Rating: PG
Thanks: Mae, for taking time from college (and Josh worshipping) hecticness to beta-read for me, and to Nicky, whom I can always run my crazy ideas past.
Slide.
That’s what I do best. Let it slide. I’m only human and this is how I survive. I’m frail and weak and everything I’m not supposed to be, but no one knows that. That’s how I get by, I don’t let them know. It’s easy in a world of expectations to be what everyone wants of you. And I gave up a long time ago on doing things the hard way.
Is there a hard way anymore? If no one takes it, does it even exist? Life has been mutually reduced into only doing what it takes to make it, and no more. It’s like that question: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? I don’t think so. I stumble and trip and fail every day and even the people nearby don’t notice. The people who are supposed to notice, don’t.
I would test the theory - an “official test”- but that would call me to renounce my self-imposed laziness. Lack of interest. That sounds better. Lack of interest in life. Besides, every day of being me proves that the hard way isn’t an option and the mistakes I make don’t matter to anyone. Not even me. Not anymore.
So when someone casually brings up her name in conversation and realizes too late with apologetic eyes, I let it slide. And when they trudge up old yearbooks or photo albums of our forgotten “Rawley Days," I let it go. Why bother? Yelling, throwing things - it would just waste energy. And we’ve already established that no one would notice anyway. That energy could be better used for other things…like forgetting - that she ever meant anything, that I ever cared for her.
That she ever existed.
Sometimes I say her name when no one is around. Just to hear it in the air and remember what it felt like to love someone and be loved. Or to think I was loved, at least. It was a good feeling. Some days I wish I could return. Some days I wish I had never met her. Most days it’s a mixture of both.
It’s a tempting option. To hear her voice again and feel her next to me. But it’s quickly outweighed by the falseness of the image. It was never really like that, she was never as in love as I was. She would never let herself be. Time and love have altered the reality that I can’t get back...because I was never there in the first place. Only in my imagination.
Only in my dreams.
She infiltrates my dreams too. The one thing that was actually mine is no longer safe from her memory. No one knows that either. It shouldn’t be like this, it’s been two years, I should be over her already. She’s dating again, Will, of all people.
Will and Jake.
That still hurts like the first time I heard it. I mean, who would have thought?
No one. Exactly.
That’s why it hurts so much. Too much. A deep, tearing pain that no one should have to know. I’ve lost myself in this obsession, this need, to have her with me again. But she’s gone, for good - she made that very clear. And I still dream of her. I still open the front door and expect to see her lying on the couch, reading, or in the kitchen stirring a cup of hot chocolate. I still expect to turn over in bed and see her laying there peacefully, her eyelids fluttering as she dreams…her hair fanning over the hideous pink pillows that she insisted on buying.
She was beautiful. I hope she knows that. She is beautiful. And witty, and sarcastic, and kind, and everything I thought I would never find in love. Maybe if she knew that, maybe if I had told her more often, then she wouldn’t have left. Because, I guess, “Hey boy” just didn’t cut it.
And I hope he makes her happy, because I never could. And she deserves that - a life of happiness. Everyone does. It’s just some people are more successful in achieving it than others. Three guesses as to a specific person who isn’t.
I think I always knew we wouldn’t work. It was obvious in the way I would tell her I loved her and she would hesitate before replying the same. It was in her eyes-dark and cloudy and unsure. I think she loved me for the simple fact that I loved her more than anything in the world. And because I cared about her so much. That’s all she ever wanted - to feel loved. I guess I can’t blame her for that. I wanted it too.
I thought I had it.
When I think of her is when I become afraid. What if I never find it again? What if I never love someone as much as I loved her. And that really shouldn’t even count, because she didn’t feel the same way back. I can’t live with that. That the best thing that happened to me wasn’t reciprocal. “We” were the best thing that ever happened to me. I only wish she saw it the same way. I wish she saw so many things the same way I do.
You know, people think that I’m over her. It’s always the same, “You should move on. You need to continue with your life.” But they don’t know. They couldn’t. They obviously never felt this intensely about anyone or they wouldn’t be able to sum up their advice in such a simple sentence. What I need to hear is that “It’s complicated. No one expects you to just forget about her.” But nobody thinks that. I should be ‘strong’ and ‘emotionless’ and ‘forget about her immediately.’
Why don’t they see that I can’t do this anymore? I can’t pretend I never met her. I can’t pretend that I didn’t love her and I can’t pretend that she left me. I can’t wish away the sound of her laughter that still reverberates in my mind. I can’t close my eyes without seeing her face, I can’t even throw away the goddamn pillowcases she bought three years ago, or the clothing she forgot to take with her when she left.
I can’t.
Pictures of her, of us, are in a blue shoebox on the upper left shelf of the closet under the pillowcases. Blue was her favorite color. She once said she liked me in blue, before quickly adding that she liked me in nothing better. I take down the box every once in a while, when the house is quiet and empty of people. The photos are faded, rumpled, dusty memories of our life at Rawley and the few happy years that followed. They’re shuffled in a random order: ones of our sophomore year followed by ones from Bella’s wedding only to go back to a photo of our graduation. She always hated the fact that I wasn’t organized, so now I keep the pictures in a lackadaisical order as a tribute to our doomed relationship, foretold in a simple statement made our first summer together: It’s not worth it. They should have been her words, because it was her ending. I don’t let myself cry anymore because she doesn’t cry for me.
They try to hide that from me. She is happy and she is over me. I heard a rumor that she is getting married. To Will, no doubt. But that doesn’t stop me from calling her house. I’ve been doing it for the past year. Will usually answers, and when he does, I don’t say anything. He says hello once or twice before hanging up. I know he shakes his head when Jake gives him a questioning stare, and tells her, “No one there.”
That’s how she knows it’s me. And that I miss her. She’s thinking the same thing on the nights that she calls me back. It’s late at night there when she phones me, like midnight or one in the morning. Later when Will stays up writing his ‘novel.’
“Hello Hamilton,” she says.
And that would be enough. That’s the reason I wait up for her call. To hear her say my name.
“You shouldn’t call here anymore.” She doesn’t mean it though. If she did, she wouldn’t call me back.
I smile and whisper, “I know,” even though there’s no one around to hear us. It’s like we’re at Rawley again, sneaking around and hoping someone doesn’t catch us. Neither of us say anything while I listen to the sound of her breathing through the shadowy static mess of our connection. It’s simple, it’s easy, it’s even.
But then she’ll break our beautiful silence with an “I’ve got to go. I hear Will rustling around.” A click of the receiver and she’s gone again and 1000 miles away. With a fiancé, and a house on a lake, and a job she enjoys, and no regrets. Leaving me alone, with none of the above. But I don’t place the phone back in its cradle right away. Not until that automated voice comes on telling me to redial the number.
I hate that voice.
You know, when people hang up there isn’t a dial tone like you hear in the movies. There’s just...nothingness. A hollow, empty sound that’s vaguely reminiscent of my life. I don’t know why I stay there to listen to it.
We do this once a week or so, more if I can’t take another day without hearing her. She doesn’t know that she’s the highlight of my week. She doesn’t know that I’ll go without meals to pay for the phone bill. I live for our mutual silence and she doesn’t know it. It’s the only thing that we do well anymore. She probably just thinks she’s being nice or something. Letting her heartbroken ex down easily or some worthy cause like that.
Sometimes I want to ask her if she misses us, if she misses my love for her. She shouldn’t…she still has it. But I can’t bring myself to say anything more in our conversations than “I know.” That statement is so far from the truth, that it feels good to air out the words that would otherwise never see the light of day.
I don’t ask because I don’t want the answer. The more I call her, I have this sinking suspicion that her answer wouldn’t be in my favor. Maybe that’s why I don’t say anything at all. Because if we don’t speak, we don’t have a chance to ruin it before it begins. We’ve done that too many times.
It was three weeks ago tonight that it changed. I called, like usual and Will answered and hung up with an impatient sigh. She called me back, but earlier than she normally does. Too early. Will would still be up and likely to catch on to our weekly ritual. Our conversation started the same way, albeit my confusion.
“Hello Hamilton.”
Silence.
“You can’t call here anymore.”
“I know,” I whispered, my smile returning to my lips as I awaited the gentle murmurings of her TV in the background while we didn’t speak. The quiet chaos of our separate lives departed us during these short phone calls and it was a nice break.
She took a deep breath, preparing to say something. My anxiety leapt as she did so...we didn’t speak. We didn’t talk. No “How’s life treating you,” no “What’s up?” Not even a goodbye to signal the end of our conversation, if it could even be called that. We just listened.
“No. I mean it this time, Hamilton. You can’t keep calling like this.”
What was she talking about? She’s never had a problem with it before. I didn’t understand this sudden change of heart. I couldn’t breathe. This was all I had left of us and she was going to take it away. Leaving me with this undefined, confused ending. “No-”
“I’m pregnant.”
...The phone slipped from my weak grasp. “I guess it isn’t that confused after all,” was the only thought running through my brain. Because I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that she was going to have a child. A baby - a life - with someone else. I didn’t think I’d ever really accepted it before. My heart twisted and I felt the bile rising in the back of my throat. I meant nothing to her. I was just an accidental blip in her life. An unintentional speed bump. Something that took her off course for a couple of years until she could drag herself back on track to a family and a ‘safe’ love.
That’s what she called it. A ‘safe’ love. I never understood that. Love shouldn’t be moderated by safety, it should be ruled by emotion and confusion and chaos and desire to make it all stop but desire to make it last forever at the same time. It’s not really love if you don’t have to risk anything. But I guess she never saw it that way.
I didn’t have to hear the click of the phone to know she had hung up already. I didn’t pick the receiver up from the floor because I couldn’t hear the inevitable heartbreaking silence of the end. The realization crawled through me and I couldn’t think, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t do anything because...
...because love didn’t exist.
Love didn’t do this to another person. Abandon them, keep their hopes up, crush them with two simple words.
I’m pregnant.
That’s not love. That’s not anything but selfishness and...
How could she do this to me? How could she rip me apart? Was I never enough?
I lay on the floor and concentrated on breathing for the next couple of hours - I’m not sure how many. Time lost all meaning and relevance in a place in my mind which obliterated every thought except ‘She’s pregnant’ and ‘We’re over. We’re really over.’
I called the week after that conversation, but I never heard from her in return. The same again the next week. And today, just an hour ago, I dialed her number again. Will picked up, and I asked for her this time.
She wasn’t home.
So I left my number, and a message to call me back. She knows the number already, but Will didn’t recognize my voice and I wanted to keep it that way. She should be calling me back any minute. It’s 1:30 and Will has surely gone to bed by now.
When the clock hits 1:49, I consider calling again. But I don’t, because that’s how we work. I call, Will picks up, I don’t answer, she calls me back. She’s always the one in control. Somewhere deep in me, buried under all the layers of pain and reluctance and denial, I know she probably won’t call. And it would be for the best - for everyone.
But I want her to. More than anything I want to hear that “Hey Hamilton,” her soft breathy hello one last time. And this time, I would say goodbye before she could hang up. And I would leave her with the empty silence of our relationship and the automated voice that soon follows.
At 2:31 my eyes start to close involuntarily and she still hasn’t called. I pull back the comforter and slid between the light purple sheets she picked out. Tomorrow I promise myself to buy some new ones and throw these away. I just hope I can follow through.
The red numbers on my alarm clock catch my attention. 2:34. Six hours for sleep. I switch on the alarm and turn away, to face the wall, and place the cordless phone on the pillow next to me. Just in case.
Sleep begins to fog my brain and bend my thoughts, taking them to places I don’t lead. But her image stays clear in my mind and so does the hope that she will call. Before I’m completely out, my hand snakes up to rest on the phone, making sure it is where I left it, the space that used to hold her body.
Just in case.
End
[ f e e d b a c k ]