Return to Sender

by Ashlyn Kane

  Emerson,

  I guess I deserved that. All I can say is that I wasn’t thinking right. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.

  I’m glad that college is working out for you. Your new friends sound nice. I’m only sorry that I can’t be there.

  Boston is a pretty cool (but expensive!) city. It’s also frigid. I’m freezing my balls off, and it’s only October. Think I’m going to move on before the snow settles in. Don’t worry. If I don’t hear from you before then, I’ll send you a letter from wherever I land next.

  Your friend,

  Jonah

  §

  WRITTEN on a University of Texas notepad:

  Welcome, Freshmen, to U of T!

  Jonah,

  I don’t even know what to say to your asinine response. Didn’t mean to hurt anybody? Weren’t thinking straight? That sounds like bullshit to me.

  It’s your fault you’re not here. You could be here going to concerts with me, but you left. So I go to see Zack and Greg play by myself or with Hayley. That’s on you.

  Emerson

  P.S. It’s warm in Texas 365 days a year.

  §

  THREE weeks later, on the back of a bus schedule:

  Emerson,

  I don’t know what else to tell you.

  November in Boston is even colder than October. I might lose some extremities to frostbite.

  Sounds like you and Zack are close.

  Jonah

  P.S. There’s at least one place in Texas that’s cold.

  §

  WRITTEN five days later on a page pulled from a ringed notebook entitled “Intro to Psych, class 10, November 7th”:

  Jonah,

  A real, proper reason for why you ran away and didn’t tell me and just threw away all our plans! Don’t act like I don’t have the right to be angry when I do.

  Emerson

  P.S. Zack is my roommate and best friend at college, seeing as he is at college.

  P.P.S. You expected me to be the same as ever when you left like that? How naïve.

  §

  AND life went on. Jonah sent a letter to his parents outlining his circumstances—he had only been at the Y a week when Ken had found a pair of students in need of a third roommate, so he even had a place to call his own. He didn’t send his return address yet; he didn’t trust his parents not to follow him to Boston and drag him home kicking and screaming—but he did call them his first week, just to make sure they knew he wasn’t dead. That had been hard—his mom had cried, and he could tell Natalie was angry, but he thought that just maybe his dad understood his need to get out and prove something to the world. And the truth was that Jonah really did think some time away would be good for him.

  After two weeks of training and three weeks of the night maintenance shift, which was ten until two, Jonah got the personal-trainer job as well, which was good for his bank account balance and hell on his social life, not that he’d had much time to acquire one. Sebastian and Oliver, his roommates, were nice enough but studious and a couple of years older than he was, and given that he was usually asleep when they were at school and they while he was at work, he didn’t see much of them. Especially since he tended to stay at the gym between shifts—he trained, depending on the day, for any number of hours between three in the afternoon and eight o’clock at night.

  If nothing else, it was good life experience. He was bored and alone and thought about Emerson pretty much whenever his higher brain function wasn’t needed elsewhere, and sometimes even when it was. August turned into September, and he finally got the nerve to write a letter to Emerson. It didn’t go exactly as planned, but Jonah figured he deserved the little digs Emerson got in at him and tried not to take it personally.

  Then Emerson said don’t tell me I don’t have the right to be angry and Zack is my best friend and how naïve, and it wasn’t like he didn’t know what Emerson was doing, but knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

  Jonah wasn’t a moody person by nature, so someone was bound to notice sooner or later. It was just his bad luck that it happened to be sooner. A week after Emerson’s letter, Ken found him at the trainer’s station concentrating hard on paperwork he should have been able to do in his sleep.

  “Jonah.”

  Jonah blinked twice at the paper before realizing that it wasn’t talking to him. He hadn’t been getting enough sleep lately. “Oh. Hey, Pastor Ken.”

  “Can I talk to you in my office for a minute?”

  Wordlessly, Jonah rose from the desk and filed the form in the “to be completed” pile. “Am I in trouble?” he asked when the door to the office closed behind him.

  Ken turned his head to one side and steepled his fingers together. “You tell me.”

  Jonah’s first impulse was to cross his arms and pout, which was admittedly not very mature, but it did make him feel a little better. “Emerson and I had a fight,” he finally admitted.

  “Emerson, the boy you’re in love with,” Ken clarified.

  Jonah huffed. “Yes.”

  “Emerson who is two thousand miles from here.”

  Jonah decided not to dignify that with a response.

  Pastor Ken, however, was not to be deterred. “Did you have a fight on the phone?”

  Feeling his cheeks heat, Jonah fixed his gaze to the wood grain of Ken’s desk. “I don’t call him on the phone.” He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt like if he heard Emerson’s voice he’d either cry or confess everything. Maybe both.

  “So you fought over e-mail?”

  There was a strict company policy against using gym computers for personal things, and Jonah wasn’t brave enough to risk it. Oliver probably would have let him use his laptop—he was less attached at the fingertips to it than Sebastian was to his—but he didn’t know if he could deal with the immediacy of e-mail. Writing things out by hand had always helped him think better. He sighed and pulled the letter out of his shorts pocket.

  Ken raised his eyebrows. “You’re having a fight with him via snail-mail.”

  Jonah hadn’t actually thought he could feel worse, but now that Ken had pointed out how ridiculous that was, he did. Awesome. “I’m giving him the silent treatment.”

  “Through letter mail,” Ken emphasized.

  Jonah kind of wanted to die. “I’m—he said some things,” he forced himself to admit. “And I—also maybe said some things, and I know he’s just hurting me like I hurt him but I—”

  Holding up a hand to stem the flow of Jonah’s verbal diarrhea, Ken leaned back in his chair and put his sneakers on his desk again. “Jonah, why did you come to Boston?”

  Jonah frowned. They’d had this conversation before. “I needed space. Time to think, to figure out who I am.”

  “Time away from Emerson,” Ken continued.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Then don’t you think that’s what you should give yourself?”

  Swallowing hard, Jonah took a deep breath. “What do you think I should do?” he said. “I can’t just not talk to him again. I… I can’t do that.”

  Ken shook his head. “I don’t think you should, and I’m not asking you to. You said you wanted distance, perspective—give yourself time to get it. Wait a few weeks. Think about what you said to set him off, what made him angry. Do you want to apologize or just move on?”

  Jonah nodded resignedly. He knew Ken was right, but with his messed-up schedule, he needed something to keep him sane. It was therapeutic to write to Emerson, and it was going to be hard to stop, hard not to think, Oh, I have to tell Emerson. “I know you’re right,” he said at length. “It’s just—I don’t know what to do in the meantime.”

  “Ah.” Ken kicked his feet off the desk and swiveled in his chair, rummaging around on the bookshelves that lined his back wall. “I actually have a suggestion for that.” When he turned around again he was holding a battered Frommer’s guide. “Catch.”

  Jonah brought his hands up just before the book would have smacked into his chest.r />
  “Seriously, get some culture, please,” Ken begged teasingly. “I’m a member of the clergy, and I think your social life is boring. You need help.”

  “Thanks,” Jonah said drily. “I think.”

  As usual, Ken just waved him off. “Don’t mention it. Now, get back to doing whatever it is you personal trainers do when you don’t have a client. I have a sermon to write.”

  §

  ON A postcard of snowy Boston mailed priority post on December 23rd in a festive red envelope:

  Dear Emerson,

  You know those times when you get the answer to your burning question and find out you were better off not knowing?

  Merry Christmas.

  Jonah

  Chapter 3

  NOW

  “EMMA? Emma, what the hell? Come on, talk to me. Emma, you’re freaking me out, so could you please talk to me?”

  Emerson blinked. Zack’s worried face came into focus. Emerson stared at him.

  “You’re home.”

  “Yeah, I’m home. I often come home once I’ve finished my shift.”

  “But… you were working until eight tonight.”

  There was a long pause, and then Zack said slowly, “Yeah, I worked ’til eight. Emma, it’s almost nine.”

  Emerson blinked, absorbing that information. “Oh.”

  “Emma, how long have you been sitting here?” Zack was frowning still.

  “Since Jonah left.”

  “When was that?”

  “Six… six something?” Emerson couldn’t remember precisely what time it had been when Jonah had gone the second time. Emerson hadn’t exactly taken the time to look at a clock. He’d been too distracted by the front door slamming.

  “Emma, have you been sitting here for three hours? And have you been crying? Shit. Tell me what the hell’s been going on.”

  Emerson frowned. What’s been going on? “I….” Emerson shifted and felt the now-familiar sensation of the key digging into his hand. “Jonah… Jonah left.”

  “Jonah left… to where?” Zack asked, frowning still.

  “I—I dunno. He took all his stuff, and he left.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I don’t—I—he just left. He didn’t even say goodbye,” Emerson said, feeling his breath come shorter. If he hadn’t rid his body of all his tears hours ago, he was pretty sure he would have started all over again.

  “Right. I think it’s time that you were in bed; you are obviously exhausted. Let’s go.” Zack wrapped two hands around his arms, and then he was lifting Emerson onto his feet. Emerson swayed a little as the feeling came back to his limbs, but he didn’t protest when Zack guided him up the stairs to his bedroom and told him to get into bed.

  It was Zack who pulled off his shoes and stripped off his jeans, muttering about how he should only have to do this when Emerson was drunk and as such he would have had something to drink too. The last thing Emerson remembered before falling asleep was Zack gently urging him to go to sleep as he pulled the covers over his body.

  §

  THEN

  WRITTEN on plain lined sheets with a few suspicious-looking water marks:

  Jonah,

  Dad isn’t well. The attack took a lot out of him. He’s at home again, but he stays in bed a lot.

  I don’t know what to do. Dad might not get better. I am I got a special sort of pass to take only two classes this term so I can help Mom. I’ve been running Dad’s store while she takes care of him and Kierstyn. Fortunately, the classes I’m taking are at night.

  I’m thinking Mom needs I’ll probably move out of my dorm room. It’s just wasted money anyway.

  Kierstyn keeps crying. I hear Mom cry at night. I don’t I can’t

  I wish you were here for me too.

  Emerson

  §

  WRITTEN on the back of a crumpled flyer for guitar lessons:

  Em,

  I’m writing this letter at the Laundromat, and I had to steal three different flyers because I don’t know what to say. There isn’t anything to say. Nothing can make this any better.

  It’s good that you can be there for your mom and Kierstyn. I know they need you right now. But be careful, Em. I know what you’re like, and I know you’ll work yourself to death trying to be everything to everyone, and you always put yourself last. It’s one of the things I

  Give your mom and sister a hug from me, and get one for yourself too while you’re at it.

  Jonah

  §

  THE bulletin board would be next to come down. Emerson had paused in the middle of packing up his room to notice that the corkboard was still hanging on the wall. The overall effect it had by still being there was almost sad. The bed had been stripped, and Emerson had packed away most of the books, knickknacks, and products littered across shelves and flat surfaces. The bulletin board, with its photographs and colorful flyers, looked very out of place.

  With a sigh, Emerson reached for the board and lifted it off its hooks. He stood there a moment, staring at everything that cluttered the board, and considered what to do with it. He could, he supposed, leave everything on it, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted his parents to see everything that was pinned to it. There were the pictures in which he and his friends had obviously been drinking. There were missives written out in Hayley and Zack’s equally legible hands that said things like “hey, asshole” and “darling” and “quest to get you laid.” He didn’t think his mother would appreciate such notes. Then there was the small rainbow pin pushed into one corner. No, it would be better to take everything off and put it in a box to be sorted through later.

  “Emma!” Zack came sauntering into the room and slammed the door behind him. “How goes the packing?” he asked, his voice somewhat gentler now that he had taken in the empty shelves before him.

  Emerson gave his friend a wan smile. “All right. It’s not like I have that much to put away. I’ve only been here one term.”

  Zack arched an eyebrow. “It’s amazing how much shit a man can collect in only four months.” Emerson found he couldn’t argue with that. It was true. He had been very surprised at how much more he had to pack up to bring home than he had first packed up to bring here.

  The cork board emptied, Emerson placed all the pages in an old shoebox and then dumped the pins in with them. He’d most likely be putting many of the pictures back on it once he got home anyway.

  “So,” Zack began, “when’s your mom getting here to pick you up?”

  Emerson cleared his throat awkwardly. “She’s not. I told her not to bother, that I could manage on my own. Besides, I’ve got you to help me pack up the car, right?”

  Zack let out a snort, but he also smiled and slapped Emerson on the shoulder, so Emerson took it as a yes.

  It wasn’t until Zack was carting boxes down the stairs and loading them into Emerson’s car that Emerson found the letters. They were carefully stacked one atop the other and hidden away in the bottom drawer of his night table. Emerson stared at the pile of paper for a long moment. He should throw them out, he thought vaguely. That would be the best idea. After all, what good were a few letters with everything that was going on? When his life was falling apart and Jonah was who knew where?

  Emerson pulled the letters from the drawer and flipped through them. He couldn’t help the smile at seeing, once again, all the different colors of paper that Jonah had used to write his letters. Jonah, it seemed, was in the terrible habit of composing letters in strange places and on whatever piece of paper he could find first. The second letter, much to Emerson’s surprise when he first saw it, had been scrawled on the back of an advertisement for psychic readings. He wondered now, as he had then, where Jonah had picked the flyer up, if he had been tempted to have his aura read or his future told.

  Emerson let out a sigh and shook his head. No, he couldn’t throw these out. They were, like it or not, the only ties he had to Jonah these days. The only ties he had to the boy who had been, for so long
, his closest friend. Emerson tossed the letters into the shoebox with his deconstructed bulletin board.

  A few hours later, Emerson was pulling into the driveway. He turned off the engine but didn’t get out of the car. It was stupid—he knew it even as he sat there—to avoid entering the house. He knew that sitting in the car for a few minutes longer wasn’t going to make a difference, that when he walked in, things would still be the same. His mother would still be crying, his sister would still look pale and fragile, and his dad would still be absent.

  With one last sigh, Emerson opened the car door and, picking up a couple of bags, made his way to the front door. It wouldn’t do to put this off any longer. He was home, and he was there to stay, and it was time to get used to that.

  Reluctantly, he opened the door and entered the house slowly. He set his bags down in the entrance. Then, instead of going back out to the car—he could empty it later—he headed toward the kitchen. There, he found his mother. She was crying.

  Emerson wondered if he could back out of the room unseen. Some days it felt like all he did was discover his mother crying. She always appeared to have been mid-chore or -act when suddenly the tears would hit her, and she would be unable to finish making tea or cleaning the windows or cooking supper. Despite these numerous experiences, Emerson was still at a loss for how to deal with it. He always felt so awkward about it. Parents weren’t supposed to cry like this. It was their job to deal with crying children, not the other way around.

  “Oh, Emerson, I didn’t hear you come in,” his mother said, wiping the tears off her face. So much for making his escape.

  “Just got in,” he explained. Still he stood in the kitchen doorway, wondering how best to proceed. Should he just pretend he hadn’t found her standing in front of the kitchen sink, glass in one hand and the other pressed to her mouth while tears slid rapidly down her cheeks?