Until Then

by J. L. Rizzo

  In the bathroom, I look in the mirror and chastise the girl for what she’s about to do. She hates secrets, yet she’s got intentions to break someone’s trust. Should she wait and be patient? Or she should take control of her own fate?

  Time is precious. I hear my father’s voice. He’s right. I don’t want to waste any more time. I’ve waited a long time for Crew to be here with me. I don’t want to spoil the time we have left with deception. He’s become too important to me. Whatever’s in that envelope probably wouldn’t make me love him any less anyway.

  Walking back to the bag, I slip the envelope out and uncurl the red tie.

  The photos inside cause my knees to buckle. Sinking to the floor, I fight the vomitous eruption brewing in my core.

  Photos of me. In the hospital. Sitting alone on the floor. The night of my father’s accident. Two years before I met Crew. What the hell is this?

  One after another, photos of me and my mother hugging outside my father’s hospital room door. I’m standing. My mother is collapsed against me. Then we’re sitting on the floor together, sobbing together. Photos of her sobbing alone as I walk into my father’s room. Photos of me standing alone outside of his door.

  Then….

  Oh God.

  Photos of my father. The night of his car crash. He’s in his car. The airbag has deployed. Blood pours down the side of his face. Photos with his eyes closed. Photos with his eyes open. One photo shows him looking right at the camera.

  Fuck.

  There are so many photos. But behind them is a handwritten letter.

  This can’t fucking be happening.

  With anxious hands, I unfold the paper.

  Dear Summer,

  There are moments that I can look through a lens and focus on the exact subject I want to capture. I can sharpen the contrast. I can zoom in and narrow down the field of vision. With specific lenses, I can make the scene wider and include a lot of objects, or I can narrow it down where everything else gets blurred in the background. But it’s my choice what gets blurred and what stays crystal clear.

  I can turn any picture into something pretty. That’s the joy of being a photographer.

  I can find beauty everywhere.

  Except one place.

  There’s one place that I’ve never been able to find the beauty. I’ve tried looking from all different angles, different lenses, different filters, but it never gets better. All I see is evil.

  All I see is the ugly.

  All I see is me.

  The camera never lies.

  Then I met you.

  When we first spoke, the way you looked at me brought me to my knees. I was completely disarmed. You were innocence and goodness and purity in the raw. You captured me completely with your quiet strength and steadfast loyalty. With just a few words, you somehow made it easy for me to reach into the dark depths of my soul and rip open wounds that had long since scarred. Talking with you that night was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel like my whole life had been a mistake.

  You made me feel like I had been living it all wrong. I had been trying to find the good in me the way I do for everything else…through a lens. But the truth is, I shouldn’t have been looking through a lens at all. I should’ve been looking at the reality of it.

  No lenses. No filters.

  Only me.

  You once asked me why you shouldn’t fall in love with me. When you asked me that question, I felt the weight of my answer hanging around my neck trying to drown me. I wasn’t good enough for you. I didn’t know how to do anything but hate.

  Then I wanted to drown myself…in you. You are Beauty and Grace and a Shining Beacon for my lost soul. You are my Direction, no matter how far away I let myself go.

  And I’ve gone pretty far.

  To the ends of the Earth. To the far reaches of my mind. To the edge. To the darkness. To the point of no retreat.

  When I first saw you at the cemetery, I took the photos included in this envelope. I saw sadness and heartbreak. I saw a girl without direction lost in her own world. I wanted to make sure that you were ok considering what had happened the previous year. But you were far from ok. Which is why I went back the next year.

  The next year I didn’t see sadness and heartbreak. I saw anger and desperation. I saw it in your body. I read it on your face. I heard it in the way you spoke your words. And I felt it for you. I had never infiltrated the emotions of a photo before; it’s always been as an observer. But you…you drew me right in to your world. And I couldn’t leave you alone.

  I can’t help but wonder if you remember the first time we actually spoke. I don’t see how you could, since your lens probably had the cap on the entire time.

  It was in the hospital, the night of the accident. After I dropped my friends home, I went to the hospital to check on your father, to see if he was ok. I knew he was badly hurt, but that was the extent of it when I left the scene. I’m not sure what I hoped to accomplish by going to the hospital, but I certainly didn’t expect what happened next.

  I saw you sitting on the floor outside your father’s room while the doctor quietly whispered to your mother outside the door. Her hand was on her mouth, in disbelief. She was shaking. You just stared at the floor. And I knew. I knew I had done something terrible.

  And my heart fucking broke all over again.

  Then I really looked at you. Without any lenses.

  You were hopelessness and anger and regret all rolled into one. I made that happen. I created that reality for you. And when I did that, I took any good I had left away from myself and replaced it with hatred.

  It remained that way for two years until you spoke to me again.

  You said that you were in school in New York pursuing something your father encouraged in you. You seemed ambitious but confused. And all I wanted to do was hug you and erase all that pain I put there. Then you let me touch you. There’s no lens in the world that can recreate the feeling that surged through me when you let me touch your hand. I felt invincible…but still broken.

  Because I know what I owe you.

  I owe you a life with a father. I owe you the happiness I took away. I owe you love and confidence and security.

  And I owe you an explanation.

  The night of your father’s accident was just that — an accident. Driving friends home from a late party, one of them grabbed the wheel, blinding your dad and causing him to run off the road.

  I ran to him immediately. He was hurt. He was dazed. He wasn’t ok.

  I wanted him to be ok.

  That night, time wasn’t precious.

  Time was a tyrant — relentless, absolute, oppressing, devastating.

  In those few moments, your dad whispered a few words. I got closer to try to hear him, and I knew immediately who he was.

  The father of the girl with the pigtails.

  The girl I wanted to be with.

  The girl I could never speak to.

  THE girl.

  You.

  My heart didn’t break that day. I broke. As tough as I’d become after my mother’s death, that accident stole everything from me and left me to drown in a pool of self-hate and loathing. I morphed into my own worst nightmare.

  My father sent me home, but I went to the hospital. I waited for you. You weren’t ok. I had to give you something because I knew I had taken away everything.

  A handkerchief. It’s all I had to give. All I could do for you.

  I didn’t deserve anything, but you still spoke to me. You didn’t look at me when you thanked me for the handkerchief. I didn’t deserve your thanks for the handkerchief. I didn’t deserve to see your tears. I didn’t deserve to witness your heartbreak.

  I didn’t deserve to breathe.

  There were many times after that night when I wanted to stop breathing. I wanted to end it all.

  All I wanted was for you to be ok. But you weren’t ok.

  I’m not ok.

  I’m so sorry, Summer.
<
br />   I’m here to make things ok.

  Please let me.

  Running to the bathroom, I vomit ferociously, until there’s nothing left in my entire being.

  22.

  Crew

  No!

  I’m not ready.

  This can’t happen yet.

  It’s the wrong time.

  Time.

  Time is punishing.

  Time is vindictive.

  Time is cruel.

  Time is running out.

  Time is killing me.

  Summer flinches when her eyes catch mine in the doorway. My letter and the photos litter a path to the bathroom, evidence that she’s seen it all.

  Fuck.

  One day soon, I was going to give it to her. But not today. Given how she dealt with her mother’s secrets, I couldn’t lay anything else on her until she resolved some of those conflicts.

  She’s upset, as I expected her to be. But nothing could ever prepare me for the look in her eyes.

  Fear.

  Anger.

  Resentment.

  Everything I never wanted to see. Everything I tried to assuage. Everything that hurts.

  Her icy gaze sears right through me, making my blood run cold and my heartbeat freeze.

  She’s mad. Really mad.

  She doesn’t speak a word while she looks down at the photos and letter. Then she pins me with her stare as she rises up to her feet. She turns and rinses out her mouth, the stillness of the room choking my insides.

  “Summer —” I mutter, but her open hand rises up to stop me mid-sentence.

  “Please —” I try again, but her open hand clenches into a fist, stopping me once more.

  Shit.

  Turning around menacingly slow, she leans against the sink and drags her eyes up to finally meet mine. The silence is thick, swelling the tension in the air between us. My nerves all stand on edge, waiting to fight or fly. I’ll never fly, I remind my racing heart. She finally pushes off the sink and walks with a grave pace to stand in front of me. Looking up to me, the heat that builds off of her skin could melt my icy heart to a puddle.

  Summer doesn’t speak. She scrutinizes me, visually dissecting my face as if she’s marking the area she wants to strike. It’s unnerving. Up until this moment, I’ve never felt more afraid.

  Taking in a long inhale, she exhales audibly. “I have one question for you,” she threatens frighteningly soft. The lump in my throat chokes my words. I can only nod in agreement to answer.

  Please don’t ask it.

  Tilting her head to the other side, her eyes look like those of a psychopath’s weighing the risk of a decision. Her coldness chills my skin. “Did you have a drink that night?”

  Shit.

  She’s read only half the letter.

  I need to explain. “Summer —”

  “Did. You. Have. A. Drink. That. Night?”

  God help me.

  I break her gaze and look up…for divine intervention. Maybe I really do have an angel on my shoulder. I could certainly use one right now.

  I can’t lie to her. While I don’t want to speak, I nod my head “yes” in the smallest of movements, almost invisible to someone who isn’t looking for an answer.

  She says nothing. When I look back into her eyes, I find all the hate and loathing I never need to see. Worse than I ever saw in the mirror.

  BLACKOUT.

  I stumble back, unable to see from sudden blindness.

  What the hell just happened?

  But when I blink my eyes a few times, I realize what it was.

  Summer is stronger than she looks, and she’s got a left hook to prove it.

  I lay my hands on the sink to keep from falling down. Holy shit, it stings. My face is throbbing. My head is swelling. But then I see Summer walking briskly from the room.

  No!

  “Summer. Wait!” I go after her, bumping into the doorway on my way back to the bedroom.

  “You said you never drink! You’re a goddamn liar!”

  “That was the last time!” I run after her.

  “Fuck you,” she bites out, running for the closet.

  “Summer, please! I need to explain!” I plead, panicking that she won’t hear me out.

  “I’ve heard enough.” She calls from the closet, emerging dressed in sweats. “Get the hell out of my house,” she hisses and sails by me.

  “No, please. Summer. Don’t do this.” I reach for her only to have her hand harshly brush me aside, sending me deeper into the closet while she scurries out.

  “I didn’t do this. You did this!” she yells from the stairs.

  Running up the stairs to catch up to her, she spins on me.

  “Don’t.” The finality in her voice sends shivers racing down my spine. “Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me,” she spits out. “You…disgust me. I can’t even look at you right now,” she says with such exasperation that it stops me from breathing. Turning back around, she walks quickly toward the kitchen.

  “Don’t run from me! Please! I can’t lose you again!” But pleading gets me nowhere. She’s doing what she does best in confrontation — shut it out and escape it.

  “I’m not yours to lose!” she screams while dragging my hope away with her.

  “You don’t know everything!” I shout after her, trying anything I can to get her attention.

  It works. She stops in her tracks and turns back to me so slowly that I start to wonder if she forgot why she quit walking.

  “I don’t want to hear any more lies from you,” she growls through gritted teeth while sending daggers of hate through her eyes.

  “I’m not lying, Summer. I’ve been carrying that around since the first time I saw you at the cemetery. I’ve always wanted to tell you.”

  “I don’t want to hear this!” Summer throws her arms up and disappears in to an adjacent room.

  Desperate to regain some stability, I do anything I can to get Summer back. “I know what your father’s last words were!” I shout after her. Please come back to me.

  After a few moments, Summer peeks in through the doorway. She stares at me for a few breaths, as I watch her chest rise and fall with her anguish. “Crew,” she says curtly but softly, reigning in her warring emotions. “If you care about me at all, if you know me at all, which you claim you do, you’ll realize that you need to leave me alone right now. I’m not steady, and I need to regain my senses.”

  “Let me help you, Summer. Please.” She winces at my words.

  “Everything you say hurts, Crew.” Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she turns her back toward me. “I can’t do this. You need to leave.” I hear her tears falling. “Please,” she chokes out desperately.

  The last thing I want to do is leave.

  But I turn around and leave.

  And I leave my broken heart in pieces on that floor.

  Walking back to the first floor feels like someone is gutting me with a rusty spoon. The pain bleeds everywhere. The sting reaches to every nerve in my body. I can smell her scent, I can hear her voice, I can feel the softness of her hair — my senses are overwhelmed by her. I need to get the fuck out of here. But I’m afraid to leave. I’m afraid she’ll never let me back in.

  I have to get her back. I have to explain.

  Before I finish packing up my bag, I walk to Summer’s closet and open a drawer, stealing a t-shirt of hers. It’s pink and soft and smells of her. And I need so badly to keep a piece of her with me.

  I also leave a shirt of mine. If she feels for me what I do for her, then maybe the effect will be the same. She’ll miss me too much to keep pushing me away.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I walk closer to it to get a better look. Hatred. Loathing. Disgust.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” I say to myself. I don’t even recognize the reflection. One of a deranged psychopath — demented, twisted, evil.

  Leaving my bag at Summer’s house, I grab my wallet and phone and leave her apartment in
search of the first bar that’s open at 9am.

  23.

  Summer

  There’s only so much shit a girl can take before she breaks.

  Not even my piano can repair the turmoil I’ve endured in the last 24 hours. I need something stronger. More formidable. Less forgiving.

  I’m cold. Not just because I’ve been sitting out beside the rooftop pool for three hours in February after a snowstorm. Or because I have an ice pack soothing my stinging hand. But because in the last 24 hours, I’ve discovered that not only is my mother living a double life that she neglected to share with me, but the boy I love killed my father six years ago and has been stalking me ever since.

  How much more can a girl take?

  A lot apparently, especially when a bottle of whiskey is involved.

  A $72,000 bottle of whiskey, to be exact.

  I didn’t quite expect to feel this buzzed so quickly. But damn. I’m grateful for it. Its strong, fiery amber is making me warmer in the bone-chilling cold.

  “I miss you, Daddy,” I say to the void. “Things are a mess,” I sob. Holding in the tears makes me choke. “But I’m sure you know all this already.” I stop speaking, seeing how it’s ridiculous to tell an omniscient being current facts. Still, I can’t help but say, “Mom’s moving on. Crew’s told me what he did. I’m…lost.” It’s my own confessional.

  Standing up, I grab my bottle and tumbler and walk to the plexiglass surrounding the edge of the rooftop. With my forehead to the glass, I look down. It’s a long way down to the bottom. I have no idea how anyone has ever followed through with their urge to jump. There’s way too much time to regret it before hitting the bottom, and much less destructive ways to end it all.

  I know. I’ve done the research.

  A budding piano prodigy who suddenly and tragically loses the only person she’s needed in this life will go to dark places to make the pain stop. Many times. Fortunately, I lacked the courage to follow through on any of those attempts.

  How fortunate, the sarcasm even reaches my thoughts.

  Just then something catches my eye. A butterfly. What the heck is that thing doing all the way up here in the cold?