A Lover's Lament

by K. L. Grayson

  Mr. Devora pulls out a chair, plops down next to me and takes a swig of beer. “You’ve known my princess for a long time now, and you guys have gotten pretty close,” he says, matter of fact.

  “Yes sir, we have.” I’m instantly taken back to just a few hours earlier when I was buried deep inside his princess, and as wonderful as it was, I’m coming to terms with the fact that I may have been jeopardizing my mortality by doing so. This man could crush me with his bare hands, and I’m just waiting for it to happen. Well, at least I’ll have had one last beer before I go.

  I take another long swig and place the bottle between my thighs. “Is that what you needed to talk to me about, sir?”

  “Well, kind of. I also wanted to talk to you about your future. Where you’re headed. Your plans after school.” He waits for a moment as if trying to find the right words and an acceptable way to present them to me. “I know all about your home life, Devin, and what I haven’t learned from Katie, I hear from Brenda. She and your mom used to be very good friends. Do you remember that?”

  I nod my head. “Yes, I remember. Not a whole lot, but I remember our families hanging out when I was little … before everything happened.” I drop my eyes to the ground and start fumbling with the pocket of my jeans. It’s not a part of my life I’m particularly proud of.

  “That’s right. Your father and I used to be pretty good friends too. After he took off, I looked after your mom the best I could. Brenda and I both did. We would stop over all the time with meals and stuff for you. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes, I do.” Come on, how could I forget Brenda’s pot roast?

  “You were a good kid. Incredibly resilient considering everything you went through.” The fact that he used past tense to describe me as ‘a good kid’ further convinces me that tonight will end differently than I had originally planned. “After a few months of that, when things got really bad, your mom got very angry with us. She told us to never come back. We’ve always wanted to continue helping, but we also wanted to respect her wishes.” I nod, unsure of what to say. I’m not certain where he’s going with this at all, unless he’s just allowing me to reflect on my life before he takes it. But what I do know is that I don’t need him to remind me of the choices my mom has made.

  I think back to that night, seven years ago, when Mom, all messed up on Percocet and cocaine, completely lost it on the Devoras. She destroyed half of the breakables in our house as they stood shocked in the doorway with freshly made lasagna in one hand and a new book bag for me in the other. She screamed about them taking pity on her… saying that they were trying to prove they were better parents than she was. They reluctantly left me there with her as she continued destroying the rest of the house and subsequently went on a two-week bender. When she came out of it, she ordered me never to see the Devoras again. Seeing as I am head over heels in love with their daughter and always have been, that was never an option. I got pretty good at sneaking around, and my mom was usually too fucked up to know what was happening anyway.

  “So, do you know what I’m trying to say?” Mr. Devora’s words tear into my thoughts, and I realize I’ve missed the last part of what he said.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t really.” My words are barely audible and I avoid making eye contact with him.

  “What I’m saying is, I understand your situation isn’t ideal. Shit, to be perfectly honest, it sucks. You weren’t dealt the best hand in life, but I just want to make sure you never let that dictate your future. It’s easy to fall into a familiar cycle.” I cock my head and do my best to interpret his last words. In my understanding, he just said ‘don’t be a fuck-up like your mom.’ I try my absolute hardest to keep my face from showing how offended I really am, especially coming from him. “There are a lot of good schools in the area and a lot of good programs. Have you thought much about what you’d like to do next?” he asks.

  I want to lie and say yes, but I don’t even know what I’d pretend to be interested in, not to mention the fact that I won’t even be here.

  “No, I haven’t really figured it out just yet.” I feel foolish saying it, and I can feel his judgmental eyes lumping me in with all the other Tennessee trailer park trash, so I quickly scan my brain for something else—anything that would prove my worth to him. But inevitably, there’s nothing to say but the truth. “I’ll actually be moving to Pennsylvania in the next few days with my mom. So, I’ll have to figure something out up there.”

  Mr. Devora’s mouth drops open and he cocks his head to the side as though he’s trying to decide if he heard me right. And then it happens. His brows furrow and his eyes harden, and I get the distinct feeling that this is it. I just pissed off the daddy bear.

  Fuck. Diverting my eyes, I search for some way to get out of this conversation … hide under a rock, maybe? Peace Corps? Antarctica exploration? Anything to get me as far away from this man as possible.

  “So you’re leaving?”

  I nod, and when he stays silent, I take a chance and look up.

  “It’s your mom, isn’t it?” His words throw me off because I was expecting him to be pissed at me. But judging by the tone of his voice, he’s pissed for me.

  “My grandmother, actually. She isn’t doing well. They’re talking about putting her on hospice and Mom wants to be closer to her.”

  “Wow.” He blows out a slow breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry about your grandma, and I’m sorry to hear that you’re leaving.”

  “Yeah,” I grunt. “I’m not really happy about it.”

  “I bet.” We both go silent, and it’s not a comfortable sort of silence. It’s more of an awkward silence where I can tell that he wants to say something, and I know that it’ll be something I don’t want to hear. “So, what does this mean for you and Katie?”

  There it is. “I’m not really sure, sir. I care about your daughter—a lot—and I’m not … I don’t ...” I clear my throat, frustrated because my words don’t seem to want to come out. “I really want us to stay together. I—”

  "Listen," he interrupts. “How is this going to work? How are the two of you going to make it when you’ll be living so far away?” He holds up a hand when I open my mouth to speak, and that just pisses me off. “I know you’re going to tell me that you’ll come back, and I believe that you will. But what will you do when you come back? Where will you live? Will you go to college, and if so, how will you pay for it? Where will you work?” With each word out of his mouth, my heart beats faster because I don’t have those answers. His eyes lock on something over my shoulder for a couple of seconds before landing on me. “I want to see you succeed, Devin, I really do. But I love my daughter with all of my heart, and I want the best for her.”

  All those years of knowing him, all the talks we’ve had and the bonding that’s been done flies right out of the window with his last statement. In not so many words, he just told me that he doesn’t believe in me and I’m not good enough. I wish he’d just come right out and say it.

  I finish off the beer and timidly pass him the empty bottle. Standing, I avert my eyes and hope to hell he will let me go so I can go lick my wounds.

  “I just want what’s best for her,” he repeats, this time his voice unyielding, as though to drive home his point. I nod blankly and make my way back to my car. “Devin…”

  He stops me in my tracks and I turn to face him. “No, it’s okay, I totally understand what you mean.” Turning around on my heel, I head toward my car, yank open the door and climb in, hoping to wash my hands of this entire conversation.

  “Do you?” he asks skeptically as he approaches the car. Cranking the engine, I close my door and roll down the window. Each of his hands are cupped against the window frame and he’s leaning in toward me. “Devin, I think very highly of you, you know that. This—”

  “No, really, I completely understand. You want your daughter to be with someone a little less like me, and a little more like Wyatt, right? Someone that comes f
rom a thoroughbred family, someone that is destined to get into an Ivy League school and make more money in one week than I’ll make in a year.” My chest tightens because I know that I’m right. That’s exactly what Christopher Devora wants, and I can’t fucking blame him. Hell, that’s what I want for Katie.

  Shifting the car into drive, I’m hoping that he’ll get the hint and remove himself from my car. Reality just slapped me in the fucking face—with a little help from Katie’s dad—and as much as I hate it, I know what I have to do.

  His eyebrows furrow and he glares at me for a second before pushing away from my car. “Devin, that’s not—”

  Before he even has a chance to finish, I shove my foot on the gas and speed away from the only real home I’ve ever known. Mr. Devora’s large frame slowly fades away in my rearview mirror, and when he’s no longer visible, it hits me that I’ll probably never see this place again … or the girl I love.

  Never could I have provided Katie with the type of life she deserved, and that night it became clear that I would only be holding her back. She deserved someone who could give her the world … someone like Wyatt.

  Fucking Wyatt.

  I hadn’t even thought of that name in about a decade, and now here it is again digging itself underneath my skin. I wonder for a moment if they ended up getting together. Since the day I left her, I just always assumed that’s how it would turn out—that Wyatt would be there to pick up the pieces, and she would welcome him with open arms.

  Wyatt is the one Katie’s dad wanted her to be with all along … the one that fit the perfect husband mold for his dear daughter. He may have thought highly of me, or so he said, but I could see it beneath the surface. Wyatt had the great home life, the family money, and the excellent grades. I was just the kid from the other side of the tracks with the messed-up mother.

  Katie has no idea that it was her dad’s last words to me that ultimately gave me the courage to walk away from her, to leave her without notice. And she would never dream that those words are also the reason why I’m where I am today.

  As awful as it sounds, I contemplate throwing her letter with the others and joining the rest of my platoon in their slumber, not even bothering to respond. But I'm torn. I want to write her back and explain what happened. I also want her forgiveness—badly. But haven’t I put her through enough already? Wouldn’t telling her the truth be counterproductive?

  I could leave us out of it entirely, because despite what she may think, Katie Devora has always been—and will always be—my best friend, and there’s not a second that’s gone by I haven’t thought of her and wondered how she was doing. I want to be there for her, especially since I can read the desperation in her sentences, the pain in her words. I feel that pain, too. I know that pain. It sits heavy in my bones. Could I offer her some sort of comfort?

  Maybe we are all monsters, created by war like some lab experiment gone wrong. Maybe I should tell her the man that took her father’s life deserves to be hanged, along with every drunk driver. Maybe I should tell her that I want nothing more than to kill him with my bare hands for hurting her, because even after all these years, she still means the world to me.

  Maybe I should just be honest.

  I remove a pad and pen from my duffel, and then I sit and stare at the paper, scanning my brain for the right words to say. I manage to write ‘Dear Katie’ before uncertainty takes hold again.

  Closing my eyes, I picture the two of us on that last perfect night. Feeling her lips on mine, my skin against hers, and knowing that everything was going to be okay. And then the reality of it all settling in … Wyatt with his straight A’s and bloated trust fund, her father and his unattainable expectations, my inadequacies. Shaking my head, I push the memory away.

  Grabbing the flashlight from my pillow, I shine it at the pad, and before I know it, the pen begins to move. I don't process every word I write; I only write from the heart. Letting the words flow out of me freely, I scrawl with feverish intent, letting truth dictate the message. For the first time in years, I let my heart take the lead.

  “Sad” – Maroon 5

  “HOLD UP.” MAGGIE DROPS HER fork on the plate and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You actually went through with it? You wrote him a letter?” I nod my head at the same time I shovel a bite of pizza into my mouth. “And you told him what happened and how you were feeling … and you didn’t hold anything back?” Nodding again, I reach for a napkin and she slides one toward me. “Wow,” she says, a look of disbelief on her beautiful face.

  “Wow?” I ask, a little annoyed that she finds it surprising. “Why wow?”

  “Why not wow?” Maggie relaxes back in her chair, giving me her patented you-won’t-win-this-argument look, and I roll my eyes. “You’ve just been so …” she trails off, biting on her lip as though she’s looking for the right word.

  “Closed off?” I offer.

  Her eyebrows push into her hairline and she laughs. “‘Closed off’ is one way to put it, but I was going to say bitchy. But we can go with ‘closed off’ if it makes you feel better.” I open my mouth to argue and she cocks a brow, daring me to deny it. I snap my mouth shut. “What’d you expect me to say, that you’ve been a ray of fucking sunshine? Because we both know that sure as hell isn’t the truth.”

  Magdalena Garcia—aka Maggie—has been my best friend since the first day of college when she stopped me from accidentally walking into the men’s bathroom. She has been and always will be the most upfront, in your face, tell-it-like-it-is person I’ve ever met, so her boldness shouldn’t be a surprise but her words sting nonetheless. They shouldn’t—I know they shouldn’t—but they do. I’ve been a bitch of epic proportions to everyone, including her, and I’m lucky she’s put up with me for this long. I don’t really have anyone to blame but myself either, but I’m still not in the mood, not after my recent fight with Bailey.

  “Don’t,” she says, waving her fork in my direction. “Don’t you dare look at me like I just kicked your fucking puppy.”

  “I love you, Maggie, but I deal with this shit from everyone else in my life, and I’m not about to sit here and put up with it from you.” Pushing from the table, I drop my plate in the sink. I walk toward the living room, but she snags my arm in her tiny hand and whips me around.

  “I’ve kept my mouth shut for three months.” I stare at her blankly, hoping that if she says her piece, I can get the hell out of here. Wait, we’re at my house. I need to get her the hell out of here. “That’s twelve weeks, Katie. Do you know how hard that was for me?”

  I fight back a smile because it’s nearly impossible for Maggie to keep her mouth shut for longer than a minute, so the fact that she went twelve weeks is a complete miracle. “I let you fester and bitch and close yourself off because it’s what you felt you needed to do. And maybe this wasn’t the best time to say anything, but I saw something different in you tonight and …” She shrugs her shoulders and looks down.

  “And what?” I ask, dropping into the seat I’d just vacated.

  “When you were telling me about the soldier pen pal program—and about Devin—I saw a little part of you that I haven’t seen since before the accident.”

  “Really?” She really saw that?

  “Yes, really,” she says, laughing. “You smiled. Sure, you smiled at the thought of writing ‘fuck you’ to a man that’s defending our country, but you still smiled … and I’ve missed that smile.”

  I knew that I was hurting everyone—hell, it was my intention. But seeing the forlorn look on Maggie’s face makes me realize, for the first time, just how far I had taken it. “Sorry, Mags,” I say, reaching my arm across the table. I wriggle my fingers, urging her to take my hand.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to kiss and make up,” she says, amusement shining in her large hazel eyes as she cocks her eyebrows suggestively. “I think you’ll need to do a little more than just apologize.” I sigh and pull my arm back. Her hand flies across the table and
snags mine. “Okay, fine,” she says with a dramatic eye roll. “I forgive you. Now tell me more about this letter. I want to know exactly what you said to Devin. I hope to hell you laid into him.”

  She’s like a dog with a bone, and I should’ve known that she’d read way too much into it. “There isn’t anything else to tell.” I shrug, dislodging my hand from hers so I can steal a pepperoni off her half-eaten pizza slice. “I said my piece, opened up to him about my dad and then I pulled up my email and picked a different soldier that I’ll write to next time.”

  “Except you won’t,” she mumbles dismissively. “Anyway, did you cry when you wrote it?” She takes a swig of her soda and waits for me to answer. I’ve missed this, sitting here shooting the shit with my best friend. And even though I don’t particularly want to talk about this subject, I also don’t want to lie to her.

  “I did.” I nod, fighting the urge to look away. Her hand freezes midair and she blinks at me several times before slowly lifting the pizza to her mouth.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  “Sorry.” She swallows and then takes another drink of her soda. “You just threw me for a loop there. I thought maybe when you told me you opened up to him in your letter, it was just a fluke that you actually answered me, but then you just did it again.”

  “I did.” Apparently, that’s my universal answer tonight, and surprisingly, it feels good. At first, I wasn’t sure if writing the letter was therapeutic or not. And honestly, I’m still not sure, because when I crawled into bed that night, I was nothing short of pissed off. But this seems like progress so I’ll take it.

  Devin never did write me back, and initially I was sort of bothered by it. I thought for sure that he would at least reply to tell me that he was sorry, or maybe that I was a bitch and didn’t deserve the release I was so desperately looking for. It’s possible that his lack of response bothers me more than his harsh words would have, and maybe that’s because everything surrounding our falling-out is nothing but a big mystery to me.