The door clicks shut and I’m left alone, still dissecting Zoe’s words. She said “willing to do this.” As in something in the future. What exactly did Bryson agree to, and why in the world would he even bother? It’s completely out of character for him.
I push aside the questions and tell myself it doesn’t matter. Every time I begin to think Bryson still has that sweet little boy inside, I’m painfully reminded he doesn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have fired his best friend, and he certainly wouldn’t have dumped Alison.
Lost in the silence, I take a moment to peruse the apartment alone. The fridge is empty minus three salad kits and some kind of bottled fruit and vegetable drink. What a shock it’s going to be when I stuff my ice cream, Dr Pepper, and lunch meat next to whatever paleo diet thing she must have going.
The kitchen drawers are all pristine and organized, every single one. I keep going, checking the living room and bathroom for some kind of proof that my new roommate isn’t completely OCD.
I meander to the laundry room, though it’s bigger than any laundry room I’ve ever had. My old apartment’s consisted of a stackable washer/dryer combo with a flimsy accordion door. This one has side-by-side appliances and a folding counter. Underneath, there’s a deep two-foot drawer I can’t help but open. To my delight, it’s stuffed to the top with junk. I don’t know why this makes Zoe feel more human, but it does. I move aside the hammer and screwdriver, lift the duct tape, and freeze when I spot an old faded journal I immediately recognize. It’s identical to one I have at the bottom of one of the boxes taped up in my storage unit. Grace Community gave them to all incoming seventh graders when we joined the youth group, and I’m pretty sure the tradition continues to this day.
I gingerly lift it from the drawer, having no intention of invading her privacy, but the pull of something so concrete and familiar in my life is too tempting to resist. Most kids look back on adolescence and hate that period in their life, but not me. I miss it. I miss the youth group and how our family would intentionally make Sunday a rest day. We’d play games or watch movies. Even after my brother left and it was just me, Sunday nights were still my favorite.
Unlike mine, the leather on Zoe’s journal is worn and well used. I think mine might have had two pages filled out before I realized that writing down my feelings was not exactly part of my personality code. I press the book to my chest, memories of good times and laughter filling my heart. A tear falls, then another. Not for my trip this time but for the greater loss that I still haven’t quite accepted.
Mom and I still do Sunday night dinners, every week without fail, but they’re painful now. A shadow of what it was intended to be.
I move to tuck the journal back in its hiding place when a page slips from the cover and floats to the tile floor. Black words stand out on crisp white paper, scratched and messy, like someone didn’t just want to get the words out but wanted to hurt the pristine sheet in the process.
“Forever invisible. Forever forgotten. Forever unseen.”
Horrified that I’ve stumbled upon something so intimate, I snatch it from the floor, slide it back in the journal, and return everything where it was before my invasion. I don’t know when Zoe wrote those words or even if she did, but they certainly don’t match the self-assured, time-deficient businesswoman who gave me a tour just ten minutes ago.
I push the drawer shut and return to the kitchen. The last thing I need is to press my nose into someone else’s pain. Especially when I’m still trying to cure mine.
five
When I was little, my fourth grade Sunday school teacher told us that God puts people in our lives for a reason. She had us make links out of construction paper and bond them to each other with Elmer’s glue until we ran out of paper. Rows and rows of purple, blue, and red weaved between chairs and table legs to give us a visual on how God’s kingdom is uniquely tied together. I clearly remember picking up one section and telling Cameron that he and I were linked by forces beyond the universe, so he really didn’t have a choice but to be my best friend. Somehow I knew, even back then, he would be in my life through every storm.
“Well, that’s the last box. You ready to go?” Cameron stands next to the driver’s door of his brother’s truck, watching me. He called in reinforcements this morning. The entire Lee clan, including his brother-in-law, came out to move my couches to the storage unit, sort through the mess for my bedroom set, then haul it right back to my apartment to load the last of the boxes. And to top it off, his sister and cousin stayed behind to clean my entire place while I was en route.
I’d scheduled three hours for this nightmare, and it took less than two. They offered to meet me at Zoe’s for the unloading, but it just felt like too much imposition.
“Please tell your family again how much I appreciate their help. Especially your mom for taking Piper for me today.” This move is traumatic enough. Adding a spastic Maltipoo, running up and down the steps in a frenzy, would have done me in.
“I think you sufficiently thanked them with the massive amount of breakfast burritos you provided.”
“I hope so.” My throat swells as I take one last glimpse of my apartment. Now that the task is finished, I have nothing left to distract me from the cold reality sinking in.
Cam puts his arm around my shoulder for the first time all day. While he’s come through as he always does, he hasn’t been happy about my choice not to move in with him. “They wanted to be here for you,” he says as if he can sense my growing sorrow. “You’re part of our family. You know that, right?”
I swallow back rising tears and lay my head on his shoulder. The term family doesn’t mean what it used to, at least not to me. Not one member of mine was here, and I doubt any of them care that today is the hardest day I’ve had since getting that miserable call two weeks ago. I’ve lived in this building seven years, nearly a quarter of my life, and I was supposed to leave in victory, not in defeat.
“Anything you want to do, remember? We’re going to turn in your keys and consider it freedom.” His pep talk comes with another gesture that’s been missing all morning. His smile.
“Can I assume this means you’re not mad at me anymore?”
“I was never mad at you.” Cam squeezes my arm before dropping his hand. I shouldn’t have said anything. His voice has returned to the blank monotone it’s been all morning. “It’s Bryson I’m not so pleased with.”
“Don’t get all moody again.” I push his torso, but he hardly moves. “I’m the one who complained about my options. Bryson was just being helpful.”
An annoyed hiss escapes through Cameron’s teeth. “I wish he’d minded his own business like he usually does.”
I return his jab with a steely glare.
“What? I’m bummed, okay? You and I have barely seen each other in months, and now, when we finally get this opportunity to hang out daily, you turn it down. I just can’t figure out why.”
Sadly, I can’t explain why, only that I knew it wasn’t right for us. “It wasn’t just you, remember, it was also moving in with Brian and Darrel. Not to mention the fact that we’d be sharing that closet you call a bedroom. You’d be miserable, Cam, and sick of me in two days.”
“I’d never get sick of you.”
His voice turns more serious than I’m comfortable with, so I reach out and tickle his side. “Fine, then I’d be sick of you in two days. I can only comment on a new song so many times.”
He swings his arm around my neck and pulls me in for a knuckle rub. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”
I push him off, laughing. “That’s my job.” I pinch his cheeks. “To keep you humble. Goodness knows, no one else does.”
My attempt at easing the tension works, and we each head to our vehicles. My little single-cab Chevy truck is packed tight with boxes, while Cam’s brother’s F-250 is hauling my bedroom set. I chuckle a little when I think of the contrast. Distressed oak furniture against Zoe’s wonderland of white.
Oh my, wh
at a pairing this is going to be.
The drive to Zoe’s apartment takes fifteen minutes through traffic and at least twenty stop signs. Gone are the days when Cam and I could pop over to each other’s place in less than five minutes. A thirty-minute round trip is going to take some more planning, and by his annoyance this morning, I imagine will include a lot more complaining.
He slams his driver’s door the same time I step out of my truck. “This is fancy.” He glances up and then around the complex. “And far away.”
“I know. But hey, they have a pool.” My attempt at optimism falls on deaf ears.
“It’s not too late to change your mind. We’re still loaded.”
I don’t bother answering, especially since I know it’s not a real suggestion, and walk toward the stairwell.
Bryson’s midnight-black truck is waiting on the far end of the building with a dolly in the back. It’s the same one he’s had since our junior year when his stepdad bought it brand-new off the lot, and I imagine he’ll drive that machine until the day it dies. Paint’s chipping on the fenders, the engine’s been rebuilt, and the passenger seat has a tear in the leather. When he added a lift kit about five years ago and a rumbling muffler, Cam and I joked that if there was ever a vehicle that mirrored its owner in appearance and personality, it would certainly be Bryson’s black beast.
I look at the stairs and then at the two trucks. “What should we start with? My furniture or boxes?”
“Furniture.” Cameron pulls down the tailgate and hops into the back. “And don’t think I’m not racking up hundreds of you-owe-me points, because there should be a law against stairs on each end.”
“Dude, are you seriously complaining already?” Bryson calls out.
I look up and catch him descending from the landing. He’s in all black again. Joggers instead of jeans this time, and his T-shirt has the sleeves cut off. A tattooed ring of barbwire encircles his left arm. It’s faded some since high school but still gives that I’m untouchable vibe.
“Already?” Cam retorts. “Where have you been for the last two hours?”
“Fixing my hair,” he says with far too much arrogance. Cam ignores him and starts unlatching the tie-downs. Bryson’s expression changes when he finishes his descent and stands in front of me. “How are you feeling this morning? I know today can’t be easy.”
I hesitate. “No, it’s not.” This isn’t the Bryson I’m used to engaging with. His voice holds too much concern, and his eyes keep watching me as if he can somehow see all the upheaval swirling inside. “But that’s life, right? No need to complain about what you can’t change.”
“I don’t know. There’s something to be said for verbal processing.”
“Really?” My voice is half surprise, half teasing. Never in our history has Bryson been one to talk about anything, let alone his feelings. “And how would you know?”
He smirks. “I read it in a magazine somewhere.”
We stand there for a brief second, both seemingly unsure of what else to say. Already this conversation is well out of the norm for us.
Bryson clears his throat. “Well, we better get to work. Rehearsal starts at three.”
Yes, rehearsal. The one thing Bryson lives and dies by. And I guess I can’t totally blame him. Bryson wears many hats in the band: lead singer, manager, and bookkeeper. He’s also the only band member to go in full time. Jay, Harrison, and Cam all still keep part-time jobs. I guess in the grand scheme of things, he has the most to lose if Black Carousel doesn’t reach its full potential.
Bryson jogs to his black beast and lifts the dolly out of his tailgate while Cam pulls at the bed frame until it’s hanging over the edge of the truck. “Do you know where all of this is going?” He wipes his wet brow with the bottom of his T-shirt, and I know he’s completely miserable out here.
“Yeah. I’ve already taken measurements and have a layout in my head.”
“There really wasn’t any hesitation, was there?” He sets his hands on his hips and sighs. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want to move in? We could have figured out something better than Zoe’s apartment all the way across town.”
“Cameron.”
“Forget it.” He turns away and pulls the metal slat out farther. “It is what it is.”
And I know my best friend well enough to back off and let him stew. Which he does in monumental fashion.
The next hour is proof that heavy furniture, summer heat, and a flight of stairs are a recipe for drama. Bryson and Cameron argue about everything. Which way to go through the door, how to hold the mattress going up the steps, what blasted music to listen to. Ugh. I was half tempted to send them both home and do all the heavy lifting myself.
Thankfully, when one only has a bedroom to furnish, unloading doesn’t take long.
“Last box,” Cam says and drops it on my bare mattress. He’s soaked in sweat, as is Bryson, who disappeared into his sister’s bathroom a few minutes ago.
“Want me to make some lemonade?” I offer tentatively. The most I’ve gotten out of him are grunts and one-word answers since our tiff outside, so I’m surprised when he attempts a smile.
“Thanks, but I need to get Caleb’s truck back to him.” He starts to run his fingers through his hair, then thinks better of it. “And obviously shower before rehearsal.”
“Okay, I’ll walk you out.”
We walk in unison to the front door, but each step feels like acid on my feet. This awkwardness isn’t us. We don’t fight. We hardly ever argue.
“Hey, Cam,” I call out when he crosses the threshold. “Maybe after practice we could go get ice cream?”
This time the smile comes with dimples, so I know it’s genuine. “Haven’t you eaten enough ice cream to dry out every dairy cow in the metroplex?”
Relief spreads through my whirling stomach as I fake outrage. “You cope in your way, I’ll cope in mine. And Rocky Road is not just ice cream; it’s heaven’s perfect treat.”
He cinches his eyebrows. “It’s marshmallows and chocolate.”
I spread my arms and wait for more fodder because he pretty much just validated my point.
He must realize it, too. “Fine. You win. I’ll call when we’re finished.”
“Sounds good.”
I shut the door, relieved he’s no longer angry, but also relieved he’s gone. Despite all the reasons I love Cam, and there are many, his ability to make every situation about him is not one of them.
I move through the stark apartment, wishing Zoe would allow some color in the room besides metallic gray. It’s making my skin itch and aggravating all the frustrations I’ve kept buried for the past hour.
The balcony is the quickest escape I can find. The doors swing open effortlessly, the sheer curtains billowing as if they enjoy the oppressive heat from outside. I don’t care that they remain open or that I’m releasing a room full of air conditioning. I just want to close my eyes and go back in time to warn my younger, naïve self to abandon all her worthless dreams.
“Cam take off?”
I turn around, my mood still sour. “Yeah, just a couple minutes ago.”
“Good. He was getting on my nerves.” Bryson leans against the doorframe, freshly showered. His hair has that towel-dried look and is far wavier than he usually wears it. He’s changed his shirt, as well. “Do you want me to show you around the complex? They have a pretty cool dog park.”
I shake my head because what I really want right now is to be alone in my misery. “I’ve seen it.”
He pauses like he’s not sure if he should stay or leave.
I give him the out we’re both looking for. “Well, thanks for your help. I’m going to unpack and get settled.”
He runs a hand through his already-messy hair and sighs. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk, but I’m here if you need to. This is a lot of change in a short period of time.”
“Yeah, well, I’m good at change,” I lie.
His eyebrows peak. “
Since when?”
“Since now, okay?”
“Are you sure, because from where I stand, you look ready to implode. In fact, a lesser person would already be to the moon with the amount of pent-up tension you have rolling around in there.”
Words, dry as chalk, lie on my tongue. He doesn’t know what he’s asking. The enormity of what’s lodged in my chest, crawling up into my throat. Hurt, frustration, anger, sadness, fear, and the list goes on. If I dare to let one shred of what I’m feeling escape, it will be a flood of unending chaos. I swallow, forcing calm into my voice. “While I appreciate this whole attempt at counseling, I’m fine.”
“You are?”
“Yes.”
He steps closer. “Then why do you look one breath away from crying?”
“Stop it,” I growl, because he’s right. I am one second away from bursting into tears and I refuse to do that in front of him. “Saying yes to this apartment was not an open invitation into my life. You helped me, and I genuinely appreciate it, but you and I are much better off sticking to what you do best—mindless banter and zero expectations.”
His head rears back as if I’ve slapped him. “Where is all this hostility coming from?”
“Where do you think? Or did you not notice the absence of two people who should absolutely be here. Except they aren’t here, or even speaking to us . . . because of you.” My thoughts whirl while my biting words slice across the space between us. “You have this ability to cut people out of your life when you’re done with them, and I really don’t feel like being the next person on your list who thinks for one second you might care.”
Hurt flashes, and then just as quickly, the cold, unfeeling hardness I’m used to seeing from Bryson returns. “First off.” His voice lowers, the tone now matching mine in both curtness and accusation. “I didn’t cut Mason out. I told him from the beginning he wasn’t permanent. His choosing not to hear me or strive to get better is his fault. And second off, Alison and my relationship was complicated in ways I can’t explain to you. But don’t think for a second I didn’t care for her.”
Love and the Silver Lining Page 4