When I Think of You

by Rosa Sophia

  I am also jealous, and that makes me sick to my stomach.

  I write, and nothing ever seems to come of it. My words fall apart on the page, slain by my own self-doubt. I can’t finish a single story, and if I do, the ending is always hackneyed.

  Until tonight.

  After lunch with Roberta, I go home in a daze, thinking about my mom and realizing I miss her. I miss Juno Beach, and the café I used to frequent. I miss Carlin Park, Jupiter Inlet, and I even miss that nutty lady with the garbage bag who is always picking up cig butts.

  I never thought I would miss South Florida, but I do.

  I also miss Wes.

  I sit down in front of my computer and start writing. I keep going, my fingers dancing across the keys as if I have something to prove to myself.

  It is evening, then it is nighttime. Ten o’clock, twelve. Morning comes quickly. I am still writing, I can’t stop. Something has control of me, something deep inside that needs to get out.

  I finish the story around six in the morning. Bleary-eyed, hungry, exhausted.

  I eat a bowl of cereal, then set my alarm and crash onto my bed in my clothes.

  It seems as if only minutes pass before my alarm is going off, and then my phone is ringing.

  Roberta. The book festival.

  I get up, shower, and change. For some reason, I feel refreshed. Then I remember what I did last night.

  I finally finished something. And it feels good.

  ***

  The festival is along the same lines as the Miami Book Fair, and I’m excited to go. Crowds gather for the events, and tables line the walls.

  Somebody says Carl Hiaasen is there, but it turns out to be a joke.

  Roberta and I laugh and talk as if we’ve known each other since we were kids; I sort of wish that were the case. Today she’s wearing a cute little blue hat her father made, and a matching outfit with jeans. When she’s excited like this, it’s difficult to imagine her as the broken little girl from the ACA meeting. I wonder if she knows how much she has to offer.

  “Hang on!” She grabs my arm, yanking me back, and we both giggle for a reason I cannot fathom.

  “What? Jeez!”

  “Little girls’ room,” she exclaims, gesturing to her left.

  I nod in understanding. “I’ll wait here.”

  She skips off and I turn, looking around.

  An awkward sensation passes over me. With nothing to do but stand there as people walk by, I clasp my hands and let my gaze wander. Across the way, to the right, is a beautiful, distinguished looking older lady with blonde and silver hair, clad in a bright red blazer. Thin-rimmed glasses perch on her triangular nose. She swipes her curls over her shoulder as she leans forward to sign a book, then hands it to the person before her. He thanks her by shaking her hand, and the next person steps up.

  I have no idea who she is, but she must have a lot of fans.

  There’s a booth nearby selling t-shirts. To my left, I spot a group of ladies representing the local chapter of the Editorial Freelancers Association.

  Word lovers wander by carrying bags of newly purchased books.

  Then I whip my head around when I spot someone familiar.

  The first thing I see is the hint of a bouncing brown curl, then a wide smile. He’s got his own table, and as he rises from his seat there’s no mistaking him. He’s casually slipping his thumb into the belt loop of his jeans, his black blazer slipping open to reveal a white button-up shirt.

  Nervousness passes through me as my skin tingles and I take a deep breath.

  That’s when he sees me.

  Wes sees me.

  Chapter 9

  Eleven years ago

  Late at night, I slip into my closet and retrieve the whiskey I got from Woody. He didn’t ask me why I wanted it; I guess he already knew. We keep our friendship away from Brett, now that he won’t talk to me anymore.

  Can I blame him?

  I didn’t want to hurt him, so I hid things from him. The thought of causing him pain was too much to bear, so I withdrew.

  And then one day he walked into my bedroom and found Allen on top of me, suckling my breast.

  Sometimes I think about when I was little, my earliest memories, how I played with my stuffed animals and made people up in my head. How I created entire worlds in my mind, universes that drew me away from the chaos before me, away from my mother and her wine, away from the kids at school who pulled my hair and threw food at me during lunch.

  It seems like just a few minutes ago. I marvel at how easily things have changed, how I’ve grown, and now I have a woman’s body with curves and hair between my legs and urges I never realized could exist until now.

  Urges that make me want to break things, make me want to die. Sometimes I want to die like Mom does. Did she give me that longing? Was it passed on while I slept inside her womb?

  How quickly time passes, turning me from a small child with no cares into a young woman who causes pain. A woman who hurts those around her. A woman who destroys.

  I sit on my bed with my back pressed against the headboard. I stare at the mattress.

  The metallic cap sings a song as it rubs against the glass, and I place the cap beside me. I stare at the liquid before I lift the bottle to my mouth and drink.

  This is where he raped me.

  I don’t think I’ll ever forget. But will I heal?

  ***

  I hate myself for lying, so when Brett agrees to talk to me, to listen, I decide to tell him the truth. About the advice Mom gave me.

  “Then go out with him.”

  “But wouldn’t that be lying? I mean, wouldn’t that be cheating?”

  Mom shrugs. “Depends on your perspective.”

  Now Brett hates my mother, and I can’t really blame him. That sweet boy who sleeps in the back of the room during English class won’t talk to me anymore. My heart aches; it’s been torn apart. And I did it. I broke my own heart. I’m beginning to think I deserve it, this pain that courses through every vein in my body, making me weak.

  The image of Brett’s tear-stained face follows me every moment of every day. I’ve never known such pain, but everything else is still the same. I come home in the evenings, and Mom is right where she always is, in the living room drinking wine, staring into thin air as if she’s examining every weakness in her life, every part of herself she despises.

  I cannot get comfort from her. She shakes her head in sorrow when I tell her about Brett, how I lost him.

  “What do I know?” she mutters, taking a drag of her cigarette. “I don’t know about love.”

  I hold her close, and cry against her shoulder.

  Some evenings, I have dinner with Jenny and her family. Her mother is a sweet woman who almost seems too good to be true; I am always looking for flaws, but I don’t see them. Her parents get along, they listen to each other. Her father, Mayor Tomlin, has always been kind to me. I wonder what it’s like to have parents who are there for you.

  Every night, I sleep on top of a nightmare. The place where it happened. Where my childhood was taken away from me, where the monster used me and threw me away like trash.

  I hear Mom’s television playing in her bedroom, and I want to go in there and scream.

  I consider what I would say to her if I knew she would listen, but I don’t have the right words. Everything is so jumbled up inside me. I know something is wrong, something is very, very wrong, but I cannot put my finger on it.

  How do I know what needs to change if I’ve never known anything else?

  The answer is: I don’t.

  Chapter 10

  I haven’t seen him since the night we made love. The night I learned to be intimate again. Since then, I haven’t been with anyone else. I choose to be alone because I’m afraid. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and sometimes I think that’s all I ever do. Cause pain in myself and others.

  Every choice I make is some kind of self-induced punishment, but I never see it until it’s too l
ate. I never know how much I’m hurting until I realize I’ve used a Band-Aid on a wound that needs stitches.

  I dated one other man briefly after Allen and I were together for a year. Nothing seemed right.

  I break what I touch, and I think of when I was little and I shoved all of Mom’s shade plants off a table in the living room because I wanted to use that space. I wanted it, ignored how she might feel. I broke her, I broke myself.

  I break things.

  “Wes.” I whisper his name, maybe because I don’t believe I deserve to say it. He’s on one side of the table, I’m on the other. We’re separated by piles of books, there are hundreds of people all around us. All of a sudden I wish they were gone, vanished, I wish I were alone with him. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

  “Nina…what did you say?” He steps around the table, his smile just as alluring as I recall. For a moment I forget the words that passed between us when I walked away, told him I couldn’t handle this. Woke up beside him and left him there. I thought I was leaving everything behind, being strong. But instead I was weakened by the deep-seated thought that no one could ever love me, that I wasn’t good enough.

  Instead of saying all those things that are passing through my mind, I ask him how he’s doing.

  “Fine. How about you?” He tilts his head to the side, piercing me with his sharp brown eyes.

  It happens at the same moment, we both step forward into each other’s embrace.

  “I missed you,” I murmur.

  “You didn’t have to leave, you know.”

  “I did.” I lean back, looking into his eyes. “I did have to leave, I wish you could understand.”

  He runs his finger along my chin, gently caressing me, and everyone disappears. The crowds, the tables, the signs, the people with their wallets out, their bags of books. Everything is gone except us.

  “I see a woman who lets fear run her life,” he says, peering deeply into me, penetrating me with his gaze. “I see someone who needs to stop running.”

  “How can you be nice to me after—”

  “That? You mean, when you said you didn’t want to see me anymore?” He shakes his head, chuckling. “You were full of shit.”

  My dreams return to me. The vision of a past life with him, a life where he died and I lost him. My heart aches. I remember what he told me, that he dreamt of me before we met. The very night before. The entirety of it is too much to bear; the idea of fate is preposterous, something I’m not certain I can accept.

  “Do you like it here?”

  “Hmm?” I look back into his eyes, lost in thought.

  “Do you like living in North Carolina?”

  “Yeah. It’s all right. Something’s missing, though. I…I’m not sure what it is.”

  “You have to be inspired by where you are. If you aren’t inspired, something’s wrong.”

  “Maybe that’s it.”

  “Have you thought about going back to Florida?”

  “I can’t…”

  “Why not?”

  “I just—”

  Before I can finish what I was saying, he jerks his head up and calls out, “Coming!” He looks back at me, kisses me softly on the cheek. “Maybe I’ll see you soon.”

  In moments, he’s rushed off, and I’m standing there again. Awkward. A motionless statue amidst warm bodies that wander back and forth.

  A single thought enters my mind: Something’s gotta change.

  “Hey, Nina!” a melodic voice calls out. When I turn, it’s Roberta, standing there in her little knit hat with a cute smile beneath her bright eyes and small nose. “Sorry that took so long, there was a line in the bathroom.”

  “It’s cool.” We start to walk, and I glance around in search of him. He’s gone.

  “You okay?” Roberta taps me gently on the arm.

  “Oh, sorry. Yeah. I’m fine. Just…saw somebody I know, that’s all.”

  I don’t elaborate, and Roberta doesn’t ask. For the rest of the day, I’m lost in thought, continually recalling the sensation of his arms around me.

  Can I go back? Can I really go back?

  Chapter 11

  Eleven years ago

  I wonder why it seems so familiar.

  The pushing and pulling, the endless battle, as I tug Allen closer to me while we walk on the beach. The desperate sensation rises within me, but I cannot name it. All I know is it makes me want to scream, it makes me want to slip into the ocean until my eyes become glassy and my body bloats.

  “Fuck! What is wrong with you?” He pulls away from me, stumbling backward, and the light of the full moon seems to turn him into a different person. Or maybe it’s what is inside him that has turned him into someone I’ve never met before.

  “I…Allen, I just can’t…”

  “Fuck.” He shakes his head, his messy hair slipping over his eyes. His lean, muscular body lurches forward, and for a moment he almost reminds me of the monster who raped me. But that cannot be right, because Allen has told me how much he loves me. He says he wants to marry me.

  Something is different now. We all laugh, my friends and I, when we see Allen with his bottle of whiskey. “Ah, there he goes again!” we joke, shaking our heads at his predilection for fine liquor.

  But it isn’t funny anymore. I’m not sure why.

  Allen is quiet. I reach out to touch him, and for a moment he relaxes against my hand.

  “Nina, why…why are you doing this to me?”

  “I can’t explain it,” I whisper, my words almost lost by the rising breeze on the beach. Behind us, the sea grapes murmur and I can almost hear phrases emerging from those young limbs, the tired leaves fluttering, some falling as if they can no longer handle the pressure of the wind. “I just don’t feel the same anymore.”

  He whips his head around, shrieking, “Goddamn it, I gave you everything!”

  “Allen, please, someone will hear you!” I look toward the road, knowing the police would surely be called if someone thought something was wrong.

  “I don’t fucking care,” he says between gritted teeth, but he lowers his voice anyway.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?” he barks.

  “The other night, when we hung out, why did you…” The bottle of whiskey flashes through my mind. “Why did you sob like that, what was wrong? You never told me.”

  “I don’t fucking know, why does it matter?”

  All I know is I’m tired of looking after him in the evenings when we get together. Our date nights have turned into babysitting sessions wherein he spends more time insulting me than anything else. I am not sure why, but he never remembers what he says in the morning.

  “If we get married, and you get fat, I’ll never have sex with you again,” he’d told me. Those words made my heart shrivel up; I must not be good enough to love, or he wouldn’t say those things. My looks must be all I have going for me, and that isn’t saying much. I ate very little at dinner this evening, and now I am hungry. Standing here on the beach, my stomach grumbles, but I ignore it.

  “Did you meet someone else?” he growls, turning and glaring at me.

  “No.” I almost wish I had. Then I would have a simple reason. Instead, my only reason is I’m uncomfortable, that something is wrong and I cannot explain it. Something is broken but I don’t know how to fix it, and I’m not sure I want to try.

  Allen stares at me for a long moment as if considering my response, and he finally spits out, “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true.” My breath is coming shorter now as I dig my toes into the sand. “Please believe me, there’s no one else, I just can’t do this anymore.” Before I can stop them, tears are streaming down my cheeks and I can hardly breathe. I gasp for air as Allen looks at me with pure disgust. “Please, please believe me…”

  “You’re not dumping me.” He leans in so close I can feel his breath on my face. “I’m dumping you. Fuck off.” And with that, he turns on his heel, walking away into t
he darkness.

  I stare after him for the longest time, frozen in place. The only sound is the whispering of the ocean beside me, a constant companion.

  Then I break down, slipping against the sand, sobbing until I have nothing left. After what seems like a long time, I realize Allen drove us here, and I’m stuck.

  I have to walk home.

  I wonder why this sensation seems so familiar, this dull sense of responsibility. I cannot help but think I failed somehow, failed Allen. What have I done?

  Something must be wrong with me, not him. Something is wrong inside me.

  I am broken.

  And I don’t know how to fix me.

  Chapter 12

  During my Monday night ACA meeting, I learn it’s okay that I’m not perfect, and Roberta says it all the time. But Mom says the opposite, that I should strive for perfection.

  My flaws are like a torn pair of jeans I’ve been hiding in my closet all my life, and now I’m wearing them every day, every moment, wearing them with pride. It frightens me.

  I raise my hand to share. The group leader acknowledges me, and I shuffle my feet on the linoleum. “Hi, I…I’m Nina.”

  “Hello, Nina,” everyone in the room says. They’re all looking at me with such compassion, it’s almost too much to handle.

  “I realized something. I…I miss home.” I pause, considering my words. “I’m from Florida. I moved here over a year ago to get away from my mom, but I think I was just so desperate I would’ve done anything. My whole life, I’ve been taking care of people, and I always end up around alcoholics. I almost became an alcoholic myself, I think.”

  My mind flashes back to high school, then to Allen. “I used to date a guy who drank liquor all the time, but it never occurred to me that he was an alcoholic. All I knew was something didn’t feel right with him. I mean, he was a bad drunk, and I had to look after him. But I was so used to doing those things anyway, that I never even…I never thought it was strange. I thought it was normal, that I should take care of him. That it would be wrong of me not to, even when he was mean to me.