Manhattan

by Steiner, Kandi

  But I wouldn’t leave until I had everyone else in order, first.

  I was already working on my father, teaching him how to make his way around the kitchen and reminding him what days to pay which bills, even though he assured me he was an adult and could do everything just fine without me. After all, he’d reminded me, he did somehow survive before I started taking care of him.

  But he had Mom, then.

  I knew he would be okay, but it was the worrier in me, the caretaker and giver who couldn’t be quieted. I needed to be sure he would eat a well-balanced meal and get out of the house and not just work and then go home to be alone. I even called Michael’s mom and asked if she’d look after him in my absence, check on him from time to time, visit.

  My stomach dropped at the thought of that conversation — one I asked her to keep private from Mikey. Lorelei had listened to my side of everything that had happened, just like I imagined my own mom would have, if she were here. But the best thing about Lorelei was that she didn’t push or pry, she just assured me everything would be okay, and told me she loved me and was proud of me.

  I’d held onto that conversation all week.

  Still, I’d felt stronger on Thursday than I did that Saturday evening walking into the nursing home. On Thursday, I was four days clean. On Thursday, I was on my way to recovery.

  But on Thursday evening, I saw him. I heard him beg for me to forgive him, to understand, to believe in us.

  And that had cracked my heart right in half again.

  Because I wanted him more than anything in my life, but I refused to be second place.

  With another jolt of pain in my chest, I pulled the handle on the nursing home door, slapping on my best smile as I strode into the main hallway. Immediately, I noted that it was too quiet, too still.

  Annie sat at the front desk as usual, and she smiled at me. “Hey there, sunshine. Don’t you just look like a field of daisies today.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll pretend that was a compliment and not a passive insult.” I swept my eyes down each hall, not finding a single soul. One glance out the back door behind her showed no one in the garden, either. “Is it universal nap time or something?”

  Annie smirked. “Oh, you didn’t hear? A gracious donor paid for a tour bus to take all the residents down to the Single Barrel Soirée,” she explained. “They’ve been gone about an hour now.”

  My shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

  “It’s okay,” Annie said, patting my hand when she noted my disappointment. “I think you’ll find you’re still needed around here today.”

  I quirked a brow. “Do you need me to clean or something?”

  Annie said nothing, just smiled her classic rosy-cheek, gap-toothed smile before she opened the little drawer under her computer. There was a small, gold envelope in her hands when they emerged, and she placed it on the counter, sliding it toward me.

  “For you,” she explained. “From the donor.”

  I frowned, shaking my head. “I don’t understand.”

  But Annie was already gathering her purse, her lunch box, and she paused with both in her hand before she looked at me again. “It’s my dinner break. I’ll be back in an hour. Hold down the fort for me?”

  “But, Annie—” I tried, but she was already striding toward the door in her butterfly-covered scrubs. She threw up a hand in a wave behind her, slipped out the front door, and then it was just me.

  Alone.

  Silent.

  I looked down both halls again, heart unsteady as if it could already sense something I wasn’t aware of. Then, I looked at the envelope in my hands.

  Slipping my index finger under the flap, I pulled gently until it gave way, revealing a small, folded note inside. As soon as I opened it, my heart stopped.

  It was Mikey’s handwriting.

  Kylie,

  I want to start this letter off by telling you that I heard you loud and clear when you asked me to leave you alone, and as you should know from years of being my best friend, I am nothing if not true to my word.

  But before I can do what you asked, I have to do what my heart is asking of me, first.

  This summer, you made a list of epic adventures for me. You took me all around town in an effort to remind me why Stratford was my home.

  Well, now it’s your turn for an adventure.

  If you hate me, if reading these words makes you so angry your eyes are crossing in that adorable way they do when you’re pissed, and if you would rather jump off the water tower than hear one more thing I have to say — I understand. You can simply light this note on fire and walk right out the door, and I will do as you asked. I’ll leave you alone.

  But, if there’s even one small part of you that’s filled with hope right now, if your chest is light and fluttery, if your heart is beating faster and urging you to take the adventure route… then follow this first clue to start your scavenger hunt.

  Your idiot,

  Mikey

  A smile found my lips at the signature, but I frowned again at the clue written beneath it.

  To start again, you must go back to the beginning.

  I folded the note, holding it in my hands as I looked around me. There was still no one in sight, and as much as I wished it, there was no neon sign with RIGHT ANSWER flashing on it, either.

  I was alone.

  And the decision was mine.

  I bit my lip, opening the note again to re-read what he had written. My eyes stuck on the part about walking out the door, about his promise to truly leave me alone, if that was my move.

  But my heart pounded furiously in my chest at the thought.

  The truth was I couldn’t walk away from him — not now, maybe not ever. And certainly not before I figured out what that damn clue meant.

  My competitive side kicked in, and I dropped my bag and Tervis of coffee on the counter before I read over the clue again, frowning. “Back to the beginning…” I said out loud, looking around as I tried to decode the meaning.

  The front door?

  I looked behind me, making my way down the short hall and looking around the entrance.

  Nothing.

  I hung a hand on my hip, brain practically smoking as the wheels turned. Then, I remembered my orientation, the story of the nursing home’s founding mother — a woman by the name of Gertrude Heisentower, who had built and opened the nursing home in 1982.

  There was a plaque in her honor in the garden.

  My feet moved quickly, hands pushing the garden doors open, and as soon as I was surrounded by the walls of ivy and beds of flowers and vegetables, I saw it.

  A gold paper-covered shoe box — right under the plaque.

  I shoved the first note in my pocket, carefully removing the top of the box as if opening it too quickly would set off an alarm or cause a bomb to explode. But neither happened, and instead, I was greeted with an old, worn photo of me and Mikey.

  We were eight years old.

  I covered my mouth, eyes scanning the photo as my heart did backflips in my chest. It was taken on school picture day by the teacher in charge of the yearbook, and I remembered it being taken like it had only happened moments ago. Mikey was the same height as me then, but his arm was slung around my shoulder like he was taller. Mine was around his waist. Both of us were crossing our eyes, and I had my tongue stuck out as we waited in line for our official school photo to be taken.

  The smile that bloomed on my face was effortless as I reached for the photo, revealing a rainbow-colored, broken bracelet and another note underneath it. I picked up the bracelet first, giggling as my fingers smoothed over the worn thread. Then, I read the note.

  You are my best friend.

  I never could have known that first day we met on the playground just how much you would mean to me, but I think a part of me felt it on the day you gave me this bracelet. You’d stayed up all night making it — using a flashlight under the covers, just in case, so your dad wouldn’t ground you. This picture wa
s taken on the first day I wore it, and I wore it every day after until four years later when it broke and I tucked it into my desk drawer at home, keeping it safe.

  I love that about you.

  I love that you are always thinking of others, that you make homemade gifts and cook for your father and volunteer any spare time you get and pay for strangers’ ice cream.

  I chuckled, emotion swelling in my chest.

  There is no one in this world more giving than you.

  Now, ready for your second clue?

  I set the photo and bracelet back in the box, reading the clue on the note out loud. “You are just as sweet as your all-time favorite treat.” I rolled my eyes. “Michael Becker with the cheese, ladies and gentlemen.”

  But I was already smiling as I made my way back inside, on track for the row of vending machines just outside the cafeteria. They were the only place you could find a Kit Kat — and since my favorite caramels from the next town over weren’t anywhere near the nursing home, I knew my second favorite candy had to be what the clue was referring to.

  As soon as I rounded the corner of the hallway that led to the café, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Oh, my God…”

  The vending machines had been transformed, the glass of all three completely covered with old notes and photos of the two of us. My feet moved slower, eyes trailing each photo, each memory as I made my way down the rest of the hallway to the machines. I laughed out loud at one of the photos on the left one — a picture of me and Mikey sitting in his bed, playing video games, wrappers of candy and chips littered around us. I had my hair in a messy bun, Mikey looked like he hadn’t showered in weeks, and I was a mouth full of braces smiling up at the camera where his mom was snapping the photo.

  It was the day we had a video game marathon, a rainy Saturday that we were supposed to spend at the lake.

  Inch after inch, photo after photo, all three machines told our story. There were freshman homecoming photos, the tie of his tux matching the ugly coral dress I’d thought was a great idea at the time. We ditched that homecoming, but not before we got a few horrible photos, first.

  There were shots of us down at the lake, camping with my dad, continuing the tradition he’d started with my mom. There were pictures of us when we were ten, laughing as we slid down the home-made slip-n-slide we’d built in his backyard that summer, and ones from when we were thirteen, each of us lanky and awkward, our skin broken out and smiles uneasy on the first day of eighth grade.

  I found the notes next — dozens and dozens of old, faded notebook paper with our handwriting scrawled in different color ink. The pages were ripped and worn from being folded over and over, and it switched back and forth between his handwriting and mine. They were the notes we passed between classes, sometimes in class, the timing of them ranging from that first year we met, all the way up to our last year in school. I chuckled at the one sheet of black notebook paper with white and green gel pen ink lining it — an obsession I’d had when we were in fifth grade.

  Right in the middle of it all was another golden envelope, and I peeled it off the glass, sliding my thumb under the flap to reveal the note inside.

  If you’ll notice, there is a theme to the photos here — they are all awkward as fuck.

  I laughed, glancing up at the myriad of photos again before I continued.

  We grew up together, Kylie. From braces and puberty to homecoming dances and high school graduation, we’ve been through it all. And no matter what stage of life we were in, you were always so unapologetically you.

  I love that about you.

  I love that you burp louder than me, that you never worry about putting on makeup before we go somewhere, that I was the first person you called when you got your period and that you were the first person I confessed an inconvenient teenage boner to. By the way — I still shiver when I think of walking down the hall that day, holding my science textbook over my crotch like I could hide it.

  Another laugh bubbled out of me, and my eyes filled with tears from the hilarious memory.

  I love that you’re the only person in the world who was sad to get your braces off, and that you had absolutely zero shame in Googling “How to shave pubic hair” on my mom’s computer. As embarrassing as all these photos and notes and memories may seem now, they were a part of us, of our journey, and I love that I got to experience every single awkward moment with you.

  Emotion strangled my throat as I let the note fall, eyes rolling up to the ceiling to stop myself from crying. Then, I read the next clue, and away I went.

  The scavenger hunt covered the entire nursing home, from the game room to the music room and back again. And each new stop held new memories, new photos, new remnants of our life together. He’d even covered Betty’s room — hanging pictures from strings attached to the ceiling so they appeared like they were floating.

  Each new clue led to a new time in our life, and each new note relayed something he loved about me — about us.

  I love that you never take no for an answer.

  I love that my mom loves you more than she loves me.

  I love that you know every word to Greased Lightnin’.

  I love that you dressed up as Baby Groot for Halloween last year.

  I love that you don’t see how devastatingly beautiful you are.

  By the time I made it to the final clue — one that was taped under a chair in the theatre room — my cheeks were stained with dried tears and my stomach hurt from a mixture of laughing too hard and feeling like I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t place the emotion swelling inside me, only that it was powerful, and that it was one-of-a-kind.

  It was the emotion only he could pull from me.

  I swiped my cheeks before I read the last note.

  Do you remember when I got so mad at you for beating me over and over in Halo that I grabbed your Razor flip phone and broke it in half? You were so furious with me… for about three seconds, and then you laughed and teased me for being a sore loser and, most importantly — you forgave me.

  I love that about you.

  I love that no matter how many times I prove to you that I’m an idiot, you somehow see past my stupidity to who I really am. You know me better than anyone else in this world, and for that reason alone, you forgive me.

  I know I don’t deserve it. I know the way I treated you, the things I said to you last weekend firmly fall in the do not forgive category. But, I’m praying you will, anyway.

  I’m praying you’ll find it in your heart to remember who I am, to trust what your gut tells you about how I feel about you, and how I feel about us.

  And more than anything, I hope that you’ll give me one last chance to prove to you that I mean what I say, that I’m not just a mouthful of words and empty promises.

  Let me show you this is real.

  Come to the pool.

  My throat tightened as I lowered the note, still clutching it in my hands as my eyes rolled up to the ceiling. Every muscle in my body was tense and tight, my chest aching, broken heart somehow beating faster as if to warn me.

  Or maybe, to urge me.

  Because in that moment, there wasn’t a single cell in my body that told me to run.

  There wasn’t a single thought or feeling other than go to him, find him, be with him.

  And so, I listened.

  Wads of notes and clues stuffed in my jean pockets, I tore through the nursing home, practically running to the back door that led to the pool. The closer I got, the more I heard the faint sound of music, and when I pushed through and emerged outside, I heard it clear as day.

  I followed the sound of Rascal Flatts, sneakers hitting the concrete faster with each step until I reached the wooden gate. I unlatched the lock, shoved the gate door open, and froze.

  The sun was starting to slowly set, the sky a mix of purples and oranges and pinks. Those colors reflected in the pool, which was illuminated by a maze of hanging white lights strewn above it — the same white
lights he’d hung in his backyard on the anniversary of my mom’s death. Each strand criss-crossed from one end of the fence to the other.

  “Bless the Broken Road” played from a speaker propped on one of the lounge chairs, and the photos that hung from strings tied to the lights over the pool seemed to dance in the breeze to the tune, little pictures of us at all ages, hundreds and hundreds of memories.

  And then, there was Mikey.

  He stood at the opposite end of the pool, dressed in the same tuxedo he’d worn to junior prom, one hand in his pocket and a bouquet of my favorite flowers in the other.

  Daffodils.

  His eyes pinned me to where I stood, the green and gold of them shining in the warm lights he’d hung above us. He wore a soft, tentative smile, and his heart on his sleeve.

  Slowly, I let the gate door close behind me, and I kept my eyes locked on his as my feet carried me blindly toward him. My heart raced more with every step, palms damp where they folded in on themselves at my side, and when I stood just a few feet from him, I stopped, watching him.

  Waiting.

  It was truly unfair how handsome he looked in that moment. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the tux. Or maybe it was just him — his messy hair, his unkept scruff, his bent nose and square jaw and soft smirk that tugged his lips to one side. But when I looked closer, I saw the bags under his eyes that matched mine, and the proof that he hadn’t been sleeping either.

  He swallowed, holding the bouquet of flowers toward me. “Your favorite.”

  I managed a smile. “Thank you.”

  Silence stretched between us, save for the new song that was playing now — George Strait, “I Cross My Heart” — and Mikey grabbed the back of his neck nervously, cringing a little as he looked around us.

  “This is all a little cheesy, huh?”