Page 3 of The Book of Legends
It feels like I’ve been pushed into a dark hole, falling, reaching desperately for someone to pull me out. I reach for Micah, for him to stop me from falling, to tell me everything will be okay, that he’ll be there. But lately, he’s never in reach.
We make plans, and something comes up. I call, and he doesn’t pick up. He always has an excuse as to why. And it’s devastating. He’s been there since we were kids. But now that we’ve left for college, and my aunt is nearing the end, I’ve been spending more time back home and less time with him.
Every day these past two weeks, I’ve visited my aunt, helped her around the house, packed up what she wanted to donate, and brought her favorite meals. Between classes, I studied. But I always made the effort to spend time with him.
All I asked Micah was to meet up afterwards, when we both finished with our day. And every time, he would tell me that something came up.
I know, in part, it’s my fault. Maybe I’m lashing out because I feel guilty—that the time I am making is based on my schedule. Well, mostly. But I don’t regret the time I’ve spent with Aunt Nan. How could I? She’s all I have left.
My aunt has been both a mother and father to me my whole life. My parents died when I was a baby. Sometimes, I think I remember them—a certain smell, a touch, a laugh, a voice. But then it’s gone.
And maybe I’m afraid the same thing will happen with my aunt. Pictures would be useless.
What if I forget her? Her touch, her laugh, her voice? What if I forget what she looked like when my eyesight is
gone? “I was at practice, but then a couple of guys wanted to hang out after,” Micah says, pulling me back to the conversation.
I wipe my silent tears with my free hand and grip my phone tighter with the other, wanting nothing more than to throw it across the room.
My chest tightens as I press the phone to my ear. The weight of my glasses digs into my nose, suffocating. I swallow against the ache. Micah always picks up. He always calls back. Except now. Now, I’m screaming into my head, wanting nothing more than to fix it. To fix us. To tell him that I’m breaking inside. I’m sifting through the madness that is my life, and I need him.
That I hate this. The constant arguing. The excuses. The distance.
I swallow the lump in my throat and let out a slow breath so he can’t hear it in my voice that I’m crying. He hates when I cry. He always manages to make me feel guilty about it, convincing me that I need time alone to get through my emotions.
But that’s the last thing I want.
I take a few steps toward the far wall, away from the door, to keep my roommate and her friends from eavesdropping.
“Well, you could have called me back. I was worried when you didn’t pick up. I’ve been back for the last three hours.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear my phone go off in my pocket. By the time I was leaving, I realized I had three missed calls from you.”
I let out a steady breath. I’m probably overreacting. It’s not like we’re dating. And getting on him like this will just push him away. I tell myself I need to move forward, even if I don’t have an answer as to how we got here or how to fix it. The thought causes my throat to tighten. I swallow hard, forcing down the sob lodged there.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I just… I wanted to see you, okay? It feels like it’s been forever since we hung out.”
“Look, I get it. We did promise each other we wouldn’t become strangers when we started college. I chose this school because of you, remember?”
Relief washes over me.
I remember the day he threw all the other acceptance letters away when he got accepted here—because it was the school I was going to. He even went against his parents’ wishes. He could have gone to a more prestigious school, but he didn’t. He chose me.
He chose me.
“It’s not easy losing family, especially if she’s the only one you have left. I would never make you choose, Selene.”
Guilt claws up my throat. I feel likeshitfor lashing out. He has other friends on the baseball team, maybe even a girlfriendsoon. Even if I wouldn’t want him to, it’s a possibility I have to accept.
And then I’ll have to accept that he’ll be with her all the time.
The few people I knew from high school all moved to different states for college. I wouldn’t say they werefriends, but wesat at the same table—the outcast table at lunch—the ones who didn’t fit in.
Micah never had that problem. He was a star on the baseball team, with aguaranteedscholarship to numerous schools. He was surrounded by friends who wanted his attention. He was always accepted. And I always wonderedwhat he saw in me.
There were times I thought hewas forcedto be my friend—because we lived on the same street, because everyone loved my aunt.
“I was going to invite you to the party this weekend,” Micah says. “The team was invited, and they expect me to be there. But I know you need to be with her. As you should be.”
