Page 139 of Goodbye Again
“No,” he says, cupping my face in his hands. “No, we’re perfect for each other. We have always been perfect for each other. We just have to...” he’s searching for a solution that doesn’t exist yet.
“I mean, I could drag you to Washington in my suitcase?” The suggestion makes him laugh.
But like most things, once the joke is over and the laughter settles, we’re left with the same circumstances.
“Would you ever move?” I ask. It’s a forward invitation, but for a fleeting, unrealistic moment I hope he says that he’ll drop his entire life for me. I hope he says it doesn’t matter that we haven’t spoken in over a year. I hope he says today wasn’t impulsive or thoughtless, but was exactly what he hoped wouldhappen. I hope he admits that he loves me and will do whatever it takes for it to work this time.
He brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear and the sad expression in his eyes tells me he isn’t going to say any of those things. “I can’t right now.”
The air between us soaks up his answer.
“I’m tired of hearing not right now for us,” I admit, because it’s the truth. There’s always something standing in the way. A circumstance, a reason, a person.
“It’s just... I’m under contract at the school and my family has a lot going on right now and I—”
I nod, cutting him off with the gesture. “Got it.”
I breathe out slowly, wishing we could start over. But I can’t take back any part of us, and neither can he. We can’t undo any moment. Any choice we made. Life is life, and time is time. It just continues to count and tick forward even when you want it to stop. I turn my body into him. He holds me close, skin to skin and face to face. I cup my hands around his jaw and run my thumb over the freckle on his lip. I kiss it once. He tightens his grip around me, holding me as if I’ll vanish as soon as he lets go.
“Can you promise me something then?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says, his voice somehow steady despite his red-rimmed eyes. I study him a moment, mustering the courage to ask what I need from him.
“If in two months, I call you at two a.m. can you please, please, please not pick up?” I ask. “Because I’m just going to be drunk and missing you and wanting you. And I can’t...”
He lets out a breath of a laugh though both our eyes are clouded with fresh tears.
“You know it’ll happen,” I continue, and he laughs again then sniffs.
“I’ll want to pick up,” he says, and I nod.
“I know. But you can’t, okay? Because if I have to live without you, I have to live without you forever. I can’t see your face. I can’t hear your voice. It will hurt too much.”
His breathing has slowed, and his tears are subsiding. Mine too. The reality of letting go is settling over us. The end of something that could have been great is reaching its conclusion, and we’re both watching the curtain close, knowing we’ll never open it again.
“I don’t want this to be the end,” he says.
“But I don’t know how we can keep going. I’m moving. You’re not.”
“I’ll never forget you,” he says.
I nod.
I know.
“I want you to try though.”
ninth chance
NOVEMBER
A YEAR AND A HALF LATER
forty-one
GRAMMA’S CABIN IS Amemory trapped in 1989 and smells like Windex and lake water.
I uncovered the old furniture and kept the lacquered end tables and blown glass lamps. It’s old but clean—preserved like a perfect memory. But little by little, this space is becoming mine.
