I don’t want to think about Oliver.
Arrow would tease you, too.
I don’t want to think about him, either.
But as I fold myself in my mangy old blanket, I can’t not think about them. Oliver. Arrow. The only two men I’ve opened up to in years.
One man.
And thinking about him only makes everything worse.
I told myself I’d only be out here for a minute, get my bearings, gird up my loins, and then march right back into the fellowship hall to celebrate the best of my dad. But my hands are still locked around the steering wheel, knuckles bone-white.
The snow is falling harder now, whispering against the windshield, blurring the stained-glass windows of the church. Somewhere inside, people are laughing. Setting up. Living.
In the parking lot, a large white van pulls up, and people start filing out, probably for yet another activity happening in the huge old church today.
I can’t make myself move.
My chest aches with a hollow pain I’ve carried so long, I forgot it was there. I think I’d hoped it would turn to ash and blow away in the winds of whatever storm would overtake me next, but it didn’t. It festered, and now it feels like an infection eating me from the inside out.
I’ve been alone for so long. So starved of touch, affection, love. For years, I’ve lived out of a suitcase, traveling from city to city, spending all my time with other families, trying to find ways to make them whole again, all while falling to pieces on my own.
I can’t go on like this, giving vital parts of myself away as if they’ll regrow.
How many events have I missed? How many relationships have I sacrificed? Too many to count. Waking up in a motel room in Tulsa at 3 a.m. to write a sentencing memo while my college roommate got married without me. Missing Mom and Ted’s anniversary because I was prepping a mitigation packet in Tucson. Flying home to another cold apartment, anotherdead plant, another group of old roommates who’ve drifted into Christmas-card acquaintances because I’m never there long enough to matter.
Without thinking, I pull out my phone. Habit has me opening theBeyond Justiceapp, but I stare at it with a sob.
I wish I’d known who he was all along, wish I could have let our online relationship be enough, wish everything with Oliver could have been different.
What am I expecting to happen if I message him as Grace, anyway? More rejection?
It doesn’t matter. I’m so far beyond desperate, I don’t remember what that even feels like.
After all these years of giving of myself to everyone else, though, I can’t hold back any longer.
I’m not asking, I’m begging.
GracieLou
Hey Arrow. You haven’t responded, so I imagine that means meeting up isn’t something that interests you. I understand.
I stop myself.
I’m already apologizing. Already making excuses.
I can’t do this anymore.
I delete the message and start again, and that’s when I notice the green dot flash underneath Arrow’s name.
He’s on right now.
You know what? Good.
Instead of typing it out, I hit the microphone on the keyboard to dictate my words. The emotion inside me is too big for my thumbs to handle.
“Arrow, I’m done hiding. My real name is Poppy Lewis, and I know you’re Oliver Fletcher. I figured it out this morning when aBeyond Justicenotification popped up on the train platform.I should have figured it out a hundred times over the last four days. We’ve been talking for over a year. I know you. You know me. I was going to tell you on the train as soon as we sat down. I was going to tell you about my job, too. But then you mentioned Darren’s name, and everything exploded.” I slam my eyes shut. My heart is thudding so hard against my ribs, it hurts. “I understand if you don’t even read this message and things are almost definitely over for us, but like I said, I’m done hiding.”
