by A. J. Pine
I rip my shoulders free of her grasp, the evidence of my guilt spilling down my cheeks. My feet keep moving backward until I’m flush against the porch rails with nowhere left to go.
“What’s it about, then?” I ask. “Because someone has to take responsibility. I’m the one who waited. I’m the one who pushed him away because I couldn’t stand the way he looked at me, like I’d taken everything from him.”
“Bryan?”
I nod, trying to catch my breath, and Zoe moves slowly toward me.
“He doesn’t blame you either.”
I wipe the sleeve of my coat across my face, painting it with tears.
“You don’t know that. We talked about all of it—marriage, kids, even where we’d live. They were our plans. None of those plans exist anymore because I waited.”
Zoe shakes her head.
“I do know, Jess. I watched you with him at the game. I saw the heartache in that boy’s eyes, but I didn’t see blame. Those times he came to see you? Your mom told me all he ever said was, ‘I just want to make sure she’s all right.’ He loved you, and he lost more than the baby. He lost you. Blame yourself for pushing him away if you want, but let both of you off the hook. Don’t you think he feels guilty too? It’s not like you got pregnant by yourself.”
She holds my stare, but I have nothing left to say.
“A terrible thing happened to you, honey. To you. Not because of anything you did. It just happened. And punishing yourself and everyone who tries to get close to you won’t change this thing. It won’t make it go away. You have a future—but only if you believe you deserve it.”
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, trying to stanch the flow.
“You sound like my mother,” I say, and Zoe lets out a small laugh.
“Say it,” she says, but I don’t respond. “Say that you have a future, Jess.”
“I can’t.”
Zoe lets out a sigh.
“Fine. Then I’m going to say it, and you have to repeat after me.”
I shake my head.
“That’s still saying it.”
She smiles, and she must sense she’s getting close.
“Repeat after me. I, Jessica Elliott . . .”
I roll my eyes, but she presses on.
“Repeat after me. Please. I, Jessica Elliott . . .”
I cross my arms in defiance, but I repeat her anyway.
“I, Jessica Elliott . . .”
“. . . understand I can’t change my decision . . .”
I repeat.
“. . . that I cannot change the past . . .”
Again, I repeat.
“. . . and that I have to stop dwelling on what-ifs. Because what if I’m wrong?”
I focus on Zoe’s eyes, and as mine widen, a smile takes residence in her expression.
“. . . and that I have to stop dwelling on what-ifs. Because what if I’m wrong?”
She lets out a long exhale and speaks. “I. Forgive. Myself.”
I mimic her breathing, but I add a few more breaths, gearing up to utter her words. Zoe nods, waiting for me to speak.
“I. Forgive. Myself.”
Zoe beams. “Now believe yourself,” she demands.
“That wasn’t part of the deal. I still need time.”
She narrows her eyes.
“Soon,” I say, and I think I mean it. “But I have to do something first.” I straighten from where I’ve been leaning on the rail, and she backs up to give me space. “I’m sorry, Zoe.”
She squints at me as if to ask, “What do you mean?”
“About what happened with your mom, never asking you about it, and being so wrapped up in my own shit I didn’t take the chance to notice yours.”
“You are pretty selfish,” she teases. But she’s right.
I start ambling back to the front door, my feet finally protesting from the chill.
“I know,” I admit. “I need to make a couple of phone calls . . . and maybe shower away the salt sticking to my cheeks. This place is going to explode soon with the fam.”
My hand grips the doorknob, and as I turn it, Zoe adds, “You know, people don’t just fall out of love. It takes a while to get there. That kind of trust and connection doesn’t go away in a day or even after a major emotional breakdown.”
The pretense of being warm is officially over, and I blow on my hands to keep my fingertips from falling off. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you not to fucking give up on Adam like you did on Bryan. Like you did on yourself. You have someone who wants to be with you, who’s never pushed you away. If I had that . . .”
I know she means Spock, that she must know how it feels to be the one on the outside wishing he’d let her in.
“What if he doesn’t want me anymore?”
Zoe taps her finger dramatically against her chin. “You’re already assuming he doesn’t. How’s it working out for you?”
I mumble my answer under my breath, and Zoe clears her throat. “I didn’t hear you.”
“It sucks, okay? That’s how it’s working out for me. I miss him. I want to hear his voice. I want to see him on the court. I want to lie between his legs on the couch with the warmth of his long arms around me and watch sexy vampires. I want it all, and I fucked it up.”
Zoe’s smiling. I fucked up, and she’s smiling.
“Do you love him?” she asks.
Such a simple question. The answer is simple too.
“Yes. I do.”
“Then tell him all of those things.” She winks. “Unfuck it up. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“He doesn’t want me.”
“Honey, you’re already living the he-doesn’t-want-me life. Anything is better than the status quo, right?”
My smile is weak, but it’s there. “I know. But I’m still scared.”
“Good!” she yelps. “Scared is good. The stakes are high. Means you’ll try your hardest to get your shit together.”
A tiny giggle breaks free.
“Okay,” I relent. “I will try my hardest to get my shit together. Any chance you’ll tell Spock how you feel?”
Her smile is sad, but I can see the glimmer of hope.
“Let him have his six months. And then . . . maybe I’ll raise the stakes too.” Then she claps like a giddy child. “Can we please go inside now? I’m losing feeling in my feet.”
She spins me around and pushes me through the door.
After Zoe closes it behind us, I’m greeted with what must be a fresh pot of coffee brewing, the perfect remedy for an impromptu late-November jaunt with no shoes. I follow the scent, and Zoe follows me. My mom pulls dishes from the cabinet. It’s table setting time.
Our mugs from this morning still sit on the counter, and I refill them both.
“I need a little time to do some things,” I say to her, not meaning to be vague but also not wanting to admit my intentions. If I don’t follow through, I don’t want her to be disappointed in me. I’ll be disappointed enough in myself.
Zoe raises her mug in my direction. “Take all the time you need. I’ll help your mom get the tables ready.” Her smile is knowing. “And whatever you need to do, Jess, I hope it’s something that will give you some closure.”
She turns away after saying this, not leaving space for me to question her or for her to let on she knows what I plan to do. Because I can’t do this for her. I have to do it for me.
I head up to my room, and my breath stops short when I look it at, when I really see it for the first time in these past two weeks, maybe the first time in years.
The lavender carpet is worn but still in decent condition. White trim and molding frame the pale lilac walls, walls still covered in tiny pinprick holes, reminders of thumbtacks that used to hold posters of my favorite Disney movies—Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid, Mulan. Even the bed is the same one I’ve had since I was in middle school. This room is a relic, and that’s what I’ve been holding on to—rel
ics.
I lean against the side of the bed and close my eyes. I give myself two deep breaths to gain focus, and when I open my eyes, I reach for the cell phone on the nightstand.
I never erased his number. Somehow I always knew we’d have to do this. I made myself believe it was his responsibility to give us closure. But it’s always been mine.
My thumb hovers over the green button on the phone’s screen, and I press it.
He answers on the first ring.
“Jess?” His voice is shaky yet hopeful. Man, what some boys can do with my name. I should have known he could do it too.
“Hi, Bryan. Yeah. It’s Jess.”
I listen to his sigh of relief, and then I begin.
22
It’s three o’clock when I make it downstairs, and I’m pretty sure my parents are going to be pissed, not because of the time but because I’m leaving.
My mom, dad, and Zoe are parked in the living room, Mom and Zoe on the couch and Dad pacing behind it.
“Is he starting already?” I ask to no one in particular.
My mom and Zoe acknowledge my question with heads nodding accordingly.
Thanksgiving Day is nonstop football at the Elliott house.
Before I ask what I can do to help, the front door flies open, and my sister and her family come piling into the foyer.
“We’re here!” Liz yells, and then I hear the stomping of little feet all over the hardwood floor.
“Auntie Jessie! Auntie Jessie! Auntie Jessie!”
The oldest of my niece and nephews is Hannah, and at seven years old, she is damn strong, so when she comes barreling at me, ready for me to pick her up, I’m caught off guard and stumble before getting her up on my hip.
“You’re so big, kiddo! What’re we going to do tonight? Any special Thanksgiving games? We can do Thanksgiving Pictionary, or my favorite, Thanksgiving Charades.”
She eyes me warily. “That does sound special, Auntie, but here’s the thing. I don’t really like games.”
She’s going to be a tough one today.
“Don’t like games? What happened to the little girl I visited last year who only wanted to play games?”
She scoffs, and I laugh. I thought I was the moody one. Looks like even at seven she wants to grow up so fast. I wish I could tell her to hold on to being a kid for as long as she can.
“Auntie! Auntie! Auntie!!!”
This time it’s my twin nephews, and each of their three-year-old bodies hangs on to each of my legs. So this is how the night is going to go. I look at the little girl in my arms, the little boys at my feet, and I think how much I want what my sister has.
The wanting hurts because it makes me hope, and no matter what Zoe said outside about Adam, about possibilities, it’s hard to escape the doubt. But I let the thread of hope linger, promising myself that if this afternoon goes well, I might even start to believe it.
Zoe stands up from the couch to get a good look at me enjoying the beautiful babies draped all over me. When her eyes meet mine, she shakes her head. She knows what I’m thinking, but I can’t turn it off with one pep talk.
I drag my niece and nephews to the couch and force my best tickle-monster maniacal laugh. Zoe joins in as my evil accomplice, and the kids go nuts. All three of them take to her, and she is, of course, amazing with them. She’s Zoe.
“So, Auntie Jessie,” Zoe starts. “Since Hannah’s not into games and these little munchkins need to do something to unwind/decompress, how about we all head upstairs to Jess’s room and make a fort?
“Yeah!!!!!”
All three kids go charging up the stairs, and Zoe isn’t far behind. Three stairs up, she stops when she realizes I’m not following.
“You coming?” she asks, and as I open my mouth to explain, there’s a knock on the door.
“Who’s that?” I hear my mom ask as she rounds the corner from the kitchen. “Everyone knows to just walk in.”
She pulls the door open before I can get to it, and I watch first the recognition and then the overwhelming sadness, the same reaction I had when I saw him outside Yu’s.
“Bryan?”
The shock at seeing him keeps her from saying anything else. I look behind me to Zoe, my hand gripping the bannister tight. She steps down to where I am and rests her hand over mine, giving me a reassuring squeeze.
“Mom,” I say from behind her, and she finally stops staring at the poor boy on the porch. “I know everyone is just getting here, but I need to go out for a bit.”
Her eyes shine, but no tears fall. I think of all the times my mom has cried for me, and it only strengthens my resolve. If Bryan and I can reach some sort of closure, I can share that with her too.
“Okay,” she says, her voice soft and understanding. I want to kick myself for thinking she’d be anything but. “Whatever you need.” She turns back to Bryan, whose eyes have been on me the whole time. He shifts his gaze to her. “It’s good to see you, Bryan.” Her sincerity hurts to hear. She misses him, or more likely me with him.
“You too, Mrs. Elliott.” He tries to smile back at her, but he can’t do it without strain.
We didn’t talk much on the phone. I only told him I wanted to see him, that I was ready to say what I should have said more than a year ago, and he agreed without question. He’s more nervous than I expected, but I guess seeing me here, seeing my mom, brings up more memories for him too.
I flip my hand so it’s palm up beneath Zoe’s and reciprocate her squeeze. “You gonna be okay if I go? I won’t be gone too long. Promise.”
“Go,” she says. “And don’t come back until you’re ready.”
I pull my hand from her and step toward my mom. Leaning in, I kiss her on the cheek and whisper, “Thank you.” I grab my coat from the closet and join Bryan on the porch.
***
“Thanks for coming,” I say to him as I pull the door shut behind me.
“Thanks for calling,” he replies, and we walk down my porch steps to his car, something I’ve done so many times before, but never has it felt so much like good-bye.
Bryan doesn’t ask me where to go, and I don’t offer any suggestions. I figure we can drive and take it from there.
“Can you believe we lived this close to each other all throughout high school but never knew each other?” I try to break the ice once we start moving.
I see the hint of a smile in his profile, and my shoulders release a drop of the tension they’ve been holding.
“Rival schools in the same district. We would have been doomed.” His smile fades. “I’m sorry, Jess. I don’t know how to do this, how to make small talk with you. Too much is left unsaid. I don’t want to fill it with bullshit.”
My stomach lurches, and I feel the familiar urge to run. If I wasn’t in a moving vehicle, I probably would. But I need to be done with that now and face what I haven’t faced for over a year.
“What do you want to fill it with, then?” He’s right. I know he is, but I can’t help sounding defensive. I have no game plan. I know we need to do this, but it was wrong to expect him to make it easier for me when I’m the one who’s made it so hard.
He sighs, and with the slowing of his breath I note the car slowing as well. I’ve been watching him so intently, hoping for some epiphany, that I haven’t paid any attention to where he’s been driving.
We stop at the park only blocks from my house. He must have been weaving through the neighborhood contemplating whether or not this would be a good idea, this place where we had our first fight and where he also told me he loved me for the first time.
***
It was a stupid argument but one I still thought was warranted. We’d been dating six months, and on a weekend we were both home and spending Saturday night together, Bryan got a text from his ex that sounded more sexy than exy. I only saw it because his phone was propped in the cup holder between us. I may have overreacted since I knew he’d had nothing to do with her for months before we even started dating, but I
made him pull over, and then I stormed out of the car. He followed me to the swings and knelt in the wood chips in front of me, untangling the chains when I tried to spin away from him.
“I’ll change my number,” he joked. “I will reprogram all my contacts into a new phone if it will make you feel better that she can’t drunk text me at random a year after we’ve broken up.”
I held my ground by placing my foot on his knee and pushing him gently to his ass, but he wouldn’t engage in the argument. Instead he laughed.
“Why doesn’t it bother you that I’m angry?” I asked, more upset he wasn’t fighting back than I was at the stupid text.
“Because,” he started with annoying confidence, “I’m not worried about a damn text when the girl I love is right next to me. It’s hard not to smile when you’re in love with someone.”
I remember fighting my own smile and trying to stay pissed because he was right. No matter how mad I was, I couldn’t fight it for long, not when I was in love with him too.
***
The car rests in park, but he stares straight out the windshield.
“I still say you cheated in that fight.”
He laughs, and I breath out a sigh of relief. “Did not,” he teases, turning his head toward me.
“Did too!” I insist. “Telling a girl you love her for the first time trumps any and all arguments. It’s in the rule book.”
I’m stalling, and he knows it, but he doesn’t push me. It’s cold out, but we’re both wearing coats, so I decide to chance it, hoping for closure where I found my first love. I open the door and climb out, saying nothing as I walk toward the swings.
I close my eyes and twist back and forth, a pendulum swinging left, right, and left again. It feels like minutes before I hear his car door close and then the slight creak of weight placed on the swing next to mine. My toes pivot in the wood chips until I know I’m facing him. When I open my eyes, his swing twists in my direction so he faces me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. Two small words, and all this time I made myself believe he owed them to me.
His eyes go wide. “Jess, I never wanted an apology from you.”
The pain in his voice brings me back to that week. I shake my head.
“But you deserve one. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a mess. Have been for a long time.”
