There’s completely ignoring the problem. Like when I dodged calls from my parents and Miley while I was popping pills like they were vitamins. Still offensive, but not as disrespectful as the first.
This is the chicken-shit route.
And then there’s withholding information. Lately I’ve felt like, of all of them, this option is easiest. You tell a partial truth, satiate the hunger for an answer, and you move on.
When I came home from Toronto, I aimed for the second option. But after time, my mom begged for an answer.
“How could you leave him?” she’d ask.
And I hated the accusatory tone. She’s my mom; she’s supposed to be on my side. Until I reminded myself that she had no idea who Elijah was anymore.
Just like, for that brief period of time, she had no idea who I even was.
So, I told her we’d been arguing too much.
A partial truth; we’d been arguing like complete animals during the comedown, smashing shit and screaming at each other until one or both of us shoved more pills down our throats.
But I couldn’t tell that to Milagros Morales. She’d either drag me to the nearest church to be exorcised or to the nearest mental institute to be evaluated.
And this is what happens when you don’t tell your parents everything. They still see the boy in him that no longer exists just like they still see their little girl in me. They don’t know the mountains we’d pirouetted on or the valleys we’d brawled in.
They just know that he was once good enough to bring home to them; that they always hoped I’d end up with the boy who always looked out for their precious daughter.
And that’s the story of how Elijah ended up knocking on the front door of my new apartment four weeks after I moved in.
He’s leaning against my doorframe, sheets of paper fisted in his hands. At first, I have no idea what they are.
Is he here to sue me for something?
And then it dawns on me, just as he speaks.
“I read every word.” He stares at me with clear eyes and a clenched jaw.
With a body vibrating an energy I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Need.
“It’s too late,” I whisper, trying to talk myself away from the ledge.
This is not a partial truth or withholding.
The way my eyes start to fill tells me this is a lie.
“No, it isn’t.”
“I don’t trust you,” I choke out. It’s like the foundation beneath me is crumbling. The fort I built around myself is being torn down by the vulnerability in his eyes.
He is so familiar, and he is here.
And I can’t fight him without the distance shielding me. Without the idea of him not wanting me to bolster my confidence that we are over.
But how could I trust him?
“I’ll take a drug test. I’ll do whatever you want,” he says.
I shake my head, willing him to disappear before I do something stupid like let him back into my life. And into my apartment.
It’d take more than burning a little sage to get the stains of heartbreak out of the walls.
“I’ll do it every day, I don’t care,” he says.
“Why would you want a life like that?” My chin is trembling and when he slides his fingers along my jaw, my lips part.
My fists are clenched at my sides, but he pulls me in, against his body before letting the papers in his other hand fall.
“You wrote our love story. I’m sorry I forgot it.”
His lips coming toward mine bring me back like a time machine.
Goddamn it, he takes me back to senior prom.
To slow dancing at the Sadie Hawkins dance, my heels bringing me closer to his lips. Back when he wasn’t mine to kiss.
To our very first kiss.
To the feeling that maybe we’d get something right for once, the children of day and night.
But luck and timing were cruel things then and they likely would be now.
“I love you, Teófila.”
I can’t say it back. I can’t give him that power again.
“You have to know I do. Listen to my songs, for fuck’s sake.”
My lips stay parted, but they make no move to utter words.
I let him kiss me and I kiss him back.
But I make no promises.
Because they fucking hurt when they’re broken, like bone.
I didn’t heal right from the first fracture. What kind of person would I be if I subjected myself to the same fate twice?
And I knew this time, I wouldn’t just fracture. I’d break.
Unevenly, with jagged little shards splintering into all parts of my life.
But I am addicted to the pain.
So I let him inside.
39
PATIENCE, MY ASS
A ll you need is patience to make the perfect pot of rice.
My dad could take one bite and tell me where I went wrong.
Too much water.
Not enough water.
You stirred it too many times.
Not enough sofrito.
Maybe that was how he’d learned to raise me. With enough balance of space so I could become as soft as I wanted to be and as hard as I needed to be.
And maybe that’s a balance I needed to learn with Elijah.
I had to learn to let him go in order for him to come back, better than ever.
He’s asleep beside me, in a bed I swore he’d never be back in.
On my nightstand sits a drug test that displays results I’d prayed for. There are no drugs in his system.
Not even marijuana.
“I can feel you thinking,” he tells me.
When he rolls over to place his arm over my breasts, I sigh.
“Do you even remember a time when this was easy?” I ask him. I don’t. Our love is such a struggle story.
“Those first few weeks after prom,” he says. “Before…”
Say it, I want to beg.
I settle with whispering those two words.
“I…I uh, never thanked you for calling your dad,” he says.
Isn’t it funny how such weighted words can drift off as if they mean nothing? I’m surprised by the sting of tears in my eyes.
“It was so hard, sitting in the car while it was happening,” I say.
“I’m glad you did. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you’d gotten hurt.” His free hand scrubs over his face. “And I think that’s what scared me most. Being in a powerless position when all I wanted to do was make sure I could protect you from what you were seeing.”
His hand is still on his face and I clear my throat, ready to finally have this conversation, even years after the incident.
“What’ve you been feeling?” It sounds like the stupidest shit I could’ve asked. But I want to understand him; all of him. Even the worst parts.
“Do you think, as a black man, I’m allowed to feel anything?”
And I imagine a world where my right to feelings are taken from me. If I’d been wrestled to the ground by the very people who were hired to protect my rights. If I never received an apology or any indication that it would never happen again.
“In this country, I’m only ever seen as angry. Or dangerous. Or some object of sexual curiosity. Men want to destroy me, and women want to use me,” he says.
And you’ve been numbing these thoughts ever since.
“I’m sorry it happened to you,” I say.
Elijah turns over and buries his face in my neck, so his next words are muffled. “I know you are. But you aren’t the one who should be.”
All through my depression, through my cutting, he’d been there for me. I so deeply want to return that favor. “You and I have the same monster, you know. The difference is, I don’t force mine to wear a mask and do a dance.”
I used to try to cut it from my body while you try to sedate yours.
“Well, we all can’t be you,” he retorts, picking up his head.
<
br /> I’m taken back by the phrasing, to when he first told me about his feelings for me.
“What’s it going to take to fix this?” I ask.
It’s a question I’ve held in the very back of my mind; one I figured I’d never get to ask him.
“Patience,” he answers.
He makes it sound so simple, but I’m not the girl I once was. I know it’s going to take a shit ton more than just that.
ELIJAH WENT BACK on tour last week, promising me before he kissed me goodbye that he’d be back as soon as he could.
For the first two days, he called. He didn’t call the third, but he called on the fourth, just before going to sleep.
I haven’t heard from him in two days, but I reason that he’s just busy and he’ll call me when he can.
I try to ignore the feeling of dreaded déjà vu and throw myself into my work, catching up on some freelance writing—boring shit—to pay the bills while I wait to hear back about my short stories that have been getting rejected by anyone I try to sell them to.
Dreams are hard work, but I prefer them over any of the lives I could’ve lived.
In the meantime, the lack of food in my apartment has me out in the wild, praying I don’t see anyone I went to high school with.
The grocery store is cold, and I immediately regret going in braless. I’m such a lazy shit most days, but it’s even worse when I’m on a deadline. Now I’m stuck braving the world and buying sustenance because I hadn’t planned my hibernation well.
I’m grabbing a tub of raspberry sorbet when I hear Elijah’s voice singing over the speakers in the grocery store.
My lips perk up on their own.
I’m still reeling.
I murmur with the music, mouthing the words and humming along here and there. And when I’m in an empty aisle, I even sway my hips a little.
These are the songs about you.
And it’s like I’m right back in my bedroom with my face in his hands as he kisses me back to life from mere existence.
My basket is nearly full when I make my way to the self-checkout.
The chains keeping the area empty make me roll my eyes.
“Why have these here if no one can use them?” I question, my voice low and my eyes on a full roll when I turn away to wait in line to checkout.
All the lines have more than two people in them, so I chance the one with people who look like they’re only purchasing a few things. One of the guys looks at me, down at my chest, and back up with a smirk.
At first, I think he’s being a pervy fuck, but I look down and realize I’m wearing my Harry Otter shirt. The otter has a robe and glasses on, with a wand in his flipper.
I thought it was clever. Sue me.
I offer a small smile and glance away.
My eyes land on something that turns that smile into a distant memory.
Elijah is on the cover.
And it isn’t just him.
There’s a woman on his arm.
A fucking supermodel.
And words, staring back at me, taunting me.
Elijah Includes Model Serena Wolfe in His Latest Bender
What. The. Fuck.
I yank a copy from the shelf and flip open the magazine for more information.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I whisper. I can sense eyes on me, and when I look up, everyone in front of me—including the cute guy who checked out my shirt—is staring at me.
But I’m nowhere near giving a shit about them.
The magazine places him out on the town in Los Angeles two days ago.
There’s that tiny fracturing moment when they’re pictured getting into a car together.
But the real break comes when I see the picture of them kissing.
The same women I judged for staying with men who cheated…
I was so naïve.
I was them and they were me. Maybe I left at first and maybe they didn’t.
But that’s how it starts, isn’t it?
We all think we’re so powerful.
We think we can love past pain.
That we can force the caterpillar to molt into a butterfly.
We think we are capable of such things. Elijah humbles me.
He reminds me that I am the master of none.
And I’m so grateful for the lesson.
I am a reed in the wind; strong enough not to break, but flexible enough to bend when I need to.
Without a thought, I snap a picture of the magazine and send it to Elijah.
After blocking his number, I drop the basket of items on the floor and book the next flight into JFK before forwarding the info to Miley.
Me: I need you.
Patience, my ass.
40
BEST FUCKING FRIEND
M iley doesn’t bother coming to the airport to get me. She sends a car and waits until I get to her apartment before railing on me, her voice sounding the shrillest it’s ever been.
“When the fuck are you going to start being honest with me, T?!”
I’m watching her pace while sitting on the couch, surrounded by my luggage.
“You didn’t tell me he randomly showed up trying to get back in your good graces!” she shouts, pointing her finger at me.
She looks hilarious in her silky pink pajama set, her hair sticking up in the back.
“Of course I didn’t tell you because what could I say? What the hell could I say to you about it, Miley?”
I would’ve told her once everything felt strong enough to withstand her initial wrath. Once I had enough to ease her fears and mine.
But we hadn’t even lasted a week.
“How am I supposed to make sure you don’t break your own goddamn heart if you keep things from me?”
Her arms are spread, and I want to run away from her.
I came here to make sure he doesn’t show up again. Not to be yelled at.
“That isn’t your job,” I say, making sure the words are said clearly.
I’m my own savior.
“No, that is my job, because you can’t be trusted when it comes to him.”
I bury my hands in my face and try to wish her away. Silent tears hit my thighs and Miley sighs as she sits in front of me and pulls my hands from my face.
“Fuck him,” Miley announces, gripping my hand in hers.
“It isn’t that easy.” I pick my head up and look at her.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because we aren’t just two people who only knew each other romantically. What happened is only a fraction of who we are, the smallest part.” I look down at my lap again, my eyes welling with fresh tears. “He’s my best friend. My person. He has been for the longest time.”
“I’m your best fucking friend.” Her voice is edging on frustration. “You are loving and remaining loyal to a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore, babe.”
“What do I do now?”
“I mean, you can stay here,” she says.
“Yeah, but I can’t stay forever.”
“You could.” Her lips tilt upward when she sees my mouth twist. “But you don’t want to.”
“I just…I have my own life I’m trying to build.”
“I get it,” she tells me, getting up and pacing the room again. “Thank goodness you work remotely, or you’d be fucked.”
I hum in agreement, trying to form a plan in my head.
“You know that man had the nerve to call me?”
It’s like ice down my spine.“He did?”
“Yeah, and I told him to go straight to hell.”
I know I’m not ready to see him. That I’ll fall for anything he tells me. It’s written in the way I’m dying to ask her what he said.
“You can take the couch while you’re here. I called your parents and told them you got here safely, but if Elijah called to keep the info to themselves.”
She grabs one of my bags and tucks it into the corner of the living room before sitting next to me on the
couch.
“What did my mom say?” I ask her.
“She asked what was going on, but I told her you’d fill her in.”
“I don’t want them to hate him,” I whisper. I don’t know whether it comes from hope or love.
Hoping that one day, we might end up together.
Or loving him so much that I want to protect him.
“Yeah, but you can’t save him from everything, T.”
Miley is my best fucking friend, all right. Dropping truth bombs left and right.
41
A FUCKING HIGH SCHOOL REUNION
I read somewhere online that the average person has met their soulmate by the time they’re twenty-one years old.
I don’t know how true that is.
But things aren’t looking so good for me.
It’s been two weeks that I’ve been on Miley’s couch. I’ve run out of reasons to stay, so I have my return flight booked for the next day.
But before that, Miley wants to take me out on the town—New York City style.
The primping and pampering remind me of the time we went to the Sadie Hawkins dance together. She chuckles when I tell her, and I smile at the way her blonde hair swings in time with her laughter.
“I wish you lived near me,” I say, sadness on the coattails of my fond memory.
“I could never go back, so it looks like you’ve got to move here.”
I don’t say no. But I don’t say yes either.
And I certainly don’t say yes to the outfit she has laid out for me on her bed.
“I know my body is short, but that’s a fucking band-aid, Miles,” I tell her, shaking my head. “No way will that cover my ass.”
“Welcome to the city, biiiiitch,” she tosses over her shoulder as she exits the room.
I’m still staring at the outfit, my eyes nearly bulging.
“Take this and watch how much better you feel about it,” she instructs me while handing me a shot.
I haven’t had a drink since…
The fuzzy memories assault me. Of glass breaking and screaming at each other.
“I promise it’ll be okay.”
I stare at her after she says it.
It will be. It has to be.
And I take the shot.
My nails are done, my hair is trimmed, my eyebrows threaded, and my lady parts waxed.
Teófila’s Guide to Saving the Sun Page 19