The Best of Me

by Karlee Michelle

  “It’s only easy like that when you know you did enough to save them.”

  Tristan glances at me with a tight smile and nods his head.

  “Am I dropping you off at Mom and Dad’s or?”

  “Mom didn’t tell you?!” He’s shocked.

  “Tell me what? No one has told me anything.”

  “I got my own place. It’s a hole in the wall, but it’s mine. I paid for it with my own money that I worked for. Legally, might I add.”

  I bark out a laugh and slap his arm, squeezing and shaking it. “That’s incredible! That’s awesome, Tristan. Damn.”

  “Thanks. It feels good. It’ll feel even better when I can get an even nicer place.”

  “I’m sure. But use this. Let it keep motivating you. I’m proud of you man.” I mean it, I really am proud of how far he’s come.

  “I just got the keys today. I was going to call you tomorrow when I move in, break in the new pad.”

  “Count me in.” Nothing could wipe the smile off my face because I couldn’t be prouder of my brother.

  metanoia—the journey of changing

  one’s heart, self, mind, or way of life

  Emery

  He upgraded to fancy paper. The soft linen between my fingers feels oddly comforting. Once I unfold the letter, my eyes eagerly eat up the words.

  I did it. I finally fucking did it. I’m living on my own. As much as I should be excited, I’m fucking terrified. It’s just me left to my own devices. It’s peculiar. I’m free but still trapped inside the cage in my mind, hitting and kicking the bars as my screams echo between my ears. Desperate to be set free. But at the same time, if I’m the one with the key, why won’t I unlock the cage? I think it’s because I’m too scared to come face-to-face with the demons I battle and living by myself brings me that much closer to them.

  I’m not with my brother or parents. Which I shouldn’t be, anyways. I’m a grown ass man, but I’ve depended on everyone around me to pick up my pieces. Take me to rehab. Hell, force me to go to rehab. And that last high? I hit rock bottom. I finally became so uncomfortable with where I was in life, and I’m doing the hardest thing I can do.

  I’m taking responsibility.

  p.s. Espresso at night does not count as taking chances. Good God.

  I laugh out loud at his last sentence. Taking my favorite pen, I think about his words and how I relate to them in a different way. Then I put the tip on my paper and write.

  I took a chance. A crazy one. I made a friend. At first, he asked me out, and I froze up. A literal statue. It was embarrassing, and I’m sure he felt mortified. But the thought of a relationship right now scares the hell out of me. So, when I walked into a diner and saw him sitting at the counter, disheveled and alone, I sat next to him. And here’s the crazy part. I really enjoyed myself.

  I could use a friend, and his light, playful demeanor pouring from his rough exterior is like a breath of fresh air. It’s nice to have someone look at me like I’m just me. Not me, the widow. I hate that word.

  Widow.

  I’ve been given that title, and I don’t want it. I want to rip it up and throw it away because it forever defines me as a woman who lost her husband. The thought of that makes the blood boil in my veins because one, my husband means so much more than that, and two…I mean more than that.

  Although I want to tell you to unlock the cage and face your demons, I can’t because I’m hiding from mine in every shadow I see, bouncing from this corner to the next. But I’m doing what I have to do to survive.

  Does that make me a coward?

  p.s. Give yourself a little grace. Find a hobby. I’m going to start growing veggies when the snow clears.

  p.s.s. I could kill a fake plant.

  My letter makes me uncomfortable. The thought of uncovering the ugly parts of myself and coming face to face with my reality is terrifying. Nothing more, nothing less—it’s absolutely petrifying. A defeated sigh leaves me, and I bundle up to take my letter to the mailbox. It’s weird having this anonymous pen pal, especially knowing we possibly live so close by according to his PO Box. I look at every person I come into contact with so closely, paying attention to everything they say to see if they are the person on the other end of these letters. The sound of my phone snaps me from my thoughts. I look down and laugh as I read the text

  Mason: What’s the hardest part about eating vegetables?

  Me: Oh no. Not another joke.

  Mason: Chewing the wheelchair.

  Me: Oh. My. GOD.

  Mason: Hahahaha.

  Me: MASON BAYLOR.

  Me: I honestly don’t even know what to say to that lmao.

  Mason: That one's gonna stay with ya.

  Me: Not by choice, that’s for sure.

  Mason: What are you doing right now?

  Me: Thinking about how when the snow clears, I’m going to start a veggie garden. Maybe flowers. I love daisies. But I have a problem.

  Mason: What’s that?

  Me: I could kill a fake plant.

  Mason: Huh. Well, good luck with that. If it works, I want a watermelon.

  Mason: Actually, no. Cantaloupe. Cantaloupe is the superior fruit.

  Me: Your confidence in me is astounding.

  Me: What are you doing right now?

  Mason: [IMG]

  Mason: Drooling over those fucking leather boots.

  Me: LOL. You’re worse than a girl.

  I wait for his reply, but it doesn’t come. After a few minutes, I set my phone down, assuming he’d gotten busy. Right when I pull away, my phone rings, and it’s Mason calling me.

  “Well, howdy.” Why do I say the dumbest things?

  His deep chuckle assaults my ears. “Howdy, partna.”

  “Shut up.” I mock him with my face even though he can’t see me.

  He laughs louder this time, and I smile. “Want to watch a movie? I’m bored.”

  “Does that mean I’m your last choice of entertainment? I’m flattered.” My voice is monotone, letting him know how unimpressed I am.

  “Nah. You’re the coolest friend I have.”

  “Hopefully you have a lot of friends.”

  “One or two. They’re working though,” he jokes, and I laugh.

  “You’re such a jerk.”

  “What do ya say, Emery Jean? BFF movie night? I’ll even let you pick.”

  The way my name drips off his voice makes me a bit dizzy. “Um.” I’m silent for a second, and so is he, which I appreciate. He’s not trying to convince me or backtrack; he’s just letting me decide. Take a chance. You’re just friends anyways. “O-okay. Yeah. Movie night.”

  “Sweeeeeet. My place or yours?” The thought of another man in my home feels like a BIG step. One I’m definitely not ready for.

  “Yours. What should I bring?”

  “Just you. I’m gonna order food. What do you like?”

  “I’ll eat anything. I’m not picky. Just no black olives.” Gross.

  “Ew, I’m not a heathen.”

  “Thank God.” I make sure to dramatize it.

  “What do you like on your pizza?”

  “I don’t think you're ready for this conversation,” I admit with a smile on my face.

  “You’re a pineapple person, aren’t you?”

  “I sure am.” Now I’m waiting for the speech that pineapples don’t belong on pizza.

  “I should’ve known something would cause a divide in this friendship.” There it is.

  I laugh. “Hey, you asked.”

  “I’m regretting that now. Do you like cheesecake?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  Mason laughs loudly. “Atta girl. Okay, I’ll text you my address. What time are you getting here?” He’s so relaxed, and I don’t know how because my nerves are growing by the second.

  I check my phone, and it’s three p.m. “How does five-ish sound?”

  “Sounds good-ish. See you in a bit.”

  “See you in a bit,” I r
epeat and hang up the phone.

  Heading to the bathroom, I hop in the shower and get ready, blaring Alanis Morissette to keep myself distracted from the anxious nerves still growing. The feeling of doing something forbidden or wrong won’t leave me alone, but I do my best to keep shaking it off. Standing in my closet in a towel with dripping wet hair, I stare at my clothes.

  “What the heck do I wear?” I ask myself. It’s just a fun movie night, and I don’t want to overdress.

  Me: What are you wearing?

  Mason: Um….

  Me: Omg, tonight you creep.

  Mason: Oh, right. Wanna go comfy? Like sweats and shit?

  Me: Haha. Sounds good to me.

  I grab my favorite light gray Adidas sweats and sweatshirt to lay on the bed as I go back to the bathroom to dry my hair. I straighten my brown hair, put a hair-tie on my wrist, and go easy on the makeup—just some concealer, bronzer, and mascara. After topping my outfit off with thin, dainty hoops, my comfy outfit looks put together and polished. Hoops have that effect on anything you wear. Look like a hobo? Add hoops, and now you look like a fancy hobo—on purpose. It’s practically science.

  Once I’m put together, I pull up directions to his house, and he’s about twenty minutes from me. It’s four p.m. now, perfect.

  Me: What do you want from Starbucks?

  Mason: A cake pop.

  Me: What are you? Two?

  Mason: Hey, don’t hate on cake pops.

  Me: ….

  Mason: Okay, okay. Don’t get me a cake pop.

  Me: I didn’t take you for a cake pop kind of guy.

  Mason: Black coffee.

  Me: That’s it? Cream?

  Mason: Um, I have balls.

  Me: Thanks for letting me know. I figured you did. Would you like cream?

  Mason: Unless it's 10w30—No. Thank you!

  Me: Lol. See you soon.

  I grab my wallet, put my thick and puffy black coat on, and start my drive to Masons, stopping for drinks on the way. Get You the Moon by Kina comes on, and I sing along on repeat until I get to Mason’s. Once I find his house, Mason’s outside shoveling the driveway. He waves me down, holding up his finger and mouthing, ‘One more minute.’

  Smiling, I nod back and wait. He lives in a small, nice neighborhood. It’s quiet and homey. I like it. His one-story brick home is covered with snow, and he has a perfect sized yard. It’s a beautiful house. He waves me down to park now that I can pull in easily and get out.

  “You didn’t have to shovel for me.” I smile.

  “I didn’t want you to get stuck or have to trudge through the snow.” His chest slightly heaves, and the red tint to his cheeks makes his light brown eyes pop.

  “Well, thank you. That was sweet of you. I can’t believe how much it’s come down today.”

  “It’s been crazy.” He hugs me, and I squeeze him back. I did good, managing not to make it awkward.

  “Let me show you my humble abode.” He bows before we walk through his garage packed full of tools, but all of them are organized. He has beautiful dark hardwood floors throughout his home. It’s very minimal, modern, and masculine. Blacks, whites, and grays carry through the home. The kitchen's white marble counters make the black cupboards pop. It’s an open space, so the living room and kitchen are one big room. Two pizza boxes and a clear container filled with a cheesecake sit on the kitchen island. Laughing at how much food he bought, I take in the other half of the room, and a huge L-shaped black couch with an ottoman takes up the space in front of a massive tv.

  “You have a beautiful home.” He really does. I’m kind of surprised by how clean it is.

  “Thanks. It was foreclosed and basically needed to be gutted. It was the most fun nightmare ever. But I’m happy with how it turned out.”

  “Did you do it yourself?”

  “Oh, God no.” His response makes me chuckle, and he continues, “Okay. Bathroom is down that hall, first door on the right. I got pizza, cheesecake, and you got drinks. Thank you, by the way.”

  “Of course. Thank you. You didn’t have to get this much food.”

  “Oh, but I did.”

  My hands go up in defense. “I won’t ask questions.”

  He smiles, grabs some plates, and opens the pizza boxes—one is cheese and pineapple, and the other is loaded with meat.

  “Did you get me an entire pizza? We could’ve shared.” I chuckle.

  He shrugs. “You said you didn’t like to share. So, I got two.”

  That makes me laugh. He really does pay attention. “I meant off my plates, but this was really thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “Of course. Feel free to have as much of either as you want.”

  He smiles, and it’s the first time I get a good look at him. My words catch in my throat as his thick brown hair is pushed off to the side. His long legs are covered in grey sweats that fit just right.

  Look away, Emery. What is wrong with you, for the love of God, look away. I finish loading my plate with food, and we sit on the couch, flipping through Netflix when I catch sight of a stack of video games.

  “Oh, hold up.” Wiping my fingers on a napkin, I sit up and get closer. “Do you have a Nintendo?”

  “I do.” He looks at me suspiciously.

  “Movie night is on pause. Hook that baby up. I’m gonna whoop you in some Mario Kart.” My hands rub together in anticipation. He’s going to underestimate me, and it’s going to give me an advantage. He doesn’t know how many hours I played these games as a child. I catch sight of the rest of his games, then look back at him. “After that, I’ll school you in some Call of Duty while I’m at it.”

  He drops his pizza, brown eyes wide, at my last sentence, and I laugh. “You are one giant surprise, Emery Jean.”

  I put on a playful smirk. “Remember that when I win.”

  He barks out a laugh. “It’s so on.”

  Once he gets it set up, we sit on the floor in front of the tv like kids.

  “I haven’t played this in so long. I’m so excited.” Mason laughs at my excitement. We pick our players, and once the timer runs out, it’s go time. Our game faces are now on, and we’re yelling, laughing, and just as he’s about to cross the finish line, I save the best technique for last. I throw the turtle shell, and his dreams of winning are left in second place as I pass him.

  I jump to my feet. “VICTORY! Suck it, Baylor.”

  “Wow. That was dirty. I see how you are. Sit that ass down, Sutton. It’s on.”

  We play game after game, laughing and teasing each other before we switch to PlayStation to play Call of Duty.

  “Okay, I over-exaggerated. I love this game, but I’m merely mediocre.”

  “Whatever, it’s cool. What do you want to play?”

  “Domination. Duh.”

  “Atta girl.” He pats the seat next to him with a big smile as we join a crew. Nuketown is our map, and we both yell in excitement.

  “This is the best map. Hands down,” I say with a mouth full of cheesecake. “Sorry.” I giggle as I cover my mouth and try to swallow my food, making him laugh too.

  “You’re cute when you're disheveled.”

  I shrug, and the game starting snaps us from the moment. I’m a little rusty, but I warm up quickly. We’re yelling, celebrating, and laughing throughout each game.

  “Can I use your restroom?” I need to pee so bad.

  “Of course.”

  “Be right back.” I hop up and head to where he told me it was earlier. It’s clean, just like the rest of his house. After I pee, I peek into his medicine cabinet, finding the normal stuff—vitamins, medicine, toothpaste, nothing exciting. Walking back into the living room, he’s back on the far left of the couch, covered with a blanket. Another blanket sits next to him, and I appreciate the gesture, keeping it separate.

  “You were about to beat me. I can’t have that tainting my reputation. Or my ratio.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” I smirk as I plop on the couch, surprising myself with how comf
ortable I am around him. He’s flipping through movies and A Time to Kill passes. “Oh, that one. I haven’t seen it in forever. It’s so good.”

  “Really?” He looks suspicious.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I don’t know, that just surprises me for some reason.” He smiles and presses play. I get lost in the young Matthew McConaughey and must have fallen asleep because when I jolt awake, Netflix is on the home screen, and it’s pitch dark out. Looking at Mason, he’s sleeping, and panic starts to fill me. At least I didn’t fall asleep on him, but the fact I’m in this situation makes me feel shitty, even though I shouldn’t.

  Quietly, I grab my phone and lightly walk into the kitchen to grab my coat. My keys jingle in my pocket as I put on my boots, and it wakes Mason.

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” He’s sleepy voice is even deeper, and the hairs stand on my arm.

  “No, don’t be. I fell asleep too.” I stand, twiddling my keys. “I better get going.”

  He nods. “Sure thing. Let me walk you out.”

  “Thank you.” I smile, and he walks me out to the garage. When he opens the door, there’s about three feet of snow covering my car and the roads.

  “Uh oh,” Mason mutters. “Looks like you might be my new roomie until the plows come.” His face screws up in an apologetic nervousness.

  The thought of sleeping here gives me severe anxiety. Not because of Mason, he’s great. But it’s the premise of the situation, sleeping over at another man’s house. But I honestly don’t have much of a choice.

  I laugh nervously, wondering where I’ll sleep.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch, and you can take my bed,” he offers.

  “Oh, no. Please, I’d much rather take the couch.” Please don’t fight me on this.

  “No way. I’m not putting you on the couch.”

  “Mason, please. I promise you, I would take the bed, but I truly would rather sleep on the couch. I’d be more comfortable that way.”

  He looks at me carefully. “Are you sure? I feel like a piece of shit putting you on the couch.”

  “I know you’re trying to be chivalrous, but I promise, I’m not comfortable sleeping in your bed. No offense.”