by Jay McLean
He steps closer, his arms crossed. “It’s a group for young adults who’ve overcome some form of tragedy. She says it helps her.”
I’m not exactly sure why he feels the need to tell me any of this but I take it in, as much as I physically and mentally can. “Is um… Aaron—is he deaf or…?”
Martin shakes his head. “No. His ex-girlfriend was, though. That’s why he learned to sign. And that’s how he was able to teach Becca and it’s how they communicate.” He exhales loudly. “She passed away in a car accident. He was driving. Hence the therapy.”
I nod, not knowing how else to react.
He steps closer again, his threatening demeanor relaxing a little. “I’ve thought about this moment a lot since Becca moved in—what I would say to you if I ever got the chance. Truth is, I don’t know how to deal with any of this, Josh. I can look at you as a punk kid who hurt my daughter, and that side of me makes me want to punch you in the face and tell you not to contact her again because I can guarantee you she didn’t sleep a wink last night. Then I see you as a dad, and that part of me hopes I can reach out to you and you’ll understand what I say next…” He takes a breath. And then another. All while I pray for the ground to swallow me whole. “She’s doing better. A lot better than when she moved in. The therapy helps. She seems to like college and likes this area, and I think she even likes me. As a father, you should know what it feels like—this need to protect your child—so I’m telling you this because she’s gone through enough in her life that I couldn’t protect her from, and now I need to do that, Josh. I need to make sure that she keeps taking steps forward.” He gives me a once over before saying, “Unfortunately, I don’t think that you being in her life is going to allow that.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, his words clearing my mind, each one seared into my memory.
“I don’t exactly know what happened to you guys,” he adds. “But I do know the reason she went to see you yesterday is because it’s on The List.”
Looking up, I raise my eyebrows. “What? Like a bucket list?”
“Yeah, Josh. A bucket list of fears.”
3
—Becca—
“I’m just going to make an assumption here and tell me if I’m wrong, Becca,” Aaron says, glancing at me quickly from the driver’s seat. “Your interview with Josh last night didn’t go well, or something happened, and you had to do it again?”
I look down at my hands and stay silent. Because silence is all I can give him.
“It’s just that I’m finding it hard to come up with any other reason as to why you were with him this morning.”
I grab my phone from my bag and type away, then hit speak and wait for the speech to come through his car speakers. “He just showed up at my door. I wasn’t going to tell him to go away. It would’ve been rude.”
“Rude?” he asks incredulously. “What’s rude is showing up at your house when he has no business to do so.”
I watch him a moment, surprised by his tone. He’s never spoken to me like this before. My shoulders drop with my silent sigh. I lower my gaze and focus on my phone. “I don’t know what you want me to say, but I don’t deserve the way you’re talking to me right now. You’re trying to make me feel guilty or apologize for something, when I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Aaron pulls into a spot in the church parking lot, then turns to me, his bright blue eyes on mine. “You’re right,” he says, his face clear of a definable emotion.
I wait for him to continue and when he doesn’t, I have Cordy say, “I’ve been open with you throughout this entire experience.”
“Experience?” he asks, his face scrunched in annoyance.
I roll my eyes and tap away at my phone. “You know what I mean. Don’t be an ass. I gave you plenty of chances to tell me you were against it, and you never did.”
“You don’t need my permission, Becca,” he says softly.
“But I wanted it, Aaron. Not your permission but your support, and I thought we were in the same place with this.”
“We are,” he says, reaching over and gently taking my hand. He leans forward, his lips soft against my forehead. “I’m sorry.” Then he dips his head, his nose touching mine and I know what he wants, I’m just not ready to give it to him. I pull away and point to the church where the group therapy sessions are held. I mouth, “Late.”
It’s hard to watch the disappointment and frustration take over him, but I’m not willing to succumb to the pressure of what he wants versus what I need. And right now, I need to sit in a room with people whose lives are just as fucked up as mine had once been.
Once out of the car, my phone chimes with a text.
Unknown: Why didn’t you tell me about him?
My feet falter, just for a moment, before I gain the courage to write back, my thumbs sweaty from the sudden panic I feel.
Becca: Because it’s not relevant. Besides, you never asked.
His reply is immediate.
Unknown: You’re right. I should’ve asked. I thought maybe you’d be stuck, like I am, spending the past year unable to move on. But I’m glad you have someone who sees you, Becs.
I read his words, over and over, the panic I’d felt turning to pain. I blink hard, pushing away the tears threatening to fall.
Unknown: And you have my new number now. So let me know if he breaks your heart, I’ll fly right over and break his legs. ;)
A smile spreads across my face, completely unexpected. But also not. Because that’s the thing about Josh, he makes me feel. In two simple texts he managed to break me and heal me.
“You coming?” Aaron asks, standing by the door of the church.
I’m one foot in the building when my phone sounds with an e-mail and I’m reminded of the lie I’d told Josh about not following his success. Because as I look down at my phone, at the now open e-mail alert for none other than Josh Warden, my heart shatters and the world around me turns black. “Josh Warden, favorite to take out St. Louis Skate Tour, withdraws from event unexpectedly.”
—Joshua—
My best friend Hunter answers his door in nothing but sweats, holding a baseball bat. He’s never played baseball in his life, but it’s a valid reaction to someone knocking on your door at three in the morning without so much as a text. I’d switched off my phone right after I called Chris to tell him I was leaving. I didn’t want to deal with what I knew was coming.
Hunter lowers the bat when he sees me with Tommy asleep in my arms, and steps aside to let us in. Chloe comes down the stairs, her hair a mess. Without a word, she takes Tommy from me, kisses my cheek, and then goes back upstairs. “Aunt Chloe?” Tommy whispers, his head resting on her shoulder.
“Yeah, baby, it’s me,” she answers. Hunter closes the door and leads me to his kitchen, switching on the lights as he does. He doesn’t speak as he opens the cupboard and pulls out two glasses, then reaches into his freezer and grabs a bottle of vodka. After filling the glasses, he pushes one across the counter to where I’m now sitting. His gaze searches mine, and I can already tell he knows. He’s aware of where I’ve come from, and he also knows who else lives there He lifts his glass, his eyes apologetic. “To broken hearts and mended souls.”
I down my drink. He refills it. We repeat this twice before he says, “Whenever you’re ready, man.”
I focus on the empty glass in front of me. “I broke her, dude. And it’s not even her heart I’m worried about… I’m pretty sure it’s healed because she’s moved on with some other guy. Aaron.” I spit his name, hating its presence on my tongue.
“I’m assuming you saw her?”
With a nod, I push the glass away and drop my head on my arms. “She interviewed me for her school newspaper.” I wipe my lips on my sleeve and look up at him. “You should’ve seen her, man. She had to have all these things to help her communicate. She types and her laptop relays what she’s written and her…”—I push down the puke—“her boyfriend—he taught her sign language so now�
�”
“He’s deaf?” Hunter cuts in.
I shake my head. “His ex-girlfriend was, or something. I don’t really know. You should’ve seen this kid, man. I guess he’s some kind of athlete at their college and they met during group therapy. I fucking caused her to go to therapy and—”
“Becca’s past was pretty fucked up, Warden,” he says quickly. “And I’m almost positive she needed therapy even before you came along.”
I ignore him and continue. “The kid’s like a perfect poster-child Abercrombie model looking douche-tool—”
“And you’re jealous of his perfection?”
“—and I’m just some punk skater,” I finish, and tap my glass.
He refills it. “Pro skater,” he says, quirking an eyebrow.
“Irrelevant.” I practically inhale the vodka. “And no, I’m not jealous of his perfection. I’m jealous that he’s perfect for her.”
Hunter nods once. “Right.”
I tap my glass again. And again, he refills it.
“And that’s why you left the comp?”
I stay silent.
“Does she seem happy?” he asks, and I sit up straighter, the truth in my answer hitting me hard.
“Yes.”
He lifts his glass. “To perfect poster-child Abercrombie model looking douche-tools.”
“So you’re toasting you?”
He laughs once. “Fuck you, skater punk.”
I tap his glass with mine. “To the girl who chose to be happy…”
4
—Becca—
Journal
I’d never been to church, not until Grams had asked me to go with her when I first moved in. It was everything I expected it to be, but also nothing like I had hoped. I thought I’d walk in and God would know who I was and everything I’d been through. He’d look down on me, and I’d look up at Him and a calm would wash over me. I hoped that He’d somehow make me understand why it was this life had been chosen for me. No such thing happened, at least not from Him.
But when Grams pulled into the driveway and Josh looked up from yet another hole he was digging and he smiled, I felt the calm I’d been searching for. I also felt something else—like the beginning of turbulence. I shouldn’t have ignored that feeling, but I did. Maybe if I chose to grasp on to that instead of the calm, he wouldn’t have taken me on a ride that had me gripping my armrest and struggling for breath.
~ ~
Journal
I’ve been having these nightmares lately. We’re in a small plane—Josh and I. The plane starts to shake and I hold on to the edge of the armrest, my knuckles white from my grasp. “I got you,” Josh whispers in my ear, his breath warming my neck and relaxing me enough so he can take my hand. “I’ll always have you.” He uses his free hand to secure my seat belt. “You’ll always belong to me, Becca.”
That’s the last thing he says before the plane nosedives and crashes into a field.
I always wake up at the point in the dream when I get my camera out and take pictures of Josh’s dead body.
“Morbid” was the word Dawn, my therapist, used to define my dream.
“Morbid” wasn’t really what I was hoping for and I told her that.
She looked at me for a long time and then finally said, “Guilt.”
Guilt was the cause of my constant nightmares. It made sense, I guess, considering I’d spent the two weeks after the competition on the Internet, frantically searching for a reason for his sudden withdrawal. Maybe there was a family emergency, or an injury, or… anything that wasn’t me. Nothing came up. He disappeared. No one could get in contact with him, but his management—his mother—and his agent had come out and said that he was fine physically. It was all I could talk about during my sessions with Dawn. Until one day, she “strongly suggested” that I cancel the e-mail alerts and stay offline. So I did what she said, and I took her advice to focus on classes, focus on building my strength instead of trying to find reasons to excuse my weakness. And Josh, as she said, was my excuse, not my weakness. Whatever that meant.
~ ~
Journal
I spent a good portion of group therapy today listening to Aaron talk about Brandi, his ex-girlfriend, and all the guilt he felt for her death. All I could think about was whether my mother felt guilty for all the shit she put me through, or if she was pissed she didn’t succeed in taking me with her. When it became my turn to “speak,” I typed on my phone and let the words echo off the walls in the small room.
“I hate you.
I love you.
I hate that I love you.”
I was speaking about my mother. I saved the text as Josh.
~ ~
Journal
A couple weeks ago, Dawn found this app and she made me download it. She has the same one on her iPad. It shows her what I’m writing in real time so I can’t delete my thoughts and provide her with something safer. She’s mastered differentiating my truths from my lies based on how long it takes me to respond. I hate the stupid app. I hate it so much that I came home and defied her by looking up all things Josh Warden. Now I hate myself. Good job, World.
~ ~
Journal
My mother took me to get ice cream on my tenth birthday. She didn’t yell. She didn’t hit me. We smiled and we talked and we loved. It was one of the happiest days of my life. The next day, she asked if I’d stolen money from her purse. I told her I hadn’t. She said money was missing and that she hadn’t been anywhere in days. I reminded her of the ice cream. She didn’t believe me. I worked out later that she was drunk during our little outing and legitimately had no memory of it.
I wonder if she remembers her hand wrapped around my throat or the pillow she tried to suffocate me with.
Earlier, Dad bought five tubs of ice cream. We threw one against a brick wall, chucked one off a bridge, took a baseball bat to another, and then ran over one with the car.
“You know it’s your grams’s birthday in two weeks,” he said, watching me from across the kitchen table.
I dropped my spoon into the now empty fifth tub of ice cream and looked up at him.
“Should we go and surprise her?”
Whatever look I had on my face made him laugh—this deep, gruff chuckle that warmed my heart. I reached over to him and grasped his hand, causing his smile to spread. Then I grabbed the worn piece of paper sitting between us and picked up a pen and handed them both to him.
Today, we marked “Ice Cream” off my list of fears.
~ ~
Journal
My dad invited Aaron to come to North Carolina to visit Grams with us. I don’t know why he did this. But of course Aaron said yes and now all three of us are going. I guess Dad assumes Aaron is more to me than he is and I can’t fault him for that. He probably believes Aaron is saving me in some way, and to a degree, maybe he is.
I probably shouldn’t feel as angry as I do about it. Okay, so angry might be too strong of a word, but that’s how I feel. And trapped. I don’t know. But I feel like what he assumed was a kind gesture is having the opposite effect. I feel forced, like I’m being pushed into something I’m not at all ready for.
Or maybe I’m just reading way too much into it.
Either way. Aaron is meeting Grams. Yay.
~ ~
—Becca—
“How long has it been since you’ve seen Josh?” Dawn asks, her gaze dropping to the iPad on her lap.
Just over three months, I type.
“And you think you’re ready to see him again?”
I’m not really sure, but I want to be there for Grams’s birthday. Besides, he’s traveling so much with his skating, he probably won’t even be there.
“Do you want him to be there?” she asks.
I pause, my fingers hovering over the screen.
“Okay, let me rephrase that. Do you think three months is long enough to change how you’ll feel when you see him again?”
I look up at her and shrug.
/> “I’m concerned,” she says, setting the iPad to the side. “I’m worried that seeing him will have the same effect it had when he was in town last. It broke you, Becca, maybe not completely, but it still broke you. And I know feelings were still there, even if you refuse to tell me that. It caused problems for you and Aaron and—”
Anger builds in the pit of my stomach and her iPad sounds, alerting her to the words I’ve begun to type.
You do realize that I’m not here because of Josh, right? I don’t know why everything always comes back to him. He was just a boy.
“Becca, look at me,” she says, her voice soft.
I wipe at my eyes, not wanting her to see the tears. I hate when she does this—when she talks about Josh like he’s poison in my veins.
“Don’t deny yourself the feelings you had for him. All of them. The good and the bad. Because we both know he wasn’t just a boy. He was a boy who at one stage loved you beyond your unspoken words. You deserve to feel that love. And denying that means you’re denying you ever felt worthy of that love. I know you’re here because of the hell your mother put you through, but your mother’s dead, Becca, and nothing we say or do will change that. Josh, on the other hand… he alone has the power to change everything. So I’ll ask you again. Do you want him to be there?”
I stare at her. Right into her eyes, and I try to find a reason to fight her because fighting would be so much easier than hurting. But there’s nothing there. Nothing but sincere concern. So I let the anger fade and welcome the truth that keeps me hostage.
Yes. I want him to be there.
* * *
“Good session?” Aaron asks, leaning against Dad’s car.
I sign, “Same old.”
He smiles as he opens his arms for me. I step into his embrace, but I don’t return it. “I’m really excited to meet your grams,” he says, his mouth so close to my ear, his voice grates on my eardrums. “You ready to go? Your dad and I packed your bags in the trunk when I dropped off my car at your house.”
