On the Way to You

by Kandi Steiner

  “Emery.”

  He didn’t jump, didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard me at all, though I knew he had. It was as if he expected me, or maybe as if he’d imagined me, like I was just a dream. I carefully moved forward, making sure each shoe gripped the slippery rock before I took the next step.

  “Emery, you have every right to be angry with me. You should be furious, you should hate me,” I said, voice trembling as I closed in, slowly, inch by inch. “I violated your privacy. I asked you to trust me and open up to me when I couldn’t even be patient enough to wait for what I asked for. I don’t have any excuses, not any that are good enough, at least. All I can tell you is that I’m sorry, that I never meant to hurt you, and that when I met you, before I even got in your car, I felt a connection to you that I’ve never felt before in my entire life. It was kismet, it was a soul awakening. It was the first day of my life.”

  I swallowed, still watching the muscles of his upper back as they ebbed and flowed with his breath.

  “We’ve only spent weeks together, but it feels like a lifetime to me. It feels like every moment before you pulled into that diner parking lot was practice. I practiced breathing, practiced laughing, practiced existing in every moment on the way to you so that when you found me, I’d know how to live.”

  I was numb to my own words, to my own emotions as I spoke. I hoped I made sense. I hoped I was reaching him. I hoped he was listening, it was all I needed him to do.

  “There’s a reason you asked me to come with you, Emery. Your grandmother led you to that diner, and when you got there, you found me. You may not believe in the universe or God or fate or any of that, but I know you believed in your grandmother, in the way you connected with her. And maybe I’m reaching, maybe I’m reading too much into something I was never meant to be a part of at all, but that’s not how I feel, Emery, and I know that’s not how you feel, either.”

  He dropped his head, the only movement he’d given me since I’d first called his name, and I paused, afraid I’d pushed too far, come too close.

  “You asked me that first day we met what made me happy,” I reminded him. “And I couldn’t answer. I wasn’t happy. I was breathing, and that was all. But then I got in your car, and I took my first breath, and I lived. I saw things I’d never seen before, laughed harder than I knew I could, questioned things I’d believed my entire life and more than anything,” I said, catching my breath. “I fell in love with you. I fell in love with every dark shadow, with every scar, every flaw, every smile and every scowl. Your journal had nothing to do with that. I fell in love with you.”

  I choked out a breath, shaking my head.

  “And I know that sounds crazy,” I admitted on a laugh. “It is crazy. I’ve only known you for weeks, such a small snapshot of a lifetime but it was enough. And I know you’re tired,” I conceded, the truth digging into my ribs. “I know you’ve been hurt, you’ve been misunderstood, you’ve been poked and prodded and judged. I know you’ve lived on the outside for so long, in a lonely corner of the world where you’ve learned to embrace the silence. You’ve lost and you’ve hurt, and you feel like you’ve failed your family and your friends and everyone you’ve ever touched because you can’t give them the answers to why you feel the way you feel.”

  The water rushed furiously below us, churning up energy, my body buzzing to life from the electric feel of it.

  “But whether you meant to or not, you let me into that corner, too. And now I’m here, and we’re together, and it’s not so dark and cold but if you leave… if you jump, I’ll still be here. Please, Emery. Don’t leave. Ask me what makes me happy now. Ask me. I’ll tell you over and over and over again that it’s you. It’s you. You are loved, you are understood, and you are needed. I don’t need you to explain why you feel the way you feel because I already know. I have never judged you, and I never will. Please,” I begged again. “Stay. Stay with me. Live with me.”

  My voice was just a whisper at the end, the sound of it mixing with the rush of the water. I’d said all I could say, and yet it somehow didn’t feel like enough. I was suspended in space, waiting, tethered to a man who could jump or pull me into him, and I didn’t know which he’d do.

  The water washing over the edge of the canyon was the only sound as Emery turned, his shoes slipping on the rocks a bit before he steadied himself. A piece of me broke inside when his tired, red eyes landed on mine, the irises glossy, corners edged with stress. He took one, small step toward me, nose flaring as his eyes watered more.

  “I wasn’t even mad,” he said, his voice low and heavy and tinged with regret. “When I saw you reading my journal, I wasn’t even mad — I was ashamed. I was embarrassed, like I was standing naked in front of a crowd of strangers. Except it was just you, and you weren’t laughing.” He was shaking, every inch of him from shoulders to ankles. “I knew you understood, I knew you loved me, and that scared me more than if you’d pointed and laughed and run away.”

  I chewed my bottom lip, eyes welling with his.

  “This was always the plan,” he said, exasperated, his hand gesturing to the waterfall behind him before it slapped his thigh in defeat. “I was so sure. I knew peace waited for me here, that I’d finally feel okay, that I’d finally be able to let go. This was supposed to be easy,” he choked. “And it is. It’s the easiest choice. I can jump, right now, and free fall into nothing. I can choose to never wake up to another bad day, or fight to fall asleep with my thoughts haunting me at night, or look into the eyes of everyone I’ve disappointed and have no words of reassurance to offer them. I can choose that, right now.”

  A sob broke through me and I shook my head violently, a whispered no unheard under my breath. But then Emery closed the distance between us, his hands flattening against either side of my face, thumbs wiping away the tears.

  “Living is hard, it’s the more difficult choice, but I can’t not choose it,” he said, his golden eyes sweeping over mine. “My grandmother told me if I took this trip and didn’t find anything that made me feel alive, I could join her, I could choose to leave this world and she would understand. But I can’t,” he said, brows bending inward as he leveled his eyes with mine. “Because I found you.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, a rush of hot tears staining my cheeks. It was too much, the overwhelming storm of emotions I felt in that moment, and when I opened my eyes again and found his, my hands crawled up his waist, gripping his sweater and pulling him into me like he was my first breath. I needed him that much, as much as I needed to breathe, and he was here.

  He was alive.

  His hands tilted my face up, his lips crashing into mine like he hated me and loved me all at once, like I’d saved him and executed him at the same time. His fingers twisted into my hair, fisting, his mouth consuming every breath I let go on top of that canyon. He bruised my lips and still I begged for more. I wanted all of him, every burning breath, every tortured touch, every whispered curse. The good, the bad, the unthinkable. I wanted all of it, and I took it with that kiss.

  “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I cried against his lips, but he just kissed me with more intention, shaking his head.

  “I’m here,” he answered, and I cried harder, gripping him like he would fall at any moment, like touching him was the only way to keep him with me.

  I didn’t have any other words, not after all I’d said. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, the three syllables weak and not enough.

  “Look at me,” he said, pulling back and lifting my chin. “Even before you got here, I knew. I watched the sun rise over these canyons and I knew it wasn’t the sun rising on my last day, because I wanted more sun rises. With you.” His eyes glistened, his irises searching mine. “I wasn’t going to jump, I wasn’t going to leave you. I’m sorry I ever made you feel like I could.” Emery kissed me softer, thumb tracing my lips when his own were gone. “You’re stuck with me now.”

  Something between a laugh and a sob left my lips and he
kissed me again, sealing that promise with heat, his arms wrapping all the way around me. The water rushed just as furiously, but I no longer feared it, no longer heard it as the treacherous siren of finality. Instead, it filled me in a slow, steady stream, washing me clean, and I pulled Emery closer, hoping the waves would reach him, too.

  It was like every moment between us existed at the top of that waterfall, the memories sweeping in from the canyons and up from the water below. I closed my eyes and saw his wide smile in the driver seat, his hair blowing back. I inhaled a breath and smelled the beached kelp below Esalen, the way it mixed with Emery’s natural scent. When his hands gripped my waist, I saw my hips bare for the first time under his palms, felt him moving between my thighs with gentle care, like it was a privilege and a responsibility both. I heard his laugh, his moans, his desperate pleas for understanding — and I answered them with a kiss, opening my eyes to take him in.

  His thumbs brushed my jaw, eyes searching mine, and in that moment, we were alive. We were a boy and a girl, seemingly so opposite yet more alike than we even knew, standing together at the end of a journey neither of us ever saw coming, an adventure we never could have prepared for.

  Except it wasn’t the end at all.

  It was the first letter, the first word, the first sentence with no punctuation mark in sight. It was a beautiful, messy beginning, an honest truth written in script, in a handwriting with loops and curves only we could decipher.

  It was real. It was painful. It was healing.

  And most of all, it was ours.

  The End

  Cooper bought me a new journal.

  I ran out of space in my first one, the one Grams got me, about two weeks ago. It didn’t feel right to get a new one, so I just wrote on blank sleeves of paper and shoved them between the pages of the one already filled. I was perfectly content with that process, but I think the mess of it drove Cooper mad, and so here it is, my new journal.

  It’s kind of fitting, actually, that today would be the day I write my first entry. One year ago on this day, I was pulling into a small diner in Mobile, Alabama, thinking all I’d be leaving with was a full stomach of steak and eggs.

  But I left with her.

  One year. One year of time, of places seen and moments lived. Three-hundred and sixty-five mornings waking up next to her. Thousands of minutes and seconds discovering more of who she is, who she was, who we both are now — together.

  Looking back on the man I was when I met her is like trying to remember a dream that fled in the morning light. When I was him, he was crystal clear. I understood him. I knew how he worked. Now, he seems pixelated and dark, the memory of him unclear, the man I’ve become nowhere near the one who once existed.

  It feels different, writing in this journal instead of the one Grams gave me. I still remember my first entry, how I didn’t want to write at all, didn’t want to feel, to think, to explain. But Cooper has opened me up. With her, the nights haven’t been so dark, and neither have my thoughts.

  With her, I’ve found purpose.

  And a dog, but that was just a bonus.

  It wasn’t an easy journey, especially starting where we did. I still remember our first month in Seattle together, stumbling through, neither of us knowing how to walk yet but holding tight to each other for balance, anyway. We took each day as it came, enrolling Cooper in school, finding a place to live, and, though I was reluctant, finding me a new therapist, and a new medication — one that didn’t make me feel like a zombie. One that helped.

  There are still bad days.

  But there are less of them now.

  About two months into our new reality, I started doing yoga with Cooper. Every morning, sometimes again in the evening, and when she got busier with school, I did it on my own.

  And then I studied it.

  And meditated.

  And before I knew it, I was teaching, running my own class at the studio around the corner from our apartment with a focus on overcoming depression and anxiety. It started with just me and Cooper, but it’s grown over time, and now, I meet with anywhere from twenty to fifty students each week. Even if it’s just for that hour that we’re on our mats, I know they don’t feel so alone.

  Purpose.

  When I met Cooper, I thought yoga was bullshit. In all fairness, I thought everything was bullshit. She tells me all the time that I opened her eyes to a new world, to new beliefs, but she did the same for me.

  Now, I think yoga centers me. Meditation helps quiet my mind. I may not look to the universe for answers the way Cooper does, but I believe now. I believe in the power of being quiet, of being still, of addressing my thoughts instead of hiding from them.

  And I believe in her, in that girl with the glasses too big for her face, and the way she loves me — completely, with everything that she is, without a single fear of being hurt.

  Last night, Cooper was studying at our dining room table. It’s this small, banged-up thing we picked up from a garage sale when we first moved here. It’s nothing special, doesn’t match a damn thing either, but I love that table because it’s where we eat our breakfast and drink our coffee. It’s where we fight and where we makeup, too. It’s where she cried the day she found out her mother passed away, and where I held her in my arms, vowing to put the pieces of her broken heart back together again.

  But last night, sitting at that table, she was just studying. Her hair was in the most tangled braid I’ve ever seen, hanging over her left shoulder, her pencil eraser chewed down to the metal as she flipped through her textbook and notecards. Her glasses had slipped down the bridge of her nose, her eyes dark and tired above where they rested, and Kalo hadn’t left the cozy spot at her feet all night.

  She was on her third cup of coffee when she spilled a bit of it, droplets splattering the pages of her textbook as she cursed under her breath. And one of those droplets hit her scarf, too — the blue one, the same one she’d worn the night we walked through Grants Pass. It landed right next to the other stain, worn and faded now, almost invisible. But I knew it was there.

  Cooper wiped at the new mess, frustrated almost to the point of tears, until it hit her.

  Then, she just looked at me, and I knew her thoughts without her speaking them.

  And just like the night that first stain was made, I kissed her. It was all I could do. I couldn’t not kiss her.

  One year.

  Every day of it filled with moments like that, with the two of us holding onto each other for dear life, trying to figure everything out together. A year of discovery, of laughter, and, though the me who existed this time last year would have sworn it wasn’t possible, a year of love, too.

  There’s a ring in the drawer next to my side of the bed, buried under my socks, pushed to the far back corner so Cooper doesn’t find it. She doesn’t know I have it, doesn’t know I bought it over the summer, that it’s been burning a hole in that drawer ever since. I wanted to give it to her that very night, wanted to drop to my knees in front of our couch where we were watching some stupid movie that neither of us really cared about.

  But with Cooper, everything needs to be magical — most of all this.

  I may not be Prince Charming, and what we have is far from a fairytale, but I promised myself that day we walked down the hike from Palouse Falls that I would spend every day of my fucking life working to become the man who deserved her, the man she’d dreamed of, the man I wanted to be.

  Last night, when I’d finished kissing her breathless, when the new stains on her scarf had dried as one with the other, Cooper asked me what made me happy. My answer was honest and sure.

  Living, and you.

  Cooper, if you’re reading this, which I’m sure you are, since I’m going to press it face down on our table with a note that says READ THE FIRST ENTRY — YES, I ACTUALLY WANT YOU TO READ IT, then meet me at Pier 57 at the wheel.

  Because I want you, Cooper. For now. Forever. And though my journal did a great job of telling you how I
felt about you one year ago, of giving you the words I couldn’t say out loud, it can’t do justice for what I feel for you now.

  This, I have to tell you in person.

  See you soon, Little Penny.

  Drive fast.

  I’ll start this by saying that, like Emery, I’ve stared at this blinking cursor for far too long now trying to figure out the right words to say. I’ve decided the “right words” don’t really exist, not for this, so I’m just going to write honestly and from the heart. I hope it’s enough.

  For some of you, this book will just be another one to add to the shelf of those you’ve read. The “past” shelf. It will sit with you for only a moment, for the hours you read it, and then it will exist only in a memory and on that shelf of things already experienced.

  But, for others, this one will hit home. Some of you will read Emery’s story, his thoughts in the pages of his journal, and you’ll understand. Some of you will identify with how he feels, and maybe some of you will look at those pages and wonder if that was the way one of your loved ones felt when they were facing their own demons.

  This note is for you.

  I have fought battles with depression and anxiety — not just my own, but those of close friends and family members, too. I know too well how alone you can feel when you’re in the depths of it, when the shadows are so dark they feel like an all-encompassing night. I know how it feels to not find sleep, to fake a happiness that doesn’t actually exist.

  But, I know what it feels like to be truly happy, too.

  I know what it feels like to overcome those dark thoughts and feelings, through the help of my friends and family and other resources, and walk on the other side of that foggy existence. There were times when I couldn’t see the light, when I didn’t think a brighter day existed, but it does.