Page 42 of Rewriting the Story

I swipe into the room with Grant’s keycard and find the box on the counter. It’s smaller than I thought it would be, and I’m curious as to what Grant got them. Gifts could really go either way with Grant.

I really missed these boys, and even if I have to see Amelia and dig up all our shit, I’ll still be thankful they invited me. We were close backin college—Oliver, Grant, and me—and I enjoyed being around them. Adding Leo to this mix has only made it more interesting, and it’s been fun being around him. He’s got the sort of aura that makes you feel more confident just by being near him, and I’m counting on that to help me tonight.

I shut the door, pocketing the key card before I round the corner, ready to press the button for the elevator, but the figure in front of me stops me dead in my tracks.

It’s her. I know that frame anywhere, and as if she senses me like she used to be able to all those years ago, her head turns, and her icy blue eyes meet mine.

She looks different. Her hair is the same as it used to be—curly and short—and she still wears those floral dresses that used to overflow in her closet, but something about her looks different. Maybe it’s not a physical thing. Maybe I still know her well enough to tell she’s a different Amelia.

She doesn't say a word; rather, the two of us continue suspended in this moment, unsure of what to say after all this time has passed. If we said anything, I’m sure it would be fake small talk to avoid saying what we actually want to say. In front of me, she’s a stranger. One I know far too much about, but a stranger, nonetheless.

It always amazes me how you can become strangers with someone. Here is this person who used to know every intricate detail of my personality, who used to know all my nuances, all my usual orders, and in between us now is this huge space.

If I think about how many people know such intricacies about me and my life, I might have an anxiety attack, but it’s a simple part of life—the fact that people will weave in and out of it. It’s natural, like the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening.

For example, I know Amelia is anxious right now because she still has that same nervous tick—she touches her necklace. To any other person, it wouldn't mean a thing. But to me? To someone who once knew everylittle thing about her? To me, it tells me she’s nervous, scared, even. It brings me the smallest comfort knowing she feels as nervous about this as I do.

The elevator dings, and neither of us says a word as the doors open and we slide inside.

The Elevator by Lizzy McAlpine

It’sbeeneighthundredand sixty seven days since I’ve last seen him, and my first instinct is to run away.

God, he looks good—different, but good. He’s still wearing those same glasses because they always said they made him look more scholarly when I made fun of him our senior year for not being able to see. He told me once he never wanted contacts because of how much he rubs his eyes, and I hate that all these things are trickling back into my thoughts.

My heart lurches as that memory comes back, and my hand goes right to my necklace again. He looked at it before we got in the elevator, and I couldn't tell if he knew it was the same one he got me all those years ago. If he noticed, he hasn't said anything about it.

Neither of us has said much of anything as we stand here, waiting for the elevator to move.

It’s a few seconds later I realize neither of us pushed a button to get back to the lobby, so we’ve just been sitting on the same floor since we awkwardly walked in here.

He must realize it at the same time as me, because we both reach for the button for the lobby, and neither of us actually ends up pressing it. I accidentally graze his hand, and he flinches, pocketing his hand in his jeans.

“Sorry,” is the first word I say to him. That single word carries so much weight, and he knows that, even though I’m only talking about the button.

“It’s fine.”

The two of us are dancing around the actual conversation, but as his voice filters through my ears, I’m hit with a wave of nostalgia. All I can hear is him pleading with me, his voice thick with emotion as I tear his heart to shreds.

“I love you.”

“I don’t.”God, what a liar I was. What a horrible thing I did, breaking this sweet man next to me. Part of me wishes this elevator would crush me after he gets out.

I reach for my necklace again, wanting the smallest bit of comfort it could bring me.

The two of us face the doors, neither of us sparing a glance at one another as Henry pushes the button and it finally starts to move.

I can’t think of anything else to say to him. There’s no amount of small talk in the world that could fill the awkward tension. We also can’t have the beginnings of this conversation in a small elevator before we go to dinner with our friends.

Oh. There’s a word I never thought I would say again. Are they our friends again? They’re barely even my friends again, so I’m not really sure if I could even say that. How strange to think of us once having a sharedgroup of people who cared about us singularly and as a unit. I ruined that for him. I ruined us, and I ruined his relationship with the guys.

Or maybe I didn't, if they invited him here for the wedding. Maybe they kept in touch. I could ask him, but again, that feels too miniscule. Anything I say besides an apology or an explanation is pretty much pointless.

So, I run away from trying to have any sort of conversation with him, even though I should at least try; it seems like the easiest thing to do right now.

I’m counting down the floor numbers before I hear him scoff and see him shake his head.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. I don’t turn to look at him. I can’t. I’m afraid if I spend a second looking into his eyes, I'll see the remnants of how much I destroyed him looking back at me, and I can’t handle that.

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