Page 86 of I Love to Hate You
“I’m always that guy, Ma.”
“Boy, please. Not when it comes to this you're not. Now come help with this thing. Just because I’m in remission doesn't mean I want to break my back moving your stuff.”
“My bad,” I say, jogging over to the other side of the couch to help push.
We get everything in the living room shifted to a new location, and when we’re done, it all looks fantastic, with much more space in the living area. After seeing the way my mom rearranged her house, I just had to get her to come over and do the same for me. Now that she’s finally cancer-free, she has been so energetic that she practically ran over here as soon as I asked. The greatest gift I could've ever gotten had nothing to do with turning my internship into a full-time job, it was my mother coming back in all her glory. After everything I’ve been through lately, my mom is the only person who could help pull me out of the cave of depression.
As much as Mom being around uplifts my spirits, nothing has been the same since I left Maya in the hospital. My heart doesn't beat the same way it once did. Everything is heavier and darker. My smile is harder to find, and each day is its own struggle. The way things ended between us feels like taking an arrow to the chest—there's a moment of realizing you’ve been hit, and the fear of knowing it’s fatal before your body succumbs and you collapse. This is my moment of realizing that the wound is fatal, and all I’m waiting for is the collapse.
I can’t explain how difficult it is to know that my decision to leave Maya’s father alone in the house is part of the reason he is dead. I know I had an opportunity to save him, and I tried, but the fear of being shot took me out of the mindset necessary to continue trying to help him. It’s also fair to say that my knowledge of his abuse toward Maya was a secondary factor, and that makes me feel even worse. I shouldn't have let any of it stop me from helping him, and while Maya was my number one priority that day, maybe I could've tried to help him a second time. Maybe.
Nobody wants someone’s death on their conscience, but it sits on mine, directly next to knowing Maya doesn't have any living parents left and the fact that I lost her over all of this. I’ve never had a connection with anyone the way I did with Maya. Our communication was second to none, our sense of humor was perfectly in tune with one another, and our sexual compatibility was out of this world. We were literally perfect for each other, like two best friends falling in love and living the rest of their lives in perpetual bliss. Losing that is akin to losing a lung—you’ll never breathe the same again.
After I left the hospital that day, I tried to patch things up for the first couple of days. I sent texts and left voice messages, but they went unanswered. After a while, it becomes clear that the person you're trying to reach doesn’t want you to reach them, and all that’s left is to accept it and spend the next few months grieving their loss before you attempt to heal from it. I’m only in the beginning of my grieving stage, and I don't know if I’ll ever get to the healing part, because at some point, I’m going to have to see her walking around in front of me every day at work.
How the hell could I possibly heal when I have to work with her? I have to hear her voice, smell her delectable scent, see her flawless smile, and have my heart shattered over and over again by the sound of her laughter. Working at Bell Liberty will be torture, but I worked too hard to earn my spot there to just walk away from it. So I’m spending the time she's using to recover to prepare myself for her return. Next week I’ll have to be ready for my heart to break anew with each day. On the other hand, I’ll endure heartbreak if it means I get to be around her. We can go back to hating each other, and I’ll play my role, but that’s all it will be—an act.
“Somebody’s thinking a lot,” Mom says as we finish pushing an end table to a new spot. “You wanna talk about it?”
I adjust the lamp on the end table and look at the front door. “Sure, but let’s go outside. The new setup is nice, but I feel like I need some fresh air.”
Mom nods and follows me outside, where we sit on the steps of my porch the same way Simon and I used to. The memory of the two of us sitting here warms my heart and mists my eyes, but I make myself comfortable next to my mother, who leans her head onto my shoulder briefly before sitting up straight and looking out into the road with me.
“Talk to me, sweetie,” she says, knowing something is on my mind in that strange, intuitive way that mothers do.
I shrug. “I don't know. I keep thinking about that day at Maya’s house, and I guess I just need validation that I did the right thing. I’ve only known her a few months, and we acted like we hated each other half that time, yet I can’t get her out of my head.”
Mom sighs. “That’s the way it goes when you fall for someone, baby. Love is stronger than any of us truly know.”
“I never said I loved her,” I reply, cutting my eyes over.
She nods with a grin. “I know. Anyway, as far as the validation you need, I think you already know you did the right thing, Kendrick. You tried to help that man, and he pointed a gun at you. Drunk or sober, there is no excuse for that, and you had every right to back away and protect yourself. Maya being upset with you about it is simply the hurt she feels for losing her father. Her anger is misplaced and diluted by the heartbreak caused by his death, and sometimes people just need someone to blame, but that doesn't mean you did anything wrong.”
“Yeah, but it feels like it.”
“No, it feels like you lost someone you lo—care about,” she says. “She ended things as a result of all of this, so you're connecting them and making it all about the thing she claims to be upset about. The truth is that she probably doesn't know what she’s really angry about, and you never would've felt responsible for her father if she didn’t blame you for his death. You know you did the right thing by trying to help him, so don’t get caught up in the rest. You're a good person. Don't let any of this convince you otherwise.”
My beloved mother smiles at me, and I take her hand in mine. “Thanks, Ma.” A moment of silence passes in the wind before I speak again. “It really felt like she was the one, you know. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do now, because I already know recapturing that feeling is going to be impossible.”
“Give it time, baby. That’s all you can do, and don't make the mistake of rushing it. Give your heart time to heal. Who knows, maybe she’ll come to her senses.”
In my head, I hope with every fiber of my being that Mom is right, but I don't say it aloud.
After another few minutes, Mom gets up from her spot on the stairs and pats me on the shoulder. “I’m going to use the ladies’ room right quick. I’ll be back.”
I nod at her and she steps into the house, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I watch the trees sway in the wind and think about the ride my life has been on lately. It’s a lot to keep up with, and even more to try to decipher. I don't know how anyone could stay level headed in such a fast-paced frame of time, but I’ve managed up until now. I feel out of sorts and have no idea what the future holds. They say time heals all wounds, and I think I’m going to need a lot of it to recover from the break-neck pace my life has been on and all of the wounds I have because of it.
With my eyes still on the street, I notice a car slowly coming up the road. It’s nothing new around here, but I can’t help but notice how familiar this particular car looks as it gets closer to the house. I frown hard as I squint to see it better, and my suspicions are confirmed when the car turns into my driveway and comes to a stop.
“Maya?” I say, just as the door opens and she steps out.
I watch her with a racing heart, floored by how gorgeous she is in simple black pants and a gym red T-shirt with sneakers that match. She pauses at her car for a moment, looking at me with sadness in her eyes, before she walks over.
I get up to meet her on the walkway. “Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
We don't hug or kiss, which makes me sick to my stomach, because I’d give anything to have her in my arms right now.
“I’m not sure,” she answers, before chuckling to herself. “I feel like that has been my answer to every question lately. I’m never sure about anything.”
