Page 5 of The Rest is History

But this time I’ll try. I’ll try to be a man. Abby should have a father who’s strong and confident.

Inside, I take the stairs, my feet dragging me up to the bedroom where Julie and I slept for three years. The closet is empty. Almost empty. All of Julie’s clothes are gone, but some of mine still remain. The linen closet has been cleared by the movers. The bedding from the bed has been removed, and only the bed remains. The dresser is no longer in the corner of the room.

I sink onto the mattress.

Why couldn’t we just have this? I gave up the life I wished for. I gave up my best friend. My father wanted me married so I would have a stable family life. I appreciated that, and Asher was long gone by then, so I married Julie. She loved me and I loved her, and when Julie became pregnant, I was more committed than ever before to the life that I had chosen over the life I wished I could have chosen.

Why couldn't it all have just worked out?

Maybe this is my punishment for not truly loving Julie the way I should have. Or maybe because, although good things are possible, they’re just not for me. Nothing can ever just work out for me. I have access to everything I could ever want but I can never truly have them.

Prestigious schools? Yes, but you’ll barely pass anything.

Wealth? Yes, but it will be used as a weapon to keep you in line.

Best friend? Yes, but only until you fall in love with him.

Marriage? Yes, but not to the one you love most in this world.

Fatherhood? Yes, but only for fifteen minutes and then, never again.

Love? Yes, but not Asher Cameron.

In the corner of the room, where the dresser used to be, is a stack of books. Julie liked to read the classics. A Tale of Two Cities. Catcher in the Rye. To Kill a Mockingbird. Oliver Twist.

The copy of Oliver Twist is mine. The most famous line from this book became an inside joke between me and Asher. He would kiss me, and I would beg, “Please, sir, I want some more.”

Somewhere among my packed belongings is that journal filled with our secret thoughts. One of the pages contains this very line, his favorite words. Please, sir, I want some more. I wrote it down because it was all I ever wanted: all and everything and more. He teased me endlessly for it and then he made his own note next to mine: Always, Reece.

I walk across the room and pick up the copy of Oliver Twist from the top of the pile. I feel like the impoverished boy who dared to ask for a second helping of food. Constantly hungry. Constantly aching to have something of substance other than money and image. Perpetually in that state of “Please, sir. I want some more.”

I’m timid like Oliver too, stupidly asking to be loved and accepted. Begging to be allowed to be me and have the things I truly long for.

But my father is the master of the workhouse where Oliver Twist worked. Appalled that I would dare to ask for more than what he has given me.

At first, it was okay because it was only my father who didn’t want me. I could live with that. Then, when my mother left after the divorce, it became less bearable. Maybe nobody wanted me. And finally, when Asher and his parents left, I knew I was, undoubtedly, simply unwanted.

Like Oliver, I wasn’t given more. Instead, I was punished for daring to want what I wanted. And I wasn’t the only one my father punished.

Only one person in this world ever gave me more. The more I asked the more Asher gave until I no longer needed to ask. He gave and gave and gave. I was never too much for him. With him, I was never ashamed of the things I needed.

I sink to the floor with the book still in my hand. The room is suddenly stuffy and claustrophobic, but I know the claustrophobia is inside my head. It’s my head I can’t stand to be in. It’s too full. No space for me anymore. I could be in the desert with nothing around me and still, it would feel like the very air was closing in on me, crushing me.

Julie and I are over. She had more courage than me. She asked for the divorce, not because she wanted it. “I need to be brave for both of us,” she said after I told her the truth about me. About me and Asher. She filed two weeks before we found out she was pregnant. We reconsidered the divorce after that. Maybe Abby would give us the chance we needed to be happy.

Julie went ahead with the divorce a month after Abby died.

A sudden and unrelenting ache explodes inside my chest. Now, there is no one. Julie is gone. Abby is gone. There is only one left, but I lost him a long time ago too.

I slide my phone out of my pocket. Unlock it and scroll up to C in my contact list. My heart thumps inside my chest.

He’s married. Has been for two years. It’s all I know about him and his life. But what else is there to know about a married man?

But he’s my friend. Before he became my everything, he was my friend. And he always knew what to say. He always had all the answers. For more than ten years, I’ve kept his number stored on my phone, never daring to use it.

Now, my thumb hovers over it. My heart roars and rebels. Just tap call.

I need to tell him about Abby.

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