My foot pushes against the gate and it opens. “Thanks, Mom. For everything. I’ll see you soon. I promise.”
I cross the street to the Shepherds’ driveway, careful not to look at the house. I don't want to know if James is awake. I don't want to know just how angry Evie really is with him. I back out and drive, keeping my focus inward. My mother's words brought me to this point. But only I can make it all happen.
***
The kitchen is sparkling. The ceiling fans are free of dust. I’ve organized my junk drawer. I can’t put it off any longer.
With a deep breath and squared shoulders, I leave the safety of the living room and go to my closet, plucking a box of tissues from my dresser on my way.
Pieces of soft fabric slide aside, and there it is. For Kate.
I laugh once, a short, disbelieving sound. This box should come with a warning label. Caution: Extreme Pain Ahead. With a deep breath I open the box.
On top is Ethan’s hat, the one with the signature of his favorite baseball player under the brim. Gently I pull it out and put it on. It tips and lays haphazardly on my head.
My eyes shut, and I reach in again, turning the box into a grab bag.
I feel the cool smoothness of glass and pick it up, opening my eyes to see my prize. The cologne he wore in college. Two sprays and the air fills with twenty-year-old Ethan. My inhale is deep and long.
In ten minutes’ time I’m surrounded by artifacts. Ethan’s books, a shirt he wore frequently, the picture of me he drew for his ninth grade art project. Letters sent from my middle school self, complaining of terrible boredom while my best friend was gone at a two-week summer camp. When we were twelve the separation felt like an eternity. Little did we know that when we grew up, the Army would teach us what real separation felt like. And then, of course, the final separation. Death.
The taste of salt covers my lips, and my shirt is wet. My tears have found their final resting place on my chest, on my lap, and in my mouth.
The box is almost empty. Two trophies, an envelope, and a clay mold Ethan and I made of our hands are the only things left inside.
I reach for the envelope and find it’s sealed. My hands shake when I turn it over and read the front.
KATE. Penned by a hand that wrote my name hundreds of times. My trembling fingers rip the envelope in my haste.
Katie girl,
I’m writing this letter, and I hope to hell you never read it. When I’m done with my time in the Army, I’m going to rip up this letter and burn it. But if you are reading this, it means I didn’t make it. Shit. I want to make it. I want to be with you, forever. I want to be your husband. I want to build a life and a family with you. I want to hold you tight and let my body show you how made for each other we are. But if you’re reading this, then none of that will happen for us. The babies I know belong to us will never be. The t-ball games I’m supposed to coach will never happen. The tears I’m supposed to wipe from your face while our daughter gets married, will be wiped by someone else.
Writing these words is making me feel sick. We just spent my leave together, and it was incredible. Finally your stubborn streak calmed down enough for you to admit that you love me too. It took you long enough. A decade. I knew I would never give up on you.
If you’re reading this, we only shared a short time together. And I want you to know it was the best time I’ve ever had. Not that all those times since we met when we were five weren’t great, but being able to grab you and kiss you made it that much better. I spent years wanting to reach out and touch your face when you were laughing. Now I can, and I can’t imagine anything better.
This sucks. I have to say some hard stuff that I don’t want to say. Okay. Here it is. Ultimately, I want you to be happy. That’s really all I’ve ever wanted, though I will admit I wanted that happiness to be with me. But if I’m not around, then I still want you to be happy. And that means you’ll have to find it with someone else. I won’t lie to you, I’m not crazy about that idea. But if I’m not here to take care of you and love you, then I want you to find someone else who will. If you deem him worthy, then you have my blessing. Just promise me you won’t settle. That’s all I ask of you.
How am I supposed to wrap this up? I feel like I could talk to you forever. These are my last words to you, and I wish I had something profound to say. I don’t. I can only think to say something you already know. I LOVE YOU.
Your Ethan
I press the letter against my chest and sob. Great, big, ugly sobs that bend me over and wrack my body. My chest thumps and my shoulders heave.
I’m crying for Ethan. For his life that was cut short. For our future that was cruelly snatched away. For the kisses that will never happen and the love I can no longer give to him. I cry for the little girl and boy who thought they would be best friends forever.
“Ethan,” I say over and over, louder and louder.
I grab his shirt from the floor beside me, spray it with his cologne, and pull it over my head.
I lie on the floor, prone and wailing, a heaping mass of sorrow. I think I fall in and out of sleep, but I’m not sure.
Eventually my tears subside. I sit up. Somehow, some way, I feel better. Clearer. Refreshed. New.
Carefully I re-pack Ethan’s box. The last item is his shirt. I pull it over my head, smell it one more time, and place it on top.
The letter goes back into the ripped envelope and into my nightstand. I sit on my bed, knees pulled up to my chin, and picture the little white rectangle in the drawer.
Ethan wants me to be happy.
I walk back to my closet, push the box back into its spot, and go start the shower.
The water washes away salt from my dried tears. I watch as it spins and swirls down the drain and envision all my fear and anguish going right down with it.
I raise my face to the spray and relish the feeling of peace quietly growing inside me.
35
Kate
My parched soul needed Ethan's letter. Without it, I'm not sure how long it would have taken me to get to this point.
On day two after being fired I purged my apartment. I emptied every cabinet and drawer, every box and closet. I came face to face with everything I own and every memory of Ethan those belongings drew forth. Instead of cringing when the inevitable hurt shook me, I embraced the memories and the requisite pain that went along with them.
Loose pictures of me and Ethan were gathered and placed in one album. The infamous yellow lingerie went into my new Ethan box. Other things went into the box too. Like the necklace he gave me on our last birthday. Me & You.
The contents of my apartment may be clean and organized, but the decorations are sparse. After I took down everything that belonged to Harper and put it in her room, I saw a lot of white walls and bare surfaces.
So now, on the third day since I was fired, I'm shopping. The woman at the home store is very happy to help and too willing to share her opinion.
“You don't know your aesthetic?” She regards me like I'm a lunatic.
“Nope,” I say, looking around the store. I answer all her questions about colors and pieces of furniture I already own.
She leads me around, talking endlessly about design and color palette and the flow of a room. When I point to a painting, she tells me it won't match the color of the existing couch. I look at the vibrant swirls of red, the big yellow sun in the corner, and I feel wistful. I like that one.
We keep going, and before long I have everything I need to replace Harper's decor.
The saleswoman rings me up and recites the total. I pause, credit card in mid-air, and look back at the painting. “I'll take the painting, too,” I tell her. Rule breaker.
She shakes her head. “But it won't—”
My upright palm stops her mid-sentence. “I'll take the painting, too. Thank you.”
I walk out of the store, three big bags in one hand and the painting in the other, and I'm smiling.
***
&nb
sp; Day four since I was fired. I receive a text message from Harper. She'll be here at ten to get the rest of her things.
She arrives dressed in a pencil skirt and high heels. Two men wearing matching T-shirts and pushing a dolly come in behind her. She points them to her old room after glancing around the living room.
“Where's my stuff?”
“Hello to you, too. I put your things in your room.” There's so much I want to say, so many words filling my mouth, but I don't know how to start. We lived together for almost four years. How did it come to this?
We stand, separated by a distance that seems greater than two feet, while the movers work on Harper's room.
“I'm sorry about what you found on my phone.” Her voice is even.
My shocked eyes sweep to her, but her watchful gaze stays on the movers.
I look ahead. “I appreciate that. I'm sorry this is how things are ending between us.”
“Things didn't have to be like this.” Frustration tinges her voice. “You didn't have to stop being you.”
Yes, I did. If I hadn't stopped being Master of Everything, I would never have come to this point, standing on the brink of reclaiming the person the old me had locked away. And whoever the new me is going to be.
“You'll never understand, Harper. My mistake was in expecting you to be someone you're not. For that, I'm sorry.”
She doesn't respond. I wait for one full minute, then I grab my purse.
“I have somewhere to be. Don't worry about locking up, I won't be long.”
I start for the door, stopping to let the guy carrying the nightstand go in front of me.
“Kate?” Harper's tone is unsure. Somewhere in my name there’s regret trying to break through the barrier she’s built.
I turn back and meet her eyes. Emotions fight a war on her face.
“What is it?” Will this be the moment she accepts her own feelings instead of being repulsed by them?
Her face shuts down as if a switch was hit. She points to the wall behind me. “That painting doesn’t match the—”
“I know.” I smile. “Bye, Harper.”
***
“What do you think?” The large, bald man finishes wiping the remainder of ink from the inside of my wrist. To take my attention away from the pain I’ve been thinking of Harper, of whether she’ll still be at my apartment when I return. And what I would say to her if she is. But now that he’s finished, my thoughts of her fly out of my head instantly.
My gaze moves from the garden gnome on the counter. It’s been my focal point for the past thirty minutes. I look down at the image of the small bird, its wings spread wide as it rises.
“I love it,” I breathe, the feeling of freedom and recovery overwhelming my heart.
He sits back in his chair and looks at me. “It fits you.”
“Thank you.” My eyes drop back to the mythical bird taking flight on my wrist.
He covers my tattoo and gives me care instructions. I keep glancing at the white bandage on my wrist as I hold the steering wheel on the drive home. My stomach flutters with excitement. Rule breaker.
My phone rings.
Nick Hunter.
As much as it pains me, I let it go. It's his fourth call.
Right now, I'm focused on me. On becoming Kate.
Covering my heart are long, ragged scars, pink in their newness. I’m bare and I’ve been broken. I’m a blank slate, washed clean by pain. And I want to get to know the new me.
When I get home I send Nick a text.
I'm doing great. Really. I'll be in touch soon. I have a chimichanga cooking lesson with your name on it.
Then I pull out my laptop, peek at the Phoenix on the inside of my wrist, and get to work.
***
For two weeks, I write.
Every memory of me and Ethan.
My dad's death.
Master of Everything.
Falling in love with my best friend.
The death of my best friend.
Losing myself.
Finding myself.
I write, and I write, and I write. Pages and pages of memories and feelings and painful recounts. Poured into one messy outline. But it's there. It's a start.
When I'm finished, I call Nick.
Recalling my times with him, my fingers flying over the computer keys, allowed me to see him.
He didn't need cooking lessons. He wanted me to focus on something besides my brokenness.
He didn't need me to go to the used bookstore with him. He wanted me to rediscover a lost part of myself.
He didn't need to color with me. He wanted me to let go and enjoy something just for the sake of enjoying it.
His phone rings and rings. Finally, his voicemail picks up.
I push away from the desk and put on my jacket. For two weeks I've been eating like a mouse, distracted by the words tumbling out of me. And if I'm going to thrive, not just survive, I need real food.
36
Nick
Nick, Hi. It’s Kate. I mean, obviously. You saw the missed call. Of course you know it’s me. I, uh… it’s been a while. I wanted to say hi. Maybe you can come over for dinner soon? I… I miss you. Call me back.
I can’t help the grin sliding across my face, even as I hoist the Christmas tree over my shoulder and walk it out to my car. The palpable nervousness in her voice was adorable, especially because I know what it means.
Kate’s been MIA for two weeks. She sent me that one text telling me she was okay, but that was before she disappeared. As much as I hated it, I left her alone. After the tenuous moments we shared the last few times we’d been together, I knew it meant Kate was doing hard work deep down in her soul.
I know from experience that soul work is best done alone, where there are no judgments and no cares. It’s painful, exquisite, and difficult.
A night of looking deep inside is what landed me in the recruiter’s office four years ago.
The choice to join the Army wasn’t easy, and there were times I wondered if I’d made the wrong decision. But then I met Ethan, and I saw a bright spot in the day-to-day difficulty of being a soldier.
I could compare losing him to being stabbed in the heart. In fact, I could compare the experience of losing him to various instances of physical suffering, but the best way to describe it is simple.
It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.
But within the pain lay a purpose.
My path to Kate.
After my third time listening to her voicemail, I slip my phone in my pocket and grab my keys. Kate’s been holed up in her apartment for eighteen days. I know this because I’ve driven by her place and checked it out. Her car was parked in its spot. When I went by at night, the lights in her apartment were on.
But I know from talking to Evie that she hasn’t heard from Kate, and neither has Kate’s mom.
My guess is that, now that Kate’s learned to stand on her own two feet again, she has been taking in her surroundings and figuring out how to move forward.
And she’s ended her solitude with a phone call to me. And an invitation to come over for dinner soon.
But soon doesn’t work for me. Soon is an indefinite word, and I’m a definitive guy. And when it comes to matters of the heart, patience isn’t my strong suit.
Which is how I ended up with a Christmas tree strapped to the top of my car.
I’m betting if Kate hasn’t been out of her apartment in two and a half weeks, then she hasn’t decorated for Christmas either.
My thumbs tap the steering wheel in my excitement as I pull into Kate’s complex.
Oh no.
Her car is gone. She has finally ventured out.
I glance up at her place through my windshield.
AIO.
Adapt. Improvise. Overcome.
New plan. Haul the tree up the stairs, snip the ties so the tree looks big and full, and tie a note to it. I’m sure there’s a receipt I can write on somewhere in this car.
I get the tree up the stairs, and use my pocket knife to cut the ties. Before I head back downstairs to scrounge in my car for something to write on, I lean against the wall and catch my breath. It’s not climbing stairs carrying a Christmas tree that has exerted me. It’s doing all that while being excited.
Maybe I’ll hang around for a bit, in case Kate’s not too long. I want to see her face when she sees the tree. First she’ll probably have that little ‘v’ form in between her eyebrows. She’ll walk forward slowly, because I’ve learned Kate doesn’t race toward something unknown. She’ll look at me with those beautiful eyes as understanding dawns, and then her smile will be soft and round. Then—
Footsteps. On the stairs. It could be anybody, but maybe it’s her.
My heart feels like it’s pushing against my chest. I see her face first, then the rest of her appears as she ascends and leaves the last stair behind.
It happens just like I imagined it would. The ‘v’. The slow walk forward. The understanding, and then the smile.
My chest feels warm, and my throat is tight.
God help me, I’m sunk.
37
Kate
Home from the grocery store, I park my car in my spot and see Nick's car two spaces away. My insides flutter. What is he doing here?
Two grocery bags in each hand, I step onto the curb and stop, peering at my feet.
What is all over the ground?
Short, stiff green things.
Pine needles?
I follow their trail up the stairs.
A Christmas tree leans against the wall next to my door. And next to the tree, leaning against the wall, is Nick.
He pushes himself upright as I walk to him. He's smiling. I'm smiling.
“A Christmas tree?” I ask, excitement growing in my stomach.
The Day He Went Away Page 27