The Best Week That Never Happened

by Dallas Woodburn

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I’m grateful that I get to be here and support you through this.”

  We make elaborate grilled-cheese sandwiches for lunch and whittle away the hours playing board games, sprawled out on our stomachs on the living room carpet. Theo’s left wrist is swollen and bruised, and he holds a bag of frozen peas against it. He managed to clean himself up, but his black eye is still noticeable. When Mrs. Kapule arrives home from work with Paulo in tow, rain-drenched from soccer camp, there’s no hiding anything. She gasps, hugs Theo, and sends Paulo off to the shower and his room. “What happened?” she asks. “Actually, wait—don’t tell me. Don’t say anything yet. Your father will be home any minute. You can tell us both together.”

  A few minutes later, while Kai and Theo talk to their parents in the kitchen, I slip out the sliding glass door to the backyard and tuck myself into the hammock. The rain has passed and the air is warm. Olina looks up from the yard, where she is chewing on her indestructible rubber bone. She gets up and trots over, then licks my hand. I pet her soft head and pull out the notepaper I folded into my pocket yesterday morning. I’ve been trying to write a goodbye letter to Kai, but no words will appear. Everything I come up with sounds corny or clichéd. How do you say goodbye to your best friend? How do you end a story that is only just beginning?

  “He’s my person,” I whisper to Olina, who flops down beside the hammock. “He knows parts of me that I haven’t shared with anyone else. He should be able to mind-read everything I want to say.” But real life doesn’t work that way. Maybe that’s why I’ve always hated goodbyes. No words can ever live up to the emotion you feel in those moments. No matter what you say, your words will fall short.

  But I need to try. I owe Kai at least that much. He deserves a really good goodbye.

  Dear Kai,

  I want to say

  That’s all I have written so far.

  I chew on my pen, staring off into the yard at the first tendrils of sunset streaming out across the sky. What sweeps into my mind isn’t a memory of Kai, exactly. It’s more a memory of my mom.

  Three years ago …

  When we returned from our second Hawaii trip—the one that failed to save my parents’ marriage—and Kai, remarkably, continued to text me rather than drop off the face of the planet, I kept him a secret from my mom. I kept him a secret from everyone, even from Andrea. He seemed more special that way. More real somehow. I didn’t think anyone else would understand the genuine closeness of our friendship. Even I didn’t fully understand it—how a seed we’d planted as kids and then neglected for years could suddenly spring up to life the minute we began giving it sunlight and water. Part of me worried that our relationship, whatever it was, would die just as abruptly. Even though our communication had already lasted longer than I’d expected, I felt sure that it would drop off eventually. And I worried that, if I told anyone about Kai, my feelings for him would bubble to the surface, embarrassingly apparent, and I wouldn’t be able to play nonchalant when he inevitably started dating some girl from his school and had no time for me anymore.

  Keeping him a secret was easy. Mom was swept up in all of the divorce stuff and then the tasks of moving and decorating our new place. She went on a diet and exercise kick; she cut her hair and bought new clothes. It wasn’t that she didn’t have time for me—I always knew I could talk to her if I wanted to—but when she saw me, I think she saw me through the lens of her expectations. Initially, she had been concerned about how I was taking the divorce and the accompanying changes; we had a couple of heart-to-hearts in my new room after dinner, when she sat on the edge of my bed and peered into my face, asking how things were going. I told her that I was doing okay. Which wasn’t a lie. Yes, we’d moved out of our house, but only five minutes away; I was still going to the same school with my familiar friends and teachers and classes. And yes, I missed my dad, but I still saw him on the weekends. We did more activities together than we used to—before the divorce, he often worked or went biking on weekends. Plus, he and my mom had been arguing so much the past few years, both of them so clearly miserable, that it was a relief not to be surrounded by screaming matches and tense silences all the time.

  Whenever I did feel sad about my parents’ split, I had a perfect distraction at my fingertips. I would text Kai some corny joke or “Would you rather?” scenario, and he would respond with a bizarre answer and equally outlandish question, or he’d tell me something funny that had happened at school that day. I knew so many details about his life that it was easy to forget we lived 4,880 miles apart. We began emailing when we wanted to talk, but the time zones made it difficult. Hawaii is six hours behind Pennsylvania, so when I woke up in the morning, Kai would still be asleep, and when I went to bed at night, he would be having an after-school snack. Sometimes I would actually smile as my alarm went off in the morning, reaching for my phone and anticipating an email from Kai. Occasionally, he’d call me as he skateboarded home from school, and I could hear the rush of wind in the background. On the phone, it was the same as when we texted or emailed: easy and natural. So different from any of the guys I tried talking to at school, where conversation would typically flare out after a minute or so. Either that or they’d ask if I’d done the homework or if I knew the answer to the bonus question on the test. At school, I was a two-dimensional stick-figure drawing, labeled and filed in one specific folder. But Kai saw me in 3-D. To Kai, I was interesting and nuanced, fun and serious, smart and silly. He saw and appreciated all of my components. He really knew me. At least, that was what it felt like.

  Our first fight happened because of trigonometry. He was nervous about a big test coming up and asked if I could help him study. “A genius like you needs to help us mere mortals,” he said, a smile in his voice. But I did not smile. I was angry. My deep-seated insecurities came rushing back—all the times people had tried to copy off me, all the guys who only struck up conversations to ask about the homework, all the kids who were nice to me during group projects but then ignored me when we passed each other in the quad. Andrea had recently started dating this water polo player, and she only had time for me during study sessions at the library.

  “I can’t,” I told Kai, my tone cold, even though I had plenty of time and could easily have tutored him. “I guess you’ll have to find someone else.”

  Kai didn’t say anything. Disappointment squeezed my rib cage. After all we’d shared, he was turning out to be exactly like everyone else. “I’ve gotta go,” I said abruptly, and hung up without a goodbye—something I never did.

  The rest of the day, I kept checking my phone, expecting to hear from him. He would text an apology, or maybe he’d joke about something completely random and pretend that our fight hadn’t happened, and we could go back to where we’d been before. I was already starting to feel a little embarrassed about my response. He’d unknowingly struck a nerve, and I’d overreacted.

  But I didn’t hear from him. Nothing. There was no email waiting for me when I woke up the next morning. No text messages when I checked my phone between classes. No phone calls. Nothing.

  That night, I picked at my dinner. Mom noticed.

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” she asked.

  I shrugged, opening my mouth to make some excuse, like, “I’m just tired,” or, “I’m not that hungry.” But I couldn’t even get the first syllable out before tears engulfed my voice.

  I swallowed and wiped my eyes. I was not and never had been a crier. Crying was messy and ugly and needy, and I did not want to be any of those things. No. I was self-contained and self-reliant. Even as a baby, my parents said, I had cried so rarely that they would often check on me during the night. But I would be sleeping peacefully, or if I was awake, I’d be staring up at the crib mobile or chewing on my foot or something, and when they’d come into the room, I’d just blink up at them with a gummy smile. “The perfect baby,” Mom used to say. “If everyone had babies like you, we’d all hav
e ten kids.” I often wondered why they didn’t. Have ten kids, I mean. Or at least one more. As a little girl, “brother or sister” was always at the top of my wish list, until I eventually became resigned to our family of three. I’d never asked if they tried having more kids—and it just wasn’t in the cards—or if it was a conscious choice.

  “Oh, honey,” Mom said, getting up out of her chair and hurrying around the table. She put her arms around me, which made things worse. I was unable to clamp down on the tears—they were a fountain, overflowing. I ducked my head, hiding my face against her shirt like a child.

  “It’s okay.” Mom stroked my hair. “Let it out. I know all this change has been tough on you.”

  Part of me was tempted to let her think this was about the divorce. I wasn’t technically lying. She had jumped to her own conclusions. But I thought of Kai’s face, and my silent phone, and an unbearable ache flared inside of me. I wanted—needed—to talk to her about it. I needed my mom.

  I straightened in the chair and looked up at her. She reached down and wiped my cheeks with her thumbs. She smiled at me with sad eyes. I was hit with a wave of love for her. My mom. Her hair was shorter, with new auburn highlights, and her face was a little thinner from her all-veggie-all-the-time diet, but her eyes were the same eyes I’d been looking into my entire life. They were full of understanding. I thought of how she’d held my hand on the plane ride home from Hawaii that first time, when my little-girl heart had never before felt such pain to leave a place—to leave a person. Kai and I were only kids, and some parents might have swept my sadness aside as “silly” or “cute.” But my mom had held me, and she had held my pain too. She had listened without condescension or judgment. She hadn’t tried to trivialize my feelings. It was the same way she always listened to me, for my entire life. Suddenly, I felt bad that I had kept my new friendship with Kai a secret from her.

  “It’s actually—this isn’t about the divorce. It’s something else.”

  Mom looked surprised, then immediately tried to hide her surprise. She pulled out the chair next to me and sat down, hands on her knees, leaning forward expectantly. “What is it, Teacup? I’m here.”

  Where should I even start? “Well … remember when we went to Hawaii the first time, and I became friends with that boy Kai?”

  She nodded.

  “I bumped into him again, the last time we were there. On the beach.” I decided to skip the part about me sneaking out and meeting him in the lava tubes in the middle of the night. “We, um, exchanged numbers, and we’ve been texting and stuff. He’s actually become one of my best friends.”

  Mom smiled, her brown eyes dancing. “That explains a lot. I’ve been wondering why you’ve been glued to your phone lately. I thought maybe you met a new boy at school.”

  “Mom! No. It’s not like that, with Kai.” I could feel myself blushing. “We’re friends.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mom said, holding up her hands, but I could tell she didn’t fully believe me. “I’m glad you’ve reconnected with Kai. He was such a nice kid. I always wondered what happened to him.”

  “He’s great.” That lump was back in my throat. “Really great.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Why the tears, hon?”

  “We had a fight. I ruined everything.” I told her about the stupid trigonometry fiasco and why I’d gotten so upset. How everyone at school labeled me. How I thought Kai saw me differently—more fully—than that.

  “I think you’re right,” Mom said. “I think Kai does see the real you—all of you. Just like Andrea does, and just like your father and I do. Don’t let the kids at school make you feel boxed in, Tegan. And don’t box yourself in either.”

  I nodded, playing with the strings on my hoodie. We’d had this conversation before. I wasn’t boxing myself in. Even though the kids at school annoyed me sometimes, overall I felt comfortable with who I was. Now was not the time to veer off-topic.

  “But what about Kai?” I asked. “What should I do?” There was a whiny pleading in my voice. Ugh. When had I started caring this much? Get it together, I told myself.

  “You should call him and apologize,” Mom said gently, standing up from the table.

  I gathered the dirty dishes to bring to the sink. “But what do I say?”

  “Tell him what you just told me.”

  So, after I helped her wash the dishes, I climbed the stairs to my room, flopped backward onto my bed, and pressed the green phone icon next to his name. My heart was pounding. He answered on the second ring.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted out. “I miss you.”

  “I’m sorry too,” he said. “It’s been so weird not talking to you. I thought I should give you some space. I didn’t mean to impose or anything.”

  “No, no—you never impose.” But I didn’t want to explain to Kai what it was like at my school. How the other kids saw me. What if their impression of me tainted his impression of me? Sometimes it seemed he was the only person in the world who truly understood me. I couldn’t risk changing that. “I was in a weird mood yesterday,” I said. “I’m sorry I snapped. I’m happy to help. So, what questions do you have about trig?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. No big deal. This girl in class is going to tutor me.”

  “Oh.” This girl in class. “Okay.”

  The conversation meandered on, and after that things pretty much went back to normal. But something shifted inside me. I realized how fragile our foundation was. How Kai could disappear from my life if he wanted, and there would be nothing I could do. And that scared me. I realized I had let him in too far. I had been vulnerable and surrendered control. No more. From then on, I vowed not to be dependent on him. Not to need him too much. There was no way I would ever let myself feel more than friendship. I needed to play it safe. Keeping him at arm’s length would mean that I could keep him in my life. No messiness and no complications.

  In the months and years that followed, Mom asked about Kai occasionally. A few times she waved hello when we were FaceTiming. Mostly, she let me bring him up when I wanted, and she didn’t push for more. I couldn’t tell if she was happy about my friendship with him or if she was indifferent. All I knew was that she didn’t want him to distract me from my studies—from my future. College had always been her dream for me too.

  So I thought Mom would be happy with my decision not to visit Kai over the summer. I expected her to applaud my resolve to get ahead on my college courses. But when I told her the news, she looked … sad. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” she asked. “You’ve worked so hard, Teacup. You deserve a little vacation.”

  “I’m sure. This is what I want.”

  She nodded and said, “I bet Kai is disappointed.”

  Was that blame in her voice? I bristled.

  “I haven’t told him yet,” I admitted. “I’m going to call him tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll understand. He’ll want what’s best for me.”

  The next day, when I did call him, and when it caused the biggest argument of our entire friendship, I didn’t tell my mom. I had a feeling she wouldn’t be surprised, and I couldn’t bear to see that on her face. I didn’t want her to try to change my mind or attempt to “fix” things. I told myself that I had made my decision and that it was the best decision for me, for my future. Kai would come around eventually. I could always visit him next summer.

  “Hey,” Kai says. I hear him step out onto the patio and close the sliding glass door. “Whatcha doing out here?”

  Olina lifts her head. Quickly, I fold up the notepaper and stuff it into my pocket.

  “Resting,” I say. “I wanted to give you guys some privacy.”

  Kai steps in front of the hammock. At the sight of him, a goofy grin spreads across my face. Yes, I held him at arm’s length for the past three years—and I almost lost him because of it—but I didn’t lose him, and now he loves me, and I love him. I reach up and grab his shirt, pull him down toward me, and kiss him like it’s
our first kiss all over again.

  When we pull away, his eyes are hazy. “Whoa,” he says.

  “Whoa,” I say.

  “Can I join you in there?”

  “Of course!” I scoot over as best I can, and Kai folds himself in beside me. The hammock presses our bodies together like we are two caterpillars sharing a single cocoon. He wraps his arm around me, and I rest my cheek against his chest.

  “How did things go with your parents?” I ask softly.

  “It was a hard conversation, but good. Dad is taking Theo to the doctor right now to get checked out. His wrist is still hurting, and it’s pretty swollen. Dad thinks it might be broken.”

  “Poor Theo.” I shift in the hammock, running my hand down Kai’s arm until it finds his hand. Our fingers weave together. “Are they going to file a police report?”

  “I don’t know. Theo doesn’t want to. It’s complicated because he was wrapped up in the drug stuff, you know? So he could get in trouble himself.”

  “Yeah. At least your parents are involved now. They’ll know what’s best.”

  Kai sighs, but it’s a different sigh than earlier. Not a sigh of frustration but a sigh of relief. “It feels so good to have told them. To have this whole thing off my chest. No more secrets.” He kisses my forehead. “Sort of like when I confessed my feelings for you, this last time.”

  I tilt my chin and look up at him. “What do you mean, ‘this last time’?”

  “Well, the first two times I tried didn’t work out so well.”

  “Two times? What else besides that phone conversation? Which wasn’t your fault, by the way. I wasn’t ready to hear it. I was too scared.”

  He grins. “Tegan Rossi, I thought you weren’t scared of anything.”

  “Falling in love with you. That was the only thing that scared me.”

  Olina grunts and gets up, as if our sappiness is too much for her. She trots over to the grass a few yards away and settles down beneath a mango tree.