One Year (New & Lengthened Edition)

by Charlotte Byrd

  “I don’t know.” I shrug.

  “Do you?” she asks.

  “Of course not. I just pick up a book that I like. Often based on its cover, read the blurb, and then decided if I’m in the mood for the story,” I say.

  “Exactly! And you and I just happen to both love Virginia Woolf and Colleen Hoover. So what?”

  I smile. She’s right, of course.

  “It’s nice to have someone say what I’m thinking,” I say. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with this particular world view. I mean, isn’t it really open-minded and exhilarating? Doesn’t it mean that we’re open to all possibilities? That all we’re looking for is entertainment, but in the best sense of that word? That we’re not bound by some conventions and other people’s opinions?

  “I think so,” she says, cocking her head. “And it doesn’t just apply to books. But other works of art too. For me, anything goes. Eminem and Schubert. Taylor Swift and Edith Piaf.”

  I look at her closely. The way she tapped her finger on the table, not out of exasperation or annoyance, but simply to pass the time. There is something endearing and pure about Tea that I can’t seem to put my finger on. She’s cautious and quiet, but strong and confident in ways that I can’t even imagine being quite yet. And that’s why when she invites me over to her place the following evening, I say yes without hesitation.

  37

  We’re supposed to be studying and going over our notes from Catcher in the Rye, but instead we talk about a book that she’s writing.

  “You’re writing a novel? Really?” I say in shock. We’re both 18 years old and the thought of even beginning a novel scares the shit out of me. But Tea is unfazed.

  “I’ve had this idea in my head for the last two years and finally this summer, I just decided to go for it. I mean, what the hell am I waiting for?”

  “What’s it about?” I ask.

  “A mysterious death of an old expat in Belize. The narrator is a young woman who finds clues to his murder in a book of Belizian folk tales.”

  “That sounds…intense,” I say. It takes me a moment to find just the right word. The book sounds interesting, but I’ve found that saying that something is interesting is kind of a throwaway line. That’s what people say who aren’t really interested.

  “It sounds daunting, too,” I add.

  “Yes, I guess.” She shrugs. But her eyes twinkle and I get the sense that it’s more exciting than daunting.

  “So can I tell you something embarrassing? I don’t actually know where Belize is,” I say. I hate to admit, but geography isn’t my strong suit. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it in the world. Is it in Africa? Asia?

  “Not embarrassing at all.” She laughs. “It’s a small country in Central America right next to Mexico and Guatemala.”

  “How small?” I ask.

  “Very small. It’s got a population of about 320,000 people. Like a medium-sized town here. But it is English-speaking. Sort of. Their accent is something to get used to.” She laughs.

  “Have you ever been there?” I ask. I have no idea why else anyone would write a story about Belize.

  “Oh yes! My family has a place there and I go there every summer for at least a month and often for Christmas break, too. Oh my God, Alice. It’s the most beautiful place on Earth. The air is filled with salt and hope and cheer. And the people there dance for no other reason except that they’re alive. Every day is like a celebration of life.”

  “That sounds amazing,” I say. “I can’t wait to read the book.”

  And then suddenly, the conversation turns to me and my writing. A topic that I’m not comfortable discussing. Not at all.

  “Well, I’m not working on a novel, that’s for sure,” I say shyly.

  “But you write? Right?”

  “Yes,” I admit it. “I love it, actually. But the thing is that I don’t have much time.”

  Time has always been an issue with me. For some reason, having other things to do, like schoolwork, completely derails me and makes it impossible for me to do work. Homework weighs heavily on me and even if I’m not working on it, I can’t focus on anything else. So I waste my time on the Internet or watching Netflix instead of seizing the little time that I have left and writing. And then, of course, I feel guilty over the whole thing. And guilt makes it even more difficult to focus.

  “I know what you mean,” Tea says. “But the thing is that you have to make time. You just have to, if it’s important to you. Because no one else will.”

  “But there’s something else,” I say. “I’m also kind of afraid. No, not kind of, really, really afraid.”

  I don’t mean to blurt that out, but it just sort of comes out. I’d never really admitted it out loud before. I haven’t even admitted it to myself before, in the privacy of my own thoughts. But here, I am sharing my deep dark fears and secrets with Tea, of all people.

  “I’m afraid, too,” she says. “I hate to admit it. It’s embarrassing, isn’t it? I mean, what’s there to be afraid of? It’s just pen to paper or typing on a keyboard. But it is. You’re pouring your whole self onto the page and what if it’s crap? What if it’s no good?”

  I nod. Perhaps, only writers can understand these fears.

  “But then I just have to tell myself that what’s important is the process. Nothing else. If it’s crap, then that’s what it is. But that doesn’t matter. The final product doesn’t matter so much. At least, you can’t worry about it until later. While you’re writing, you have to let go. I sometimes feel like I enter some sort of alternative consciousness where all I’m doing is typing and someone else is coming up with the story.”

  “Yes, of course.” I nod. “I know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s like all the characters have minds of their own. They’re no longer made up people. I’m no longer playing pretend. I’ve created them, but then at some point they start to speak and think and act on their own.”

  “Exactly!” she nods her head vociferously. For a second, she looks like a bobble head and I think that her head might pop off her shoulders and roll away.

  “But as for being afraid,” Tea continues, “you just have to do it. A little every day. If you write a few hundred words for a few days, then in the coming days, you won’t worry about not being able to write. You build confidence. And experience shows you that it’s possible. You suddenly realize that it’s just a building process. You put a few blocks up every day and after a certain number of days, you’ll have a building.”

  “And how many blocks do you have up?” I ask, continuing on with her metaphor.

  “I have 45,000 words. The novel will be about 60,000 words.”

  “You’re almost done!” I say. “I really want to read it when you’re done.”

  “Maybe.” She shrugs and looks away.

  “Please?”

  “I don’t know,” she says without meeting my eyes. “I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid? But what about what you just said about fear?”

  “This fear is different. I’m worried about what you’re going to say,” Tea says, looking up at me. She’s trying to read my face to see what kind of critic I am.

  “Don’t be,” I say, trying to put her at ease. “I’m sure it’s marvelous. And if it’s not, I won’t tell you.”

  We both burst out laughing. I laugh so hard that my eyes tear up a bit. When we finally catch our breath, Tea’s face gets very serious.

  “You promise?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  Just when I’m about to leave, Tea insists on heating up some leftover pizza from last night. I’m sucker for day-old pizza and cave.

  “So how are things going with that guy you’re seeing? Simon?” she asks, pouring me a cup of soda.

  My chest tightens a bit. She has broached the boyfriend topic. Why would she do that? Doesn’t she know that our relationship depends on us explicitly not talking about our boyfriends? It’s okay, stay calm, I say to m
yself. She just asked about my boyfriend. Simon’s neutral territory. Maybe she won’t bring up her boyfriend at all. I’m definitely not going to ask about Tristan.

  “Good.” I nod. “He invited me for a weekend to this cabin upstate.”

  “Wow, that’s a big step,” she says.

  “I know. It is. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet. But he really wants me to go.”

  She looks puzzled for a moment. But then I realize that it’s not confusion painted on her face. It’s disappointment. With a hint of sadness.

  “You’re lucky. Tristan won’t even let me call him my boyfriend. He says that he doesn’t like labels.”

  Shivers run up my spine. I can’t believe that she has mentioned Tristan’s name, just like that. Like it’s nothing. Just another word.

  38

  “Are you okay?” Tea asks, putting her hand on my arm. I haven’t spoken a word in some time. The silence is deafening. My lips are chapped and my throat is tingling. I’m suddenly so thirsty I bet I can drink a one-gallon jug of water without pausing.

  “Fine,” I finally manage. “So tell me more about your book.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” she says, calling me on my shit.

  I look away. Shrug. I search my mind for the last thing she had said. “So Tristan doesn’t like labels, huh?”

  “No, at least that’s what he said to me.”

  I shrug again and start to think of ways to get out of this room as soon as possible.

  “Was he like this with you?” Tea asks.

  Her enormous wide eyes somehow grow even bigger. Juliet would love her eyelashes. They’re so lush and full, unlike mine. Perhaps she might even say that Tea doesn’t need false lashes. No, come to think of it, Juliet’s not the “less is more” kind of girl.

  “Listen, I don’t feel really comfortable talking about this,” I say and start gathering my things. But she stops me.

  “I’m sorry, I know this is probably really awkward for you,” Tea sighs. “I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know if he’s just being a normal guy or if something’s really wrong.”

  I shrug.

  “So, was he like that with you?” she asks again. I can leave. Right now.

  If I just pack up my stuff and say that I really don’t want to talk about this, I can just leave. She can’t stop me. But when I look into her eyes and see that lost look on her face, I know that I can’t. I sigh and give in.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “Secretive? Anti-labels? Did he mind calling you his girlfriend?”

  “It was different then, Tea. We were both in high school. 11th grade isn’t like freshman year of college. You think you’re so grown up then. Many people want to be in a relationship. Perhaps for no other reason except to say that they were in one.”

  She nods and sighs. I’m making sense to her. I search my mind for some other words of explanation that I could offer her that won’t hurt her feelings.

  “Besides, Tristan and I were best friends. For many years before we ever got together,” I say. “So when we got together, it was different. It was more serious, right from the beginning.”

  Again, she sighs and looks away. I put my arm around her shoulders. They slouch under my touch.

  “How long were you together?” she asks.

  “Two years.”

  “Do you think maybe he doesn’t want to get serious because he just got out of a serious relationship?” she asks. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.

  “I’m sure. If it’s any consolation, that’s kind of how I feel.”

  “What do you mean?” Tea asks.

  I drop my arm from her shoulder, try to pull away. But she just leans on me and waits for my answer.

  “Well, Simon calls me his girlfriend,” I say. “But I don’t really call him my boyfriend. We didn’t have a big discussion about it. He just started doing it. Without my permission, really. Maybe Tristan feels the same way. Maybe he just doesn’t want to complicate things right now, you know? I certainly don’t.”

  I see her listening to me, but I’m not sure if she’s really hearing me.

  “So what happened between you two?” she suddenly asks.

  “What do you mean?” My heart sinks. I don’t want to talk about our breakup. By the puzzled look on her face, I don’t think that’s what she’s referring to.

  “Well, you were kind of becoming friends again, right? He talked about you a bit and how things were getting more friendly and positive. But now, you’re not talking again? He said you were mad at him. What happened?”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I decide to fake it. “Nothing really.” I shrug, trying to pretend that everything’s okay.

  I look at Tea. She’s not buying it. I have no idea if Tea knows about Tristan’s masquerade ball, but I have a feeling that she doesn’t. And there’s no way I’m going to tell her. It’s Tristan’s thing. He needs to tell her why he didn’t take her. Agh, I fuckin’ hate that guy!

  “I don’t know. It’s sort of hard being friends again after a breakup. We tried for a while, but it just didn’t feel right. So we’re giving each other some space,” I say.

  I’m gathering my stuff again. This time, I’m leaving for me. Before Tea entraps me in some other conversation that I have no interest in.

  “But Tristan said that you were mad at him,” Tea presses. “What did he do?”

  “Listen, Tea, I have to go. We’re just not friends anymore. Can we leave it at that?” I say, putting on my coat.

  Tea stands up. I think she’s about to give me a hug and walk me to the elevator, but instead she blocks the door.

  “I feel like you’re hiding something, Alice. Did something happen?” she asks. “I promise I won’t be mad. I just need to know the truth.”

  “Nothing happened, Tea,” I say. I purposely use her name, the same way she used my name to make a point. “I have no interest in Tristan. We’re not even friends anymore. Seriously, you have nothing worry about.”

  She doesn’t move away from the door.

  “Can I get by, please?” I ask. “I really have to get back.”

  Finally, she moves out of the way. Very reluctantly.

  “You promise?” she asks. “You promise that nothing happened between you and Tristan?”

  “Yes, yes, I promise,” I lie.

  I don’t even know how to begin to answer that question.

  I walk out of Tea’s building with the certain sense that she didn’t believe me. Honestly, I wasn’t very convincing, but it’s not my place to be. I’m mad at Tristan for a very legitimate reason, but it’s not one that I can share with her without hurting her feelings and embarrassing her. This is Tristan’s thing. It’s his responsibility to tell her. Or not tell her.

  “Agh!” I scream in the elevator. “Shit. Shit. Shit, Tristan. Why do you have to be such an asshole?”

  The elevator dings and the doors open. Two people enter and I take a deep breath. No more outbursts, I say to myself. And bite my lower lip to keep quiet.

  39

  I pack an overnight bag for the cabin. It’s not really upstate upstate because it’s only 2 hours outside of Manhattan. But New Yorkers have a curious tendency to call everything outside of Manhattan upstate.

  Looking through my closet, I don’t know what to bring. I look up the weather on my phone. It should be in the high 40s and low 50s there this weekend. So really cold, at least for me. I know it’s going to get even colder.

  I pull a small suitcase from under my bed. I’m not a good packer. I don’t do it often and I lack practice, at least according to my parents who both fly practically every week and don’t think that there’s anything unusual about that. My head hurts and my arms feel heavy when I look through my closet for appropriate sweaters. I hate to admit it, but the main reason I’m having trouble packing is that I don’t really want to go. I’m not in that place yet with Simon. The going away for the weekend place. Why was he so insistent on us going? And why the hell di
d he go ahead and book this place without even consulting me? Girls like spontaneity in relationships. They like it when guys take initiative and book romantic gateways all on their own. I’m not different, of course. Except that what most girls won’t tell you is that we only want spontaneity from guys we already want to go on trips with. Otherwise, it’s awkward. Uncomfortable. Full of pressure.

  If Simon had asked me about this trip before booking it, I would’ve said no. But he didn’t. He just said that he had booked it and that he couldn’t cancel without losing all of his money. That’s a lot of pressure!

  I look the cabin up on my phone. It looks cozy and warm. A cute mountain gateway. If it weren’t for Simon, I’d be really excited about going on this trip. I haven’t been outside of New York City ever since I’ve been here and I’m really curious about checking out the nature on the East Coast. It’s completely different from the kind of nature that I’m used to.

  A knock on my open door breaks my concentration, startling me. I almost drop my phone.

  What? I mouth to Tristan. He motions that the music is too loud. Reluctantly, I turn down Elle King’s “Ex’s and Oh’s” and turn to him.

  Tristan is leaning on the frame of the door. It looks as if he’s actually holding it up.

  “Can I talk to you?” he asks. There’s something unusual about his demeanor. He looks lost, somehow. Vulnerable.

  I don’t say anything and turn back to my packing.

  “Alice?”

  “Go, talk,” I say, folding my favorite purple merino wool sweater with a wide turtleneck into my bag.

  “Is that the sweater that I got you for Christmas last year?” he asks.

  I nod and put another sweater on top of it. I won’t admit it out loud, but it’s one of my favorites.

  “I’m glad you love it,” he says quietly.