Page 122 of It Couldn't Be You
It was a valid question. I’d been working on this lengthy piece for weeks, and now I was starting over with only a few days to go. Could I write it all in a few days? It was an exit ramp I could zoom down. An easy out.
“I wrote that piece and got to know it really well. I can rewrite it. I’ll get it to you in a few days. I won’t set us back,” I said over the phone, curled up in a little ball on the couch.
After we hung up, I grabbed my purse, headed out, and got myself a cheap laptop, a triple espresso latte, and a giant breakfast burrito. I took all of it home and holed up in my apartment to write nonstop for days.
Isat on my floor with my notebooks, lying open around me, trying to rebuild my essay page by page from memory. I was sketching out the progression, trying to remember different lines and sequences, noting different quotes and references. It was hours just remembering and outlining like that.
It reminded me of the night I stayed up helping Gabriel rewrite his project in high school. It felt like muscle memory piecing something lost back together from memory.
I was up late drinking coffee and typing away on my computer, rewriting lines in a new way, feeling relief and victory when I hit on something I remembered from last time. And honestly? Joy when I felt like maybe I rewrote it in a better way than before.
I decided to close my laptop around 3 a.m. to get a little sleep, thinking how funny it was to feel like I was back in high school rewriting a project, back where I started. It was full circle, I thought as my eyes started to close. Except this time, I was all alone.
Gabe had me, but there I was all alone, sitting on the floor. And I could do it alone, I knew. I didn’tneedanyone. I didn’t need Gabriel. But I wantedhim there in these moments. I knew what it felt like to be laughing through the pain, turning obstacles into memory with him. And that’s what I wanted.
On the day it was due, I hit “submit” and actually felt really good about the work I was submitting. Rewriting it gave me a new perspective on the piece, and remembering certain sentences led me to write even better ones. A certain kind of magic that almost made it better than it was before. I could feel it in my bones.
I had my laptop on my lap in bed, and I fell backward with relief when the project was done, submitted, and all I had to do was wait for feedback. I pushed my laptop away and took a few breaths before it really hit me. I could piece this project back together from fresh memories, but I couldn’t rewrite all I had lost.
I had gotten so wrapped up in the rewrite that I had forgotten how expansive the loss truly was. Journal entries, past work, personal projects—every word lost in New York City. And there was nothing for me to do but accept it.
Katie called to check on me, and I was still in bed. “How are you doing? I know today was the due date.”
“The due date.” I pulled the fluffy white covers over my head. “It really did feel like I was laboring the last couple of days. But I got it all submitted and feel so relieved.”
“So relieved,” she said. “I’m proud of you for rewriting it and not giving up.”
“Giving up felt impossible. I mean, I’m out here in New York for this. I needed to finish what I started.”
“You know what? It reminded me of that big rewrite you did with Gabriel in high school. Do you remember that night? I left you two worker bees and went to sleep.” I heard running water on Katie’s end of the call. It was early morning in Texas, too, and she was getting ready for work.
“You had track early the next morning. You needed sleep.” I didn’t mind one bit when she left the two of us.
“Well, you two always had your little bubble. I couldn’t get into the bubble. It was like a forcefield I couldn’t penetrate. I would’ve just been sitting there, awake for no reason.” Her voice was muffled like she was speaking through a hand towel as she dried her face.
I admitted, “Gabe and I have our little writer bubble. It is true.”
“Writer bubble, sure. You guys get all bubbly about more than writing, though. You’re supposed to bemybest friend, but you guys have this like… I want to say electricity or chemistry, but that’d be weird to say. But I guess that’s the best word for it. Do you know what I mean?”
I was quiet. Still hidden beneath my sheets. My heart started to race.
“You have to admit, I’m right?” She started talking over my anxious silence. “I noticed it that night. He calledmybest friend in his time of crisis. I was like, ‘Am I sharing Emma?’ Is she also his best friend or something? You two have always been each other’s…other best friend? I don’t know. Like he hurts his leg this year, and he needsyoulike medicine. I’ve been sharing you all this time.”
“Well, he ran off without his medicine pretty easily, huh,” I mumbled. I pulled at a loose thread on my pajamas. “But…I get what you’re saying… It’s true.”
“Speaking of, since he’s your other best friend, do you know what’s up with him?” She said, her voice edged with concern.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s off figuring out his book, but he’s acting like, exactly how you said it—like he ran off. He seems like he’s running away from something, hiding away.” It was quiet now on her end of the call. I could imagine her standing by the phone, worried about her brother.
“He hasn’t been talking much to me. He hasn’t answered a single call.” I spoke around a lump in my throat.
“That’s weird. See, that’s what I mean. He’s being weird. I’m worried about him. He seems down. He was already kind of down when he got injured, but things had seemed to be coming together.” She let out a breath. “I guess healing isn’t always linear.”
“He’s seemed down?”
“Yes. I thought he would be giddy about his book coming together. His meetings are going great, but he just sounds kind of sad.”
