“John, I’m serious. I love you. This is certainly a shock, and I’ll admit it has been on my mind these past few weeks. But nothing has changed. What Corbin and I had was special, yes, but it was decades ago. We haven’t even talked. There’s nothing left of us except memories. I’m with you, and I’m happy. You came into my life at a time when I had given up on love, and you reminded me what it was all about. You showed me what it felt like to truly share your life with someone. How could you even question if anything would change? I love you, John, and only you.” I grasped his hands firmly to solidify my words. He nodded, leaned across our plates of spaghetti with caution, and planted a kiss on my cheek.
“Do you think he’ll come to see you?” John further inquired. I paused, not sure what to say.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It’s been so long. We’re different now. He’s different. I think he’ll want to respect that my life has moved on. But it doesn’t matter, even if he did try to see me. I love you,” I delicately said, putting great emphasis on the final phrase.
“I love you, too. Please don’t be afraid to talk to me about this, okay? I’m here for you.” And with that, the case was closed. We went back to shoveling in our pasta, sipping on our wine, and talking about the latest to be sent home on our favorite reality show.
But that night, after John had fallen asleep in our bed—a rare occasion, since it was one of his few days off during the month—I lie awake thinking about John’s question. I had been honest with him at dinner. I did love him. I hadn’t talked to Corbin in decades. But had I been completely truthful? Was our love truly a figment of the past? Was our love reduced to just memories?
A few months ago, I would have assuredly said yes. But now, questions bubbled in the back of my mind. Less than a year ago, our love was impossible, cut off by prison walls and time. Now, though, things were about to change. How would I fare knowing that Corbin Jones was again in the land of the living? Would things with John change knowing that Corbin was just a few minutes away? Did I want things to change?
And so began months of pondering, of torturous memories, and of falling back in love with the way things used to be.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: March On
Corbin
I step into a pair of pants and a T-shirt that seem to still be in style, slap on some of the deodorant that is still on my dresser, and head back to the bathroom to find some grooming tools. It was happening. After all of the sorrows and doubts, it was happening. I was going to see Emma again, face to face, the only bars between us the bars of time.
What would she look like? Would she be happy to see me? Had she read my letter? Question after question unsteady my shaky mind and heart. Was I making a mistake? What if she refused to talk to me? Then again, what did I have to lose?
I run a comb through my rugged hair, collect the remaining water droplets from my warm skin with the towel, and peer through the fuzzy reflection of the vapor-coated mirror, deciding that it’s “go time.”
On my way down the stairs, I glance at the clock. It’s late. Really late. I almost talk myself out of the trip. Only a crazy man would haul himself onto the steps of his ex-girlfriend’s house at this hour after so many years. Plus, what if her husband is home? Wouldn’t that be a story for the media: Ex-convict proven innocent shot dead on steps of ex-girlfriend’s house the day of his release. Okay, so they would have to improve the title, but still, it would be a hell of a tragic ending to a tragic story.
Despite my fears, the prospect of simply going to bed and forgetting about my plan seems out of the question. I have waited long enough to see her. No matter what the meeting brings, whether it be the wrath of an angry husband or the tears of a broken woman, I have to find out. Tonight. The heart wants what it wants, no matter how irrational or harebrained the scheme is. So I head into the living room to tell my dad where I’m off to, feeling a bit like an irrational adolescent asking permission to be out past curfew. The old man is snoring in his chair, mouth open, ready to catch any bugs or dust that float by his sopping-wet mouth. I head to the kitchen, rummage for some paper, and leave a note. Then it’s out the front door to her house.
It’s about an eight-minute walk to my destination. Dad had mentioned in passing a few months ago that Emma now lives in the old Holderbrook’s place. The Holderbrook’s place was quite famous in town because at Halloween every year, the elderly couple gave out whole candy bars and dollar bills to all of the town’s trick-or-treaters. It was a trick-or-treater’s paradise and remembered as a fond childhood memory by all. Now it was where Emma lived, adult Emma, achieving-the-American-dream Emma. I tried to picture her swinging lazily on the front porch, sipping lemonade in the summer. Did he sit with her? Did they joke like we once had, sharing secrets and dreams? Did he bare his soul to her on the back deck as they glanced at the stars? Did they have a tree that was all their own? Did he appreciate her for both the woman she had been and the woman she now was? Or was her past a mystery to this new man, a cloud which he didn’t wish to float through? It was hard to imagine facing this “new” Emma, an Emma separated from the girl I once knew by twenty-eight years. Would time change her so much that I wouldn’t recognize her? Was she still the girl I had once known and loved? How much of the old Emma had been shattered by this cruel game called life? I ache to know the answers to all of these questions, but fear I might not like what I find out.
After all, for the past twenty-eight years, I have preserved an image of Emma. To me, she is still that brown-haired girl who is hesitant around nature or anything involving coordination. She loves books and learning but loves to laugh even more. She is the girl who is rational and levelheaded but can be prodded into a looser character. She is the girl who only eats grape jelly on her pancakes, who orders rainbow sprinkles on her ice cream, who reads Wuthering Heights at least once a year. She is the girl who typically wears jeans and an old T-shirt, but looks better than any other girl I knew. She is the girl who I had shared everything with, from the deaths of my sister and mom, to my first kiss. She is the girl who captured my true self, who made me want to be better. She is the girl I saw myself walking hand in hand with through life.
For me, that image had stagnated because of my circumstance. While most relationships weather the difficulty of change, I hadn’t been given that chance. Instead, I had preserved Emma like an Egyptian queen, carefully constructing the details so that everything was perfectly mummified in my mind. It had gotten me through the rough times in prison and helped me appreciate our relationship. I knew it wasn’t realistic, that people change. But at the time it didn’t matter, because I would never see the day we reconnected. I would never have to endure the shock of seeing the “real” Emma, transformed by time and life’s realities.
But that was about to change.
Now, my carefully constructed picture of Emma is about to be put to the test. Certainly, she will be different. But what if she is so different that she isn’t even the same girl? What if the Emma I have preserved in my mind is a distant shadow of the woman she is now? And on the flip side, what if I’m not the man she remembers me to be? Prison, no matter how hard I fought against it, has certainly morphed me into a different being as well. What if Emma can’t find enough shards of the old Corbin within me? What if she doesn’t recognize me?
And then more practical questions surface.
Will Emma think I am stalking her? Will she be creeped out that I have kept such a close eye on her? Will she hate me for re-entering her life, first through that letter and now in person?
Pull it together, I think to myself. I doubt that wondering how I found her address would be the forerunning thought in her mind. I bet other thoughts will surface before I have to explain myself.
In some ways, I wish I could snap my fingers and be on her porch, waiting only for the door to open. In other ways, though, I’m glad it will take me some time to reach her house. I need this time to relish in the anticipation, to collect my thoughts, and to revi
sit the person I was when Emma was mine.
The years had dealt us some hard blows, to say the least. This was not your typical “go to college, break up, and reunite a few years later as grown-ups.” No, it was much more complicated. The universe had seemingly spun us together in a web of commonalities, tightened the knots between us through memories and unconditional love. Too quickly, though, those threads had been forever snipped by the harsh realities of life and unfair stabs by fate. The love that was so perfect was intercepted by the harsh world. Our life never got to lift off the ground before it was shredded into a million unrecognizable pieces.
And so we went on, fighting against the tailwinds, struggling to find a way to reconcile this new outlook. Both of us faced different realities and struggles. Both of us found different ways of moving on. Yet, in my heart, I truly believe neither of us has completely forgotten the pattern of intricately woven strings that had tied us together before. The remnants of the strings may have been lost in the wind, but the intricate delicacies and interconnections of them would never be forgotten. They had woven us into the people that we were, whether we were together or not. Maybe now, against all odds, we could discover new threads, new patterns to bring us back together. Maybe the story wasn’t erased. Maybe it just took us a lot longer than normal to fill the pages.
Then again, maybe the pages would just be different than what we expected. Maybe the days for our romantic encounters were gone, replaced by a mature version of friendship. Maybe I wasn’t meant to re-enter Emma’s life as a lover but as the best friend I had once been. Although this was less than ideal, I would certainly relish in any role I could play in her life, no matter what that role might be.
True, we were different now. No matter how much I tried to avoid the reality, prison had hardened me. It had taken me in as a young boy, chewed me up, and now spit me out for the world to see. I am stronger. I am more levelheaded. But I am also a lot different from that free-spirited boy who thought the worst thing in life that could happen was that your girlfriend could turn down your proposal. I see that naïve boy in my memories and wish like hell I could be him again. But I can’t. I can’t undo the past decades or the lessons I’ve learned. But maybe, in some strange way, I’m better for it. And Emma’s different, too. Maybe she has weathered this storm a little bit better than I. Maybe she has managed to hang onto some semblance of optimism. At least I hope so. I hope life has been kind to her in ways it hasn’t been kind to me. I hope that with my destruction of our final chain, she has been able to find some sense of peace that has eluded me. I hope she has found true joy.
I saunter on, into the darkness, hoping that somewhere in the near future the sun is about to dawn on a new life. Maybe it’s not the life my teenage self envisioned. But who knows, maybe it’s better than I could have ever dreamed. No matter the case, I march into the blackness, stolid and steadfast, ready to meet fate’s newest set of tricks.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Time for Miracles
Emma
Glancing at the clock, I am shocked by the hour. Have I truly spent this much time doing nothing but reflecting? How could I get that lost in a world that has long since become extinct?
However, I am not truly upset at the prospect of a night that touts a low-calorie burn or plain lack of productivity. It is the prospect that the promise wasn’t kept, that my hopes have died for the reunion I was inwardly awaiting.
I shake my head at my own stupidity. Did you think he would come? I mock myself. It was decades ago, we were kids when he made that promise. He wanted you to move on, and you did. So why would he come? Besides, doesn’t he have better things to do on his first night home than relive some childish memories?
The cynic in me scorns the romantic. Yet, I also know the cynic can’t see something the romantic can—the love we had was real. Yes, we were young, blind to the unfairness and destruction of the world. Our love hadn’t yet weathered the day-in, day-out wear and tear that often tatters a relationship. We hadn’t undergone financial issues and loyalty problems. We hadn’t seen a lot of the world or completely figured ourselves out, let alone our relationship. Nonetheless, though, even now, I can’t help but believe it truly was real.
Sure, there were many memories that confirmed it. I had just spent the better part of a night remembering the first meeting, the first kiss, sled rides, proms, picnics, I love you’s, passion, promises, and tender moments. We had the framework of the traditional romance, even if it was cut short. We had all the elements that categorize a love affair, even if the players were mere adolescents.
Yet, despite all the beautiful moments we shared, despite all of the moments I find myself basking in, there is one that proves to me without a shadow of a doubt that it was love. Was it the promise ring? Was it the first kiss? Was it any of the traditional “signs” that people note? No. In fact, at first glance, the moment that affirms for me the power of our connection is a simple moment shared by two young kids who barely knew what love was. Yet, that single memory, that single moment, has stayed with me through it all, has cast confidence on the power of us, has reminded me every time I think about it that what I lost was a tragedy.
It is the memory that makes me think that someday, somehow, maybe it will all work out because what we had is unmatchable. What we had is a once-in-a-lifetime, knock your socks off, true connection kind of love.
As I finally decide to turn out the lights, I unabashedly grieve for what hasn’t happened tonight as I revisit one more memory from the past, from a time before the tragedy began.
* * * *
Memories
Scarf and mittens securely in place, we shouted a faint goodbye to Mom and Dad as we braved the blustery wind that met us at the front door. Mom, usually up for almost anything, had opted to stay behind, relishing in the warmth of the living room’s fireplace instead of facing the biting numbness of the December air.
Some Decembers in Pennsylvania were worse than others, offering mind-numbing temperatures and blustery snowfall. This happened to be one of those winters. Corbin grabbed my hand as we headed down the block. Despite his gloves and my mittens, I could still feel the electricity that characterized our physical touches. Snowdrifts dampened my sweatpants, but my feet stayed relatively dry in my boots. With every blow of the wind, I questioned our sanity.
“Are you sure you want to go? We could always go back to my place,” I offered, praying he would give in to my idea.
“Seriously?” Corbin said, stopping in his tracks. “And miss this? The annual event of the town? C’mon,” he mocked, grinning.
“We’re going to freeze to death before they even light the thing,” I complained, already shivering from the core.
“We’ll be fine. What’s a little hypothermia? Think of the memories we’re making,” he added, tugging me along over the snow-covered roadways and sidewalks. We still had about ten blocks to go.
“Yes, fine memories they’ll be when we’re found dead in a snowbank, frozen,” I added dryly.
“It’s not that cold.”
“Well, I’m freezing. Even my mother, my crazy mother, thought it was too cold. You seriously have to evaluate that.”
“You’ll be fine. Besides, you have a thick, handsome guy to wrap you up in his warmth if it gets too bad,” Corbin smirked.
I rolled my eyes, although as I did so, I worried they might just stick that way, frozen in place by the icicles that were certainly hanging from my eyelashes.
“Well, we could have at least taken your truck,” I whined, jumping over an especially high drift.
“Nope, that would nullify the experience. You have to breathe in the winter air, feel the snow under your feet. C’mon, admit it, it’s putting you in the spirit,” he beamed. Corbin had never gotten over his fascination with the white stuff since witnessing his first snow last year. To me, it was just an unnecessary source of cold and a pain in the ass. I had to admit, though, that seeing his joy over it had lightened my mood toward the Pennsylvania winte
rs just a bit. But I was still cold.
We dragged on, hand in hand, until my legs felt like blocks of ice. I knew this was just the beginning, as the event would offer little reprieve from the cold other than some hot chocolate which would probably freeze in a matter of minutes. Okay, maybe not, but I doubted it would do much to warm me.
Despite my outward complaints, despite the frosty temperatures, I was happy on the inside. Walking hand in hand with Corbin on a Friday night, our second Christmas together just around the corner—everything seemed perfect in my life. It had been over a year since Corbin and I met, and what a year it had been. We had grown from acquaintances at the art table to best friends almost overnight. We had become inseparable, a package deal, relishing in the warmth of each other. A day without him was a wasted day, in my opinion, but I rarely had to deal with that. We did everything together.
Corbin had brought me out of my shell. Two years ago, I would have laughed at the prospect of attending this event, opting to catch up on some reading or some studying instead of braving the cold. Two years ago, a lot was different. I basked in solitude, opting to read about life instead of living it. Sure, I spent time with my friends, but I realized now that I hadn’t taken time to appreciate the depth of life or the small things around me. It all changed when that crazy guy walked into the art room and asked me what my biggest secret was.
It had been almost a year since the magical Christmas when Corbin had admitted he “kind of” loved me, and ever since then, our relationship had only intensified. When people think of teenage love, they think of sparks and fizzles. Usually, they end almost as quickly and intensely as they began. But not us. Since that confession, our relationship had simply strengthened, matured. We weren’t just lovesick teenagers who held hands and made out in the back of Corbin’s truck. We were best friends, committed to each other and to us. We were a team, navigating the waters of life together, no matter how smooth or rough those waters were.
Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance Page 24