EVOL

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  One last time.

  And may that last time last.

  Day 295

  Today is the day, I tell myself, despite wanting to deny it. I want to reject it and pretend it isn’t happening.

  My eyes open slowly and, when I hear the even breathing beside me, I blink a few times to keep the tears from falling. But it does the opposite and as they fall, a warm hand takes mine.

  “I don’t want to promise you that we’re going to work out. But I want you in my life, Denise. I want you to be here for this massive change.”

  I turn my face to the side and look at him, the morning sun hitting his eyes. They look whiskey brown.

  My beautiful tequila drinker is a liquor all on his own and last night, I was drunk on him.

  I nod and turn into him until I’m wrapped in what we always called the cocoon. His strong arms come around me as I push my face into his chest.

  He smells so good, he feels so warm; this is almost like a dream.

  “Don’t go,” I say into his skin, the words muffled.

  “You told me to go,” he reminds me with a laugh.

  “I know but . . .” I didn’t want to be the one to hold you back.

  It feels like someone is ripping something that felt like everything from me.

  He pushes my hair away from my forehead and kisses me.

  “I fell in love you with you, Denise. It wasn’t expected but, here we are.”

  It’s the first time I’ve heard him say it. Something like this should make me happy, make me want to get up and dance.

  I just cry harder.

  I’m a mess of tears and emotions but he still kisses my face, whispering how beautiful I am, staring at me like he’s attempting to memorize every second.

  Doesn’t he know?

  There’s no memorizing magic.

  “Touch me,” I whisper, even though his arms are surrounding me.

  There’s no confusion between my soul and his. His hands caress my skin before moving between my thighs.

  My sobs are lost against his soft kisses. They start off as soft little presses of love and turn into passionate flames that are only extinguished by cool moments of separation.

  When he hovers over me, I wonder what it’ll be like to go without feeling his body on top of mine. Without his hands in my hair and his mouth on my body.

  All thoughts escape me when he lifts my leg and pushes himself inside.

  This is languid lovemaking, the kind that pushes you to the edge and has you crawling back for more; the kind that drives you crazy.

  “Is this what you wanted?”

  “Yes,” I whisper as I tilt my chin to give him access to my neck.

  This is what I always want.

  Hours later, when I’m in my bed alone, I lie on the sheets we made love on and wait for someone to wake me and tell me that I’m dreaming.

  That he isn’t really gone.

  I know that when I tell you I love you,

  I want you to feel it more than you hear it.

  I love you.

  But I bet you could feel it.

  Day 285

  I drum my fingers on the steering wheel of Sabrina’s car. The apartment building in front of me is scaring the shit out of me.

  To be fair, it isn’t the building itself, it’s a singular man inside.

  But even that isn’t all the way honest.

  It’s the fact that I have a plan for the man inside.

  Maybe it’s the fact that he’s leaving in less than two weeks.

  When faced with an inevitable end, we didn’t let go like we probably should’ve. Instead, we were trying to fit a whole life into stolen moments.

  But it felt a lot like a path scorched by a higher power. And we followed it, near blind, hand in hand.

  Band-Aid, I remind myself. Just rip it off.

  I make my way inside the building and climb the stairs to the second floor. When I knock on his apartment door, it swings open and there he is.

  All beautiful and smiling like I’m the best damn thing he’s seen.

  “Hello there, love.” He presses a kiss to my cheek before stepping aside to let me in.

  Love. Exactly the business I’m in tonight.

  “You’re in a good mood,” I say with a smile as I reach up to scratch his beard. Those lips of his pout just enough to make me want to hold on to him and never let him go.

  “Looking at you, it’s hard not be.”

  I roll my eyes and he grabs my hand.

  “Oh?” I ask. He nods and pulls me in close.

  He laces his fingers through mine and leans back a little, so I can step on his feet. I hum any old melody and he twirls us around, his hand on my back, keeping us together. He steadies me in a way I never knew I was unstable.

  “How was work?” he asks.

  “Fine. There’s talk of shutting down one of the smaller locations.”

  He hums and presses a kiss to my temple.

  “And writing?”

  I jerk back a little.

  “Writing?”

  “You told me it was your dream.” He spins us around. “With me leaving, you’ll have more time for it.”

  I close my eyes and press my cheek into him. I don’t want to talk about him leaving.

  “Speaking of writing . . .”

  I pull away from him and step back. His brows are drawn as he appraises me.

  “Should I be afraid? Is there a pocket knife hidden somewhere?” He grabs my arm and whips me around before starting to frisk me. His own version of frisking, anyway, one hand on my breast, the other on my ass.

  I laugh and pull away, all the while holding up a folded piece of paper between my index and middle finger. The moment he focuses on it, I feel heat on my face.

  “Here,” I say as I hold it out for him.

  He takes it and the sound of paper being unfolded has me looking away before telling myself not to be a chicken shit.

  I want to run from the room, having left all of my honesty on that page.

  But I stay right here and wait.

  He smiles at me and then he starts reading.

  I watch his eyes as they go over the words I’d been holding in since the beginning.

  When he peruses the last lines, his eyes widen.

  All at once, it’s like my heart is beating outside of my chest, filling the room with its incessant thudding.

  It’s all I can hear, not my breathing, not even his silence as he reads the words again.

  While he’s still stuck on the love letter, I turn and rush from the apartment, out of the building, and to the car. Out to escape . . . to breathe? I’m not sure.

  It’s sprinkling outside but I don’t feel the drops. Just the panic.

  I climb into Sabrina’s car and press my forehead into the steering wheel for a moment. When I press the ignition button, I see him standing outside my window. I’m staring at him when he knocks his knuckles against the glass three times and it’s like I wake from a trance.

  I crack the window a little and he shakes his head.

  I start to laugh, that nervous and annoying laugh that dies in my throat when I close the window and open the door instead.

  Immediately, he’s pulling me into him, his hands cradling my face.

  “Do you mean it?” he asks in a patient way that makes me look anywhere other than him.

  The answer sits on my tongue, trapped behind my lips and teeth.

  Isn’t it funny how flesh and bone can imprison magic?

  I don’t want to answer him. I don’t want to say anything; I’d rather the words I wrote speak for themselves.

  So, I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him.

  When I turn to leave, he reaches in the car and turns it off before tossing me over his shoulder and carrying me inside.

  All of the ways I love him are magnified.

  You wouldn’t stop until I loved you.

  And as we sat there,

  You tried to get the proclamation out of me
.

  But you didn’t know.

  You couldn’t know.

  I’d fall in and out of love with you a million ways

  Before I could muster up the courage

  To free the words from my body.

  Day 250

  Toronto is unlike anywhere I’d ever been before, but if I had to place it, I’d say it reminds me of a larger Seattle. A successful metropolitan, booming with efficiency and genuinely nice people.

  We took Gavin’s car and drove out of the country with excitement at our heels. Now that we’re on our last night here, we decided to go on a date. I spent hours in the bathroom, getting my makeup just right.

  We walk through the Toronto streets, heading toward the Italian restaurant we’d decided on for dinner. I glance over at him, my hand in his, our steps in sync.

  As if he feels me staring, he looks over, too.

  “Hungry?” he asks.

  I smile and shrug. This city doesn’t feel dangerous. It doesn’t feel as charmingly dirty as Boston is, and the people everywhere we go, are so much kinder.

  When we step inside the restaurant, I request the table by the door, so I can watch people as they pass.

  “Are you having a good time?” I ask him.

  He takes my hand and starts playing with my fingers.

  “Of course. I’m glad we did this.”

  “Me, too.”

  We both peruse the menu but Gavin never lets go of my hand. Something feels a little somber about it, his features tight with concentration, even when he’s only staring at his glass.

  “What’s wrong?” I finally ask.

  “I’m leaving sooner than I thought,” he answers.

  I want to pull my hand away so that nothing distracts me from the words he says next, but I figure the contact soothes him, so I don’t move.

  “How much sooner?”

  Gavin clears his throat.

  “A month and a half.”

  I pull my hand away and cradle it in my lap.

  “What . . .”

  What does that mean for us?

  “My mother’s getting worse and no one else can take care of her. Fahmida’s husband doesn’t want to go back to Pakistan because their children are so young, so they’ll stay here.”

  So many details are sliding over and around me like water. All I hear is, a month and a half.

  “I don’t understand,” I say with a sob, my eyes scanning the table, back and forth in jerky motions. “You’re supposed to just stop your life? Ruin your life to go to Pakistan?”

  “This is where I need you to respect my culture, Denise.”

  “You have a life here, Gavin. You have me.”

  “I have my parents to think about and I won’t dishonor them. Not for anything or anyone.”

  “And what about me?”

  “I told you I was leaving at some point and that I wouldn’t want a long-distance relationship. But this has turned into something . . .”

  My features twist with sour thoughts when I remember some of the things he’d told me about what his time would be like in Pakistan.

  “I know your parents are going to try to get you married while you’re there. You’ve hinted at as much before.”

  He gives me one swift nod.

  “So, what? You won’t dishonor them, but I have to stick around to watch you with someone else? Hope you don’t meet anyone so you can come back to me?”

  “You don’t have to do anything, love. I’m not asking you to give up anything for me—”

  “You can’t unless you’re giving something up for me!”

  Gavin glances around the restaurant and I know I need to lower my voice.

  “I don’t want to lose you, Denise.” He takes my hand again. “I told you. You make me feel like maybe I was this broken person . . . but you fixed me.”

  I wipe my tear with my free hand.

  He was fixed but this is breaking me.

  My deep breath helps the tightness in my chest and I decide, quickly, not to let this ruin the rest of our trip.

  “Fuck it. Let’s get drunk.”

  He chuckles and orders wine.

  I’m halfway done with my meal when he sits back and waits, a knowing smile on his face. I grab my plate and hand it to him and he does the same. I dig in immediately, loving that he ordered chicken.

  “What do you think?” he asks after his first bite, washing it down with Pinot Grigio.

  “A little dry?” He nods with a smile and I scrunch up my face. “Yours?”

  “You like too much salt on your food,” he says before he scoops more mashed potatoes into his mouth.

  “They need to use more seasoning.” Gavin does this little nod shrug thing at my complaint. “I’m surprised the chef in you isn’t critiquing this meal more.”

  Gavin isn’t snobby about food. But he usually makes small talk, telling me what they could’ve done to avoid the dry chicken or what herbs, or seasoning combo would’ve better suited portions of the meal. I always listen but I don’t retain much because he’s a brilliant cook and I can only master the basics. I leave the cooking to him.

  “We’re on vacation,” he says as he shrugs again. I push the food around my plate with my fork.

  After we leave the restaurant, we walk into random bars, drinking tequila and dancing.

  One bar has a massive set of Jenga blocks that we start playing, amping each other up until I lose and the blocks scatter all over the floor.

  His eyes are wide, watching me as if, should he look away for even a second, I might disappear. And it all feels a lot like love tonight.

  We step outside into the misty drizzle and he stares at me for a moment.

  “You love me,” he says.

  His proclamation makes my chest feel tight again, the words wanting to come from my own lips. But neither of us are ready. Not when goodbye is just around the corner.

  I shake my head and tell him that he’s drunk.

  We head back to our room, hand-in-hand, and between the vast city, our feelings, and little reminders that this may be our last time being completely alone, we move at our own pace.

  Once the door closes behind us, I head to the bed and fall back on its crisp white sheets. He follows me, eyes on fire, warming my insides better than any tequila.

  “You’re not tired,” he tells me, his voice husky.

  We both peel my pants off first, my hips in the air. Once they’re tossed aside, the rest of our clothes follow, in little piles on the floor that I’m sure he’ll pick up in the morning.

  He wordlessly takes my hand and leads us to the large windows that fill the place with sunlight during the daytime. When dark, it makes us feel swallowed whole by the city.

  Fingers come around my waist and feather down until all I feel is him at my center, inside, pushing my pleasure buttons. My hands press against the glass just as he kisses between my shoulder blades.

  “Come on,” he whispers just there, his breath causing goose bumps.

  He takes hold of my upper arms this time, directing me out onto the balcony. Before I have a chance to ask him what we’re doing, he pushes me against the rail and I’m watching the quietly moving city just as he enters me.

  The Toronto lights are staring at us in our sensual splendor, as he tells me to look up, to watch the city watching us.

  With the world at my feet, Gavin makes my body feel like I’m soaring.

  Only once we’re back in bed, do I really wonder what a life will be like without him. And if I have to accept whatever fate we may have, together or separate, why does this have to feel so amazing? The bar is set so extraordinarily high.

  If I have to love again, it would either be this epic, or I would be alone.

  He sleeps soundly beside me, his warmth making me want to scoot closer to him and give in to my fatigue.

  But I grab one of the beautiful notebooks he bought me and start writing instead.

  Because even though I haven’t told him, I love him in
a way I never thought I could love someone else.

  With every beautiful and ugly piece of me.

  Falling for you is slow and fast.

  It’s running and catching my breath.

  It’s losing and winning.

  It’s quiet and cacophony.

  You are the sweetest contradiction.

  Day 100

  Something about sitting outside in the dark makes me feel more alive. It could very well be the present company.

  Something makes me want to tell Gavin all of my secret wants.

  So, I start to.

  “I’ve always wanted to be a writer,” I announce during a moment of silence between us. I hadn’t felt the need to fill it; it just felt like it was something I’ve always wanted to say out loud. “I’ve written some things already.”

  “Tell me about some of the things you’ve written.”

  I’m wanting to hide my face and take back my stupid wistfulness, but I don’t. Not from him. Not when he’s the only person in the world to not only know about my fruitless ambition, but to care.

  “I once wrote something about knowledge being powerful. About this woman being in love with a man who was in a relationship with someone else. She’d ask him questions that no one else would know the answer to. And in that moment, she felt she had pieces of him that even his significant other couldn’t touch.”

  “Does she end up with him?” Gavin’s tone is not only inquisitive but pensive. The silence while I reflect doesn’t feel as awkward as it probably should.

  “I hope not.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Because you can’t build a home from the rubble of someone else’s life.

  “If your happiness means destroying someone else’s . . .”

  I can feel him nod better than I can see him, my eyes on the stars.

  “I always wanted to write about complicated women. Because I felt I had more in common with them than the simple Mary Jane’s.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Fuck yes. Once I was introduced to Hermione Granger, I was never the same.”

  “Harry Potter, right?”

  The fact that I can hear his smile isn’t what makes my heart flip.