Come Back to Me (18 page)

“What?”

He stood,
his gaze steady on mine.

“Running to
Kyle?  I’m not.  I mean he’s my friend--”

“Come on,
Whitney.”  He rolled his eyes.

I felt a
tiny spark of annoyance, but it instantly dissipated, when it occurred to me
that maybe Evan thought there was something more between Kyle and me.  We were
friends.  Okay, so maybe it was an odd connection, and I did get a lot of texts
and calls from Kyle whenever I was with Evan.  But defining what we were, other
than an extension of Katie, was not easy.

“He’s my
friend
,
Evan.”

Evan
shouldered his bag.  His jaw flexed.

“What, you
disagree?”

“You’re at
his every beck and call,” he said, tucking his hands into his front pockets.  “I
don’t know how you define friendship.  Why don’t you tell him to call one of
the girls he was with last night?”

“You saw him
last night?”

Evan
shrugged.  “I see him around.”

I didn’t
care that Kyle hung out with other girls.  Maybe he would find someone to make
him happy enough to stop drinking.  Kyle never mentioned any girls to me, but
it didn’t matter.  We were friends, and I didn’t like that Evan questioned that.

At least I knew
friends needed to answer one another’s calls or texts.

I turned and
moved to the door.  I pushed through it, then Evan’s hand touched my arm as I
stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Wait.  I
just want to know why you run to him.  Are you—I mean, is he what you want?”

“No.”  I stepped
away from the light of TEA and into the shadows of the antique store next
door.  I knew what I needed to say next was that I wanted him.  And I did, but
. . . not like this, not when I felt desperate for him to understand.

I was so
sick of desperate and pathetic.

Evan nodded,
his gaze not meeting mine.

My shoulders
slumped, and I leaned my back against the brick.  I shook my head to refute
what I said, but the air was hollow with the words I’d left unspoken.  So I
moved to the subject of Kyle.  It was easier to explain.  “Evan, Kyle is my
friend.”

Evan scoffed.

“He is.  I
mean, Kyle . . . he saved my life.  I owe him.”

Evan’s face
suddenly cleared and, as he looked at me, his face softened.  He took a step
closer. “What?”

I so didn’t
want to talk about graduation night anymore.  I finally thought I was done
thinking about it, done trying to dissect my brain over it.  All I wanted was
to sink into the middle of the stupid, lumpy chair, drink tea, and laugh over
the ridiculousness of a Dr. Seuss dog party.  Except I needed to explain so we
could move on, so he could hold my hand again, so I could stop being so confused. 
I just wanted his fingers holding mine.  I wanted that warmth back.

So, I told
him.  All of it.  What happened on graduation night, before Evan drove me
home.  Well, every part I remembered.  Scrabble.  Imagining Katie, and waking
up in the middle of my own backyard.  The crazy mix of fear, guilt, anger, and
my new happiness.  I told him how Kyle was there for me when I was at my
lowest, how he found me by the ditch.

“Did Kyle
tell you that?”  Evan’s voice sounded tight, his face in shadows.

Was I not
explaining it right?

“Whit, I
thought you couldn’t remember what happened.”

“I remember some,
but when Kyle picked me up, he made this joke about Godzilla.  It was something
silly.  We talked about in the library.  It’s tough to remember exactly, but
that’s what he said when he carried me away from the ditch.”

Evan looked
stunned.  And not at all understanding of the situation.  Did he not get how
complicated my relationship with Kyle was?  I wanted him to get it, because he
had to understand that Kyle was always going to be a part of my life.  After
all, Kyle saved it.

Agitated,
Evan started to turn but then dropped his bag and moved so close I felt his breath
on my forehead.

“That’s how
you know,
really
?”

I closed my
eyes, the warmth from his breath, his body forming an outline against mine.  I
nodded.  It was not the right thing to say, apparently, because his body tensed,
thickening the air between us.

“So that’s
how you know how you feel, based on what some half-assed memory is telling
you?”

“Half-assed? 
It’s my memory, however shredded.  I don’t get why you’re so mad.”

He took a
step back and swiped a hand through his hair.

“Because
that’s what I’m feeling right now.  You don’t get it.”  He shook his head.

“I have no
idea why we’re arguing, Evan.”

He stepped
closer, leaning in, until we were nose to nose.  “I don’t know either.  Shit
happens.  Awesome happens.  You keep your hands inside the ride and hold on. 
Enjoy it.”

“What?” He
was so close that all of my thoughts fell out, emptying my mind.

“I don’t
know what I’m doing either, Whit,” he whispered, his hand brushing my too long
bangs away from my eyes.  His hand slid down to cup my cheek in his palm and
confusion warred with relief.  “But this stuff, the stuff between us . . . ”

He dropped
his hand.  It lingered near my collarbone, dipping for a moment near my heart,
which skidded at his touch, then resumed a much faster pace.

I felt his other
hand on the back of my neck, and I waited for his kiss.  My lips tingled with
anticipation,
ached
.

But he
didn’t kiss me.  Instead, he let go and moved away.  “I’ll take you home.”

Cold washed
over me, mixing with the heat Evan stirred up.  I felt nauseous.  He didn’t
know why he was with me?

“No,” I
said, because I didn’t like his pity.  It reminded me too much of the night he
drove me home, wasted and pathetic.

He nodded as
if he expected me to say no, then he dropped his head and moved away.  Without
the light from TEA or the light that glowed from within when he was near, I
couldn’t see him anymore.

Gone.

I quit TEA
the next day.  I finished my volunteer hours three shifts before, but I’d
started to like working there and, of course, Evan stopped in every day, too.  But
after our weird conversation on the sidewalk, I was afraid to see him.  So I
called Steve and told him I was done.  Even Steve didn’t seem to care all that
much.

What was I
doing pouring all my energy into temporary relationships?  I needed to be
building real ones.

I thought of
Colson.  How many days?  I closed my eyes and counted.  Was it 29 days?  I wasn’t
sure.  When had I stopped counting?

I wanted a
normal focus again.  I needed
something to do
.  Well, something that
didn’t have me all over the place emotionally.

So I went to
see my grandmother.  But this time, I found myself wanting to do a little more. 
After all, my original plan was to do my volunteer work at Spring Hill Home. 
Sure, I was finished with my hours, but there was always room for good.  At the
library, I downloaded popular music from the 1950s and 1960s, and checked out
DVDs and books from that time as well.  All the research I’d done indicated that
pop culture references could stir up memories and help regain a sense of
identity.

Armed with these
items and a sense of solidarity (I knew what it was like to lose memories), I
went to my grandmother like I was actually going to conquer her disease.

It was a major
fail.  Especially, when my grandmother got all agitated before I even finished
reading the first page of John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley.  She yelled. 
She stood, one arm leaning on her walker, and the other waving in the air.  Her
whole body shook by the time one of the nurses came in, and I moved to a corner
while she calmed my grandmother.  Thankfully, the man who brought the comfort
dogs in was there that day.  I watched as a gentle golden retriever nudged a
nose at my grandmother’s fingers.  Her face softened, she relaxed.  Like most
of the residents, she liked the dogs.

I focused on
the bulletin board in her room, the one with family pictures and the monthly
activity and menus for Spring Hill.  Today’s lunch was turkey sandwiches and
tomato soup.  Below that was pinned a flyer for an Alzheimer’s 5K, as if my
grandmother would sign up (with her walker) and participate.  Although not all
that weird considering my attempt to use the Sylvester book as some kind of
magical antidote to Alzheimer’s, or  my efforts to capture happiness from my
own missing memories.  My knees jiggled. I locked them. Unlike my brain, there
were apparently other parts of me ready to spill.

There was
also a photo of my sister and me.  Her arm was around my shoulders, my older sister,
my protector.  I wished to have that arm around me now.

The nurse
tapped me on my shoulder, and I pulled my gaze from the photo.

“Do you know
what book she’s asking for?”

I walked
over to the nightstand and opened the drawer.  My grandmother practically
grabbed it out of my hands when I stepped toward her.  She held the book close
to her, almost up under her armpit, like a quarterback holding a football.

My grandmother
couldn’t handle change.  Obviously, her book, the one with the first chapter I
almost knew by heart, was her carabineer.  It looked like she was taking it
with her, all the way down the field, no matter what.

I had no
idea if that was a good thing or not.

* * *

At home, the
air-conditioned cold seeped into me, matching my numbness.  Even when I opened
the fridge for water, I felt no rush of cool air.  I grabbed a bottle of water
and drank until I felt the sharp, bruising sensation of brain freeze in the
center of my forehead.

Turning back
to the counter, I leafed through the stack of cooking magazines, bills, and a
package for me.  I glanced at the return address and sighed.  Inside would be the
copy of Sylvester and the Magic Pebble I’d ordered.

I slid the
flat box aside.  The book made me think of Evan
and
my grandmother.  It
was another reminder of my mistakes.

Then, I
found a letter addressed to me from Colson University.  I smiled, like a
prisoner getting a letter from home.  I felt a flutter in my gut. 
Something
to look forward to. 
Two out of three keys to happiness was not bad at all.

I shook my
head as if to release the third (
someone to love
) and prevent it from
taking root in my gray matter.  I pushed the letter opener through the flap,
all the while thinking dorm assignments, roommates, or meal plan information.  When
I unfolded the letter, the first word I noticed was regret.

After
careful review of your final transcript, we regret to inform you…

I pressed
the letter onto the shiny granite counter, as a wave of panic struck.  I pulled
in a shaky breath, and my gaze darted around the room for something, anything, to
focus on.  I stopped on my mom’s espresso machine.  I concentrated on my breath
while I studied the shiny stainless steel surface.

…
we are
withdrawing our offer of admission.

With my back
against the counter, I slid to the floor.  I thought about my plans, then my
parents.  What was I going to do now?  What were they going to say?

I thought of
the package on the counter, and Sylvester’s parents, distraught, looking for
their son who was there all along.  What sympathy did I deserve?  This was my
fault.

Bug stepped
into the kitchen, watching me.

“What?” I
asked.  “Mom doesn’t sit in the middle of the floor? No baking fails that leave
her sprawled out here?”

We stared at
each other.  I dropped my head back against the cabinet. “No, I guess not.”

Then I felt Bug
rest her chin on my knee.  I looked down at her furry head.  My palm hovered
over her back before settling.  The morning before, I woke up to see her
sleeping at the foot of my bed. Why was it that I suddenly existed to Bug now?

I closed my
eyes. My heart slowed, a heavy beat inside a hollowed out chest.

The air
conditioner kicked on, and Bug shifted.  Cold air blew on us from the vent
above.  What was left of me stood and I found my gaze on the espresso machine
again.  My reflection morphed wide and wavy…

…until I saw
an image that wasn’t really me.

According to
Emily, I was supposed to avoid triggers—things that might tempt me into
drinking again.  During group, we came up with a list—parties, people who
drank, or used, TV, family, even a parakeet.  This one girl said she couldn’t
even hear her bird squawk without wanting to drink.  But, the idea of seeing or
hearing something that would make me want to drink somehow didn’t make sense to
me.  After all, I spent the last month hanging out with drunk Kyle.  I didn’t
need a temptation to get there.  Just the idea of that liquid heat sliding down
my throat, through me, and around me until all my icy edges melted into
blissful numbness . . . that detachment appealed strongly to me.  But not
because of something near me or around me.  Temptation wasn’t waiting to ambush
me at some party.  Temptation already lived inside me.