EVOL

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  She chose the place. If it were up to me, we’d be going to some little hole in the wall that served amazing and authentic cuisine.

  Not that the food here wouldn’t be amazing.

  But it would also be really fucking expensive.

  I ordered a Caesar salad because I couldn’t fathom spending more than fifty bucks on a plate that I wouldn’t finish anyway.

  “Quit fidgeting.”

  I stop my perusal and cock my head to the side as I glare at Sabrina.

  “Oh, this is one of those lunches?”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “One of what lunches, Denise? Enlighten me.”

  “Surrounded by all of these rich assholes, pretending to be like them.”

  Sabrina looks around, ducking her head a little.

  “You could lower your voice a little if you’re going to insult the entire restaurant. And keep the swearing to a minimum.”

  I hear her whisper holy shit under her breath.

  “Fuck, shit, fuck, ass, fuck,” I hiss. “Afraid someone will hear me speaking like this and think you use the same language? Because you do!”

  One of her brows lifts as if she’s amused by my childish display.

  “You done?”

  “Maybe.” I pause. “Probably not.”

  I sit back and call her a fucking poser just as the waitress brings us our food. When her eyes widen, I smile and grab my plate from her.

  “Thank you. I’m really fucking hungry.”

  “Ignore her,” my sister says with an apologetic smile as her plate is placed in front of her.

  I grab my phone while she’s making apologies for me. A few texts from Gavin are looking back at me.

  Gavin: I’m trying to make time for you, but my sister needs me.

  Gavin: Why can’t you understand that?

  There’s this massive part of me that wants to scream through the phone.

  How could someone so short on understanding want the same from me?

  I’m so fed up with my own anger, sick of it.

  I toss my phone down and start stabbing at my salad. Sabrina is silent as she eyes me over her glass of Pellegrino, taking a long swallow.

  “What?” I snap, my mouth full of leafy greens not even nearly drenched in creamy dressing. For such a fancy place, they sure are stingy with the condiments.

  “Killing your salad won’t make you feel better, Denise.”

  “Maybe tossing it on you will, buddy.”

  “Maybe.”

  I don’t speak for the rest of our lunch, letting Sabrina drone on about her work while I nod and finish my food.

  As we walk out, Sabrina having footed the bill, she turns to me, and attempts to casually say, “Yiayia asked about you.”

  Not wanting to get into it, I offer her a nod.

  “I told her you’ve got a lot going on, but you’d come around when you were ready.”

  Sabrina is still walking when I’ve stopped short, only stopping once she’s looked back and seen that I’m standing a few feet behind her.

  “What? What is it?” Her voice edges with annoyance.

  “What else did you tell her?”

  My sister doesn’t realize that, although I don’t spend much time with my Greek family anymore, or any of my family apart from her if I’m being honest, I know how they operate. And I know my yiayia didn’t just leave it at that.

  I spent enough of my younger days in Yiayia’s big, bright kitchen, the scent of food constantly in the air, my little ears picking up every other Greek word. I was exposed to what it was like to be on both sides of their disappointment; both a spectator and a target.

  “I didn’t have a chance to say much. You know how they are.”

  She pushes her sunglasses on her face. It’s cool out and my jean jacket is more decorative than anything. I shiver and want to rip the Ray-Bans off her face.

  “You’re full of fucking shit.”

  “What is it with you swearing today?”

  “I know, right? Usually it’s you!”

  I reach for her sunglasses and she jerks away from me.

  “Why are you acting like a friggin’ psycho right now?”

  “I don’t need my business going through the Greek channels. Or anywhere else, for that matter.” I press my palms together and I feel like I’m praying to something for patience. “I already have to see the judgment in your eyes. I don’t need it from people who’ve never done a thing for me.”

  “That’s not fair—”

  “Oh,” my laugh is without humor, “you want to talk about what’s fair?”

  I start to storm away, toward the nearest entrance to the T. I can hear her heels hitting the pavement as she tries to follow me. But I’m wearing Nikes so good fucking luck, lady.

  Much to my surprise, she catches up just as I pull out my CharlieCard, ready to get on any subway that’ll take me away from her.

  “You aren’t the only person to lose something. We both lost Mom,” she says, a little out of breath.

  I want to lash out and tell her to fuck off about loss. But one look at her flushed face and I just stand there for a beat before continuing on my way, leaving her where she’s standing.

  I have some grief that runs entirely too deep to acknowledge in a moment.

  And then I have a grief that is ever present these days. It stomps all over my conscience like an unwelcome guest. It keeps me up at night, banging pots and pans and slamming doors in my brain. It presses into me when I shower. It touches me when I’m alone, when no one is around to chase it away.

  That grief is twofold.

  The loss of a future I was entirely too close to having and the loss of my happiness with Gavin.

  I lost one and the other came crumbling down.

  I read his text messages again, the sweet ones I have to scroll farther and farther up to get to, while on the subway, feeling hopeless.

  Feeling alone.

  When alone, I’m at the mercy of my grief.

  When did you become so like everyone else?

  Deaf to my pleading words

  Until I’m screaming in your ear.

  Day 376

  The paper under my bare thighs crackles a little as I adjust. My thick blue socks—cerulean, by my guess—peek up at me. They kind of match the hospital gown, though that wasn’t planned at all.

  I hate how sterile this place feels. Sterile of disease and feelings.

  I close my eyes and try not to remember.

  The way the doctor barely looked in my eyes. The only reason I knew what he was saying was real was because I could feel Sabrina squeezing my hand tighter and tighter with every word the man said.

  There’s a knock at the door and I’m out of my nightmarish haze.

  “Yes?”

  A woman pokes her head inside, her brown hair pulled back and her blue eyes wide and alert.

  “Hi, there!”

  I already like her. She smiles and offers her hand as she introduces herself.

  “I’m Dr. Gandy. Nice to meet you.”

  Her hand is warm, and her smile reaches her eyes as she focuses on me, then on the laptop in her hands.

  “Can you just verify some information for me?”

  We go over my personal details as I stare down at my cerulean socks.

  I wiggle my toes, feeling tiny in this room. My shoulders are slumped and it’s like I’m folding into myself.

  Your body isn’t your safe place anymore.

  Places like these were never good to me. Call me a little skittish.

  “Denise?”

  “Hm?” I look up at Dr. Gandy.

  “Your bloodwork came back normal. I just wanted to take a look at things, physically. It’s been a while since you’ve had an exam.”

  I nod.

  There’s nothing normal about me anymore.

  A lone tear slips out and I turn and wipe it away with the back of my hand, hopefully before she can catch sight of it.

  She leans in c
lose and places one of her warm palms on my knee.

  “This is good news, Denise.”

  Was it?

  “Your hormone levels are back to normal.”

  Normal.

  She leans back and starts typing on her laptop and I wonder if she would think anything was normal if it’d happened to her. I wonder why I search for kindness and understanding in others. Could be that I had none left for myself.

  Maybe if I found someone with some, it would inspire my own fountain of kindness to spring. Things were looking rather dry these days.

  Looking for sympathy in strangers is a dangerous idea.

  But looking for sympathy from Gavin was even harder, these days.

  Because he was here . . . but he wasn’t here.

  A stranger could apologize, even insincerely and without a second thought, for my misfortune but Gavin could not even bring himself to feel saddened for the loss of what should’ve been.

  Still. I didn’t want Gavin’s sadness.

  I just wanted him to care about my own.

  More and more, my sadness was a weight dragging us down. I wasn’t who I used to be. And now, neither was Gavin.

  Dr. Gandy listens to my heart and pokes and prods at me while I reflect internally.

  As soon as she leaves the room, I grab my phone.

  Me: Everything came back normal.

  I’m pulling my shirt on when my phone vibrates.

  Gavin: That’s good.

  Good. Normal.

  These relative terms are meant to encourage but . . . they just make me feel like less of a person.

  Everyone else seems to have a grasp on these ideas of everything being okay while I suffer in my own little bubble. There are no good and normal in my hell.

  Having Gavin back from Pakistan did little to assuage my heartache. I wore it on my body, in the rigid steps I’d take, keeping my purse clutched close to my body. In the ache in my back from tossing and turning and finally falling asleep in the early hours of the morning from pure exhaustion. Dark circles under my eyes attested to this. And more often than not, I waited for him.

  For a sign that he cared more than he’d let on these past few weeks.

  After everything, I thought it was he and I in this together.

  But the more time that passed he proved otherwise.

  I pull out my phone once I’m out of the office and under the weak sunlight, the breeze chilling.

  Me: We haven’t talked much.

  I try to soften myself, to make my grief a little more bearable.

  I tell myself that no one would want to be stuck with me right now. That the only reason Sabrina deals with me is because she has to.

  Gavin: What do you mean? I saw you yesterday.

  But we didn’t speak, I want to tell him.

  The type of quality conversation I crave. The kind of conversations we used to have; where questions were asked and answered, and I wasn’t attacked or misunderstood.

  I’m standing at the corner, watching the orange hand telling me not to walk just yet, phone in my hand, right leg kicking out as I think it all over. Cars pass, horns honk, people gather around, waiting to cross the street.

  I know I have to get to work soon but . . .

  I make the calculations; how long would it take; would I be able to make it there and then to work?

  Should I tell him?

  I feel a little high on my impulses. But I crave another hit of whatever energy it is that keeps me coming back for more.

  Just to remind me what it feels like, I think to myself, my eyes closed. Yesterday wasn’t enough after months apart.

  I open my eyes and make a snap decision to head toward the restaurant, hoping he’d be there.

  Wishing even more he wouldn’t be so I could reminisce in peace, knowing that even though he may not be there, he’s still somewhere in this city, as opposed to across the world.

  I figure if I just speed walk the few blocks it’d take to get me to the restaurant, I could still make it to at least two more stores today. I was supposed to have done four, but I had the rest of the week to get to all of them.

  I’m halfway there when I start to lose my nerve, working up a sweat.

  What if he is there? Then what?

  Showing up where he was in the past was never a problem. In fact, I’d always been invited.

  A sign of the times, I suppose. Of the fact that we were no longer where we were.

  I ignore the trepidation building up inside me, with each step I take. Like the closer I got to the possibility of seeing him, the higher my anxiety level.

  What side of love was this?

  I have no time to ponder it because I’m crossing the street and it’s all coming back to me.

  The day we met, the days following, the weeks and months, the laughter and love and sex. A slow smile spreads across my face and as I approach, I’m reminding myself that with everything we shared, the entirety of our story, there was no reason to be afraid.

  I stop just outside, peeking through the glass exterior, hoping to catch a glimpse of him inside. My eyes scan, looking for caramel skin and a head of dark, smooth hair. I’m trained by the image of him in my mind, going through my personal catalogue of Gavin moments. His smile, his eyes when he’s excited, angry, defeated, frustrated with me. It all lives inside my head, perfectly preserved.

  Still, I don’t see him. Only a few people inside, eating. Not one of them familiar to me.

  His family’s restaurant, serving authentic Pakistani food for over six years now, where his sister and her husband had taken over running while Gavin lives in Pakistan.

  Except . . . his brother-in-law passed away a few weeks ago. So, he’s back. For how long? I don’t know. I don’t know if Gavin doesn’t know or just won’t tell me. Then again, there are plenty of things I don’t know.

  But I do know this: Gavin returning to Pakistan is inevitable. His parents want him there, living his culture, helping them in their old age . . . finding a wife.

  My sigh is sad. For me, for us, for the situation. For the dead and dying possibilities between us.

  Just when I’m about to accept defeat and head out, I see him.

  And it’s just like the first time.

  Except I’m not the woman he’s smiling at inside.

  I watch as he brings her a plate of food from the back, something he’d surely prepared for her himself. He speaks to her in that passionate and charismatic way of his, all bright eyes and direct eye contact.

  She smiles and touches his hand, gratitude in her expression. She isn’t alone; there’s another woman sitting across from her. The one staring up at him has dark hair and her skin tone is similar to his and I wonder . . .

  There are only a few steps between me and the door. When I grab the handle, Gavin looks up, his smile still on his face. Until he sees me.

  All of our arguments these past few weeks, all of my hurt, none of it compares to the fact that the pleasure leaves his face at the sight of me.

  I let go of the door and start to walk away just as the woman he was speaking to turns to see whatever’s taken his attention away from her.

  I should’ve gone with my instincts. I should’ve . . .

  Why did I feel like such an outsider in his life?

  Winter is brutally kind to me, attempting to embrace me, not knowing that its icy grip pushes me further into my sadness as I rush to any destination.

  Anywhere but here.

  “Denise!” I hear Gavin behind me and I stop. There’d be no use continuing to walk, knowing he’d just catch up to me anyway.

  And that hidden hope . . . the one that forever hopes he’ll keep me.

  He walks up behind me, beside me, until he’s in front of me, facing me.

  “What the hell was that?” He tosses an arm out to the restaurant, as if I require the reminder. It’d be hard to forget how similar the woman inside looked to Gavin, like she belonged beside him; how peaceful she looked as opposed to the hurric
ane standing in front of him.

  I had no business softening myself for this man. I was tumultuous, a massive emotional storm heading toward him, ruin in my wake, willing him to love every destructive fiber of myself. Even as I promised to bring him to his knees.

  “I could ask the same thing. But I’d ask who that was, instead.”

  My eyes are determined to maintain contact with his gaze, no matter how hard it is. Those eyes that’d looked at me on a hundred different days, a hundred different ways. I’d never seen this look in his eyes before.

  As if I’d made good on the promise to bring him to his knees already.

  I’m not wrong, I’m not wrong.

  His hands are on his hips when he scoffs. The wind is kinder, still, tussling his hair, reddening his cheeks. I realize he’s out here with only a white button-down shirt on.

  A thoughtless follow.

  “Just like that, I’m guilty?”

  “You could always answer the quest—”

  “No, fuck that!”

  I flinch at the volume of his anger. He takes a moment, runs his hands over his face. Hands that once touched me, once brought me to peaks of pleasure.

  “What are we doing?”

  A man on his knees, wondering how he got here; wondering how it’ll end.

  “What are you doing?”

  What aren’t you doing? That’s what I really want to say. I want to scream it at him. I want him to feel the words, deep in his pores, down to the very core of him.

  “Entertaining a guest that my parents suggested I meet.”

  It all sounds so simple.

  So fucking innocent.

  “We’re still in a fucking relationship! Fuck you, Gavin.”

  My breaths are coming out in soft sobs.

  “We’re in a relationship and I went through one of the hardest things in my life. We decided that we’d be together. Why do I feel so alone?” By the end of my words, I’m whispering.

  He presses his lips together and lets out a sound of frustration.

  “What do you want from me?!”

  “I want you to give a shit about how I feel.” My voice shakes under the sheer volume of it and I hate the weakness in it. “How you should be here for me, helping me get past our loss because I didn’t get here alone, Gavin! This isn’t all my fault!”