by Alex Rosa
“Is that her?” he asks.
I nod, forcing him to glance back at me.
“It’s so weird,” he replies.
“Yeah,” I breathe out.
“How are you doing?”
I feel more compelled to answer when he asks me. “With you messing with my head, and dealing with my mom, I can’t say I’m doing fantastic.”
We both release a chuckle, and I give in. I try to remember the days when we didn’t have all the baggage. He was my friend before being my first love.
Reflexively, we stroll over to the couch from opposite sides, taking a seat next to each other in the middle. Normally, I’d put distance between us on principle, but there is this unspoken understanding that dealing with my mom’s death is hard for the both of us. He doesn’t hold my hand or put an arm around me, but with the length of his body just there pressed against me, it’s merely his existence that makes the situation a little bit more bearable.
“I wish I had come home sooner,” tumbles out of my mouth, and I don’t know where it comes from. All I know is, staring at my mom’s ashes makes me wish for all sorts of things, usually involving time travel.
“It’s okay. Your mom understood.”
The tension that I try the hardest to pretend isn’t there resurfaces with a vengeance. Caiden doesn’t know this pain. Being back makes me feel that regardless of all the success, I was still kept in the dark about so much. Who was my mom more partial to protect? Me or Caiden? With me so far away, how can I argue with her decision?
“My mom liked you more than me.”
Why does saying that feel so good when it’s such a terrible thing to say?
“Hailey, she didn’t. She loved you, trust me.”
I shrug, leaping off the sofa, unable to stare at the urn any longer. “She resented me for leaving, didn’t she?” My lips sputter, and I fear it might be the sob I don’t want anyone to see. I move around the couch, pacing the expansive hallway, back and forth, from the front door to the kitchen entrance. “Why didn’t she tell me about anything that was going on here? About you; about our friends?”
I yank my head around to stare at Caiden, who still gifts me a smile of reassurance. It’s a remedy I remember all too well, and the sight is what keeps my voice level. “It’s so wonderful to find out she was so talkative about me to everyone in town, and that she even mentioned my book.” I release a sigh, rubbing at my eyes again. “Did you know she never asked me about my writing? It was always me feeding her news and updates. I felt like I was forcing her, sometimes even boring her with it all. Trying to convince her that I left for a good reason.”
Really, I was probably trying to convince myself more than her.
He shakes his head, rising from the couch but keeping his distance. “That’s not it at all. She probably didn’t know how to express herself. It was obvious she missed you, but I could tell she wanted you to be happy. We were all fragile then, including me. She did support your decision. She was proud of you. I know that much.”
“How can you say that?” I ask. I always wondered if my mom resented me for leaving, and I wondered if I resented my mom for not reading my book or caring enough to ask. She wanted me to stay, to keep the diner going, to keep our legacy alive. I was never supposed to run away and chase dreams.
On our weekly calls we’d only talk about the diner, random customer stories, how her doctor appointments were going, what new show she was into, or I would scold her for her long working hours. But she never gave up any relevant details to me. It felt like an unspoken agreement that we didn’t talk about Caiden and our friends, and I never asked about them because I was scared it’d sound like I thought I made the wrong choice to leave. I wanted to show her I was strong.
He says she kept herself tight-lipped for our protection, but it was because of this constant lack of information that I was terrified of what this place holds for me. It made it hard to come home. It turned home into the land of the unknown.
“She’s the only other person I know who’s read your book,” slices into my thoughts.
My jaw falls slack. “No, she did not read my book. She would have said something.”
He nods, walking toward me. “Yes, she did.”
“You’re messing with my head, Caid.” A sniffle sneaks out of my nose without my permission.
Now with my mom gone, I want to be able to let my resentment go, because it feels wrong, but I haven’t been able to. Yet here he is, dangling emotional freedom from my mother in front of me.
He nods more forcefully this time and walks across the room to the corner bookcase near the stairs. It takes him a matter of seconds to snag a book from the third shelf before he’s heading back toward me. He extends the book out once he’s looming over me.
My hand shakes as I lift it to meet his. I pull the paperback from his hands and there it is, as clear as day, my first edition paperback. It’s not nearly as battered as Caiden’s copy, but it’s still well-used. I blink back my tears. It’s been here the whole time, and I never noticed.
“She really read it?” I whisper. “Why didn’t she ever tell me that?”
“I think your mom didn’t know how to talk to you about it. She figured out what I did, though. We only talked about it once. It was the moment I knew she had read it.” His smile ignites a twitch to my mouth as I listen, enthralled. “One day, I was delivering a package that had arrived at the post office for her, and there I stood in your kitchen, holding this heavy box of who-knows-what; that’s when she asked me something I’ll never forget.”
He pauses, watching me with a comical look as I eagerly ask, “What did she say?”
“She asked me if it was true I’d climb up the gutter on the side of the house and sneak into your bedroom at night to tangle myself up in your sheets.”
I screech a loud belt of laughter as my skin flushes everywhere. “She did not ask you that! What did you say?”
He laughs, too, and the deep sound releases in a relaxed rumble before he says, “Oh, hells yeah she did. I don’t think I had been more embarrassed in my entire life. I almost dropped the box I was holding, but I looked her straight in the eyes and said… Yes ma’am, I did.”
My hands come up to my face, shielding it from him with one palm and my book. “You did not!” I giggle, knowing that he’s enjoying this story way too much.
“I did. Your mom laughed, and then told me to mow the lawn. I didn’t argue at that point.”
We both laugh and laugh, and it’s the best I have felt in such a long time.
I shake my head in disbelief at my own book, knowing now that she read it, even if she never told me. Maybe she was supportive. Maybe she was proud of me. It’s enough to have me not beating myself up as much anymore.
Caiden watches me carefully, reaching out for my hand, and begins tugging me in the direction of the stairs. My good mood dissolves as I yank it back. “What are you doing?”
He chuckles warmly but turns around with a serious stare. “You asked me what I was doing here. Well, I’m really here to help you face the upstairs. I can’t have you sleeping on that old couch anymore.”
My brows knit together at his tone. “Caiden, I’m fine. Seriously.”
“Then why don’t you just go sleep in your old bed?”
It’s a logical question. I strum my fingers against my bottom lip as I try to gather an explanation. I don’t have one.
“It’s complicated. Please, Caid. Let’s just leave it.”
He shakes his head. “No way. You need to face this now or you never will.”
I hate that his words singe my pride. My eyes fall to the floor; I want to move but can’t find the courage to.
It isn’t until I see Caiden’s hand fall into my line of vision that I perk up.
“C’mon, Hails. I’m here to help you get through this. It’s the least I can do.”
I want to tell him that I do want the help, but I won’t. Instead, I let my hand fall into his.
&nbs
p; He leads me up the steps, and it isn’t until we hit the hallway platform that we stop just short of my bedroom.
“Your bedroom first, then your mom’s.”
It’s a cajoling request, but pretty close to a polite demand. It should piss me off, but the fact he cares enough to know I need to be forced lifts the weight of the world off my shoulders that little bit.
“Okay,” I mumble, knowing I can’t turn back.
My palm falls flat against the white wood of the door, and the icy chill that it throws back against my skin has me wanting to run.
“It’s all right, Hailey.” Caiden places his large hand over mine on the door and guides my hand forward as we both push the door open.
A stale, overly sweet breeze hits my face. When I step inside, it’s like I’ve stepped back in time. The sugary smell is most definitely the residue from all of the half-filled bottles of body spray sitting on my vanity, untouched for years. I take another step inside, holding Caiden’s hand securely. He’s less than a step behind me.
I can sense him diligently watching me as my eyes scan over the room, taking in everything I walked away from, all of it right where I left it. The room screams of a simpler time, a good time.
My walls are plastered with happy photos of friends, the same five weirdos I’ve known since the beginning. My eyes dart to my bed, my powder blue down comforter haphazardly thrown over the mattress, dotted with white fluffy pillows. I gulp at the sight but find the memories of Caiden and me fumbling as teens under those sheets twisting around the new memory of Caiden’s story about my mom asking about those sheets all too hilarious, and surprisingly calming to my thoughts.
“I can’t believe my mom blatantly asked you about that bedroom scene in my book,” I blurt out.
He chuckles, and I just love the sight of him in my room, even if he isn’t exactly how I remember him. There’s something about having him in this space with his laughter bouncing off the walls and delightfully dancing into my ears that feels like a slice of normal, or at least a new normal of sorts.
“I can’t believe she did, either. It was the only way I knew she read the book,” he jokes.
I squeeze his hand as I walk toward my vanity mirror, plucking a photo wedged in the frame. A laugh skirts through my lips as I wave the photo at Caiden’s reflection. “I should have written this in my book.”
“What’s that?” he asks, walking up from behind, pressing his front to my back, realizing he’s already staring at me in the reflection, his eyes curious and wanting, boring into mine.
“This photo,” I quip, talking to our reflections, hating that my eyes love what they see and that my skin heats with his body brushing against mine. “It’s from senior prom when my mom chaperoned. What a disaster. She caught you and Brandon trying to spike the punch.” I laugh, and a sniffle tries taking advantage of the moment. I breathe it back, letting go of Caiden’s hand to wipe my nose, my eyes falling back onto the photo. My prom gown was a dark purple sweetheart dress that stopped at my knees. My purple Converse sneakers matched my dress, and so did Caiden’s purple tie. I try for a laugh again, because my mom is standing behind us with what I can now recall as a hilariously forced smile. This was taken moments after being caught, and we were escorted off the premises where Caiden and I got into our own trouble elsewhere. I pull in a deep breath to calm my rising blush.
Caiden laughs, “Holy shit. I remember that. She nearly dragged us out by our ears, but she kept the whiskey for herself.”
My head falls back, pressing against Caiden’s chest, releasing a string of laughter at the fact that is totally something my mom would do.
When I hear the sounds of our laughter twisting around each other after discussing one of my most favorite memories, my eyes begin to water. I tense, straighten myself out as I blink the tears back, wondering why this rush is coming over me. My sudden gulp nearly bounces back up my throat as a sob. I try to keep control. I try for a deep breath, and it must be noticeable because Caiden’s eyes shift to worry as he asks, “What are you doing?”
There’s no use lying.
“Trying not to cry,” I breathe out shakily, still blinking while repeatedly wiping at the corners of my eyes. I don’t want to cry in front of him. Not like this. I save these cries for my morning shower or the last five minutes before sleep. Not in front of people. They make me too vulnerable. They show the world the pain I’m trying to hide.
Caiden takes hold of my wrists, his grip gentle and reassuring. “It’s okay to cry, Hailey.” I shake my head, and he shakes his right back as he tugs me toward my bed, sitting us on the edge as he repeats, “Yes, it is. It’s okay to cry. You need to cry.” He pauses, leaning forward, gifting me a smirk when he says, “I won’t tell.”
I want to smile, but it gives way to what I was holding back. The sob just beyond my lips escapes, freeing everything I’ve been fighting. I lean into his chest, releasing my tears as his arms come around me, encasing me affectionately.
When we were kids and just sandbox friends, I’d tell him my deepest, darkest secrets of playground gossip, and every time he’d say “I won’t tell” with an adorable shake of his big head. Those same words carried into our teens when we finally confessed how we felt about each other; he had chided, “It’s okay to like me. I won’t tell,” as we sat in the bed of his pickup truck at our secret spot. Those words became a running joke in our relationship from that point on.
It’s those three words that convince me that it’s okay to be myself. It’s okay to let go. And it’s okay because it’s Caiden that makes it so.
I’m crying and the tears sting as they fall, but the burning trail they leave is as painful as the tears are cathartic.
After nearly fifteen minutes of Caiden allowing me to cry into his arms, he helps me deal with my old bedroom.
Within a couple hours, we’ve sifted through different items, plucking them from the walls, drawers, and shelves, facing the memories rather than ignoring them.
As we talked through each one, we’d sometimes laugh, or even argue, and every time it felt effortless and fun. As we kept going through each memory, the next one became easier than the last, and even though this wasn’t me directly dealing with my mom’s death, it felt like the first step. It made the house less terrifying and more like home.
It makes it all easier to face.
As we sit on the floor cross-legged facing each other, nearly nose to nose as we argue over the details of where the stop sign hanging over my bed came from and who stole it, I realize it’s the most comfortable we’ve been together in a long while. He’s being the funny, charming, annoyingly witty Caiden I remember, and nowhere near the tempting asshole he was last night. It’s enough to have me almost wanting him to kiss me, especially every time he tugs at his bottom lip. It’s moments like THIS that make me want to give in, not tirelessly tense moments after parties. This is when he has me in the palm of his hand without realizing it.
Caiden’s eyes have also been periodically darting to my lips, but it’s as if we’re both finally showing equal restraint. I think we’re learning that maybe just being around each other is enough, that is, until his phone rings.
There’s nothing remarkable to the sound, but his relaxed, carefree smile fades quickly with hearing it. We’ve been getting lost in the flawless, natural ebb and flow we have.
He rises quickly and shoots an apologetic, frantic look my way. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and actually exits my room to answer. His steps down the stairs muffle his “Hello” into the phone.
The girlfriend. It’s got to be.
