if I still love him—because oh my God, I do—how much do any of my questions matter? Ready or not, if he knew I was going to be here—if he brought Devon that CD on purpose, that would mean he did something I never had the right to ask. It would mean he waited.
