“I only ever wanted for you to be happy, Teen. I didn’t think?—”
“You know, we should eat before the waffles get cold,” I interrupt him. I can’t do this. I can’t rehash our past like I need another reminder of how many things were left unsaid between us. I don’t need to remember how heartbroken I was twenty years ago or how the fall of my marriage was a result of so many things I couldn’t let go from my past. Because I couldn’t open up to Leo like I did with Everett, and my own husband never got to have the part of me I wanted to give him because I’d guarded my heart too tightly.
I start stabbing into the waffle at the same time Everett warily picks up his fork. I poke at the food, moving it around silently, while Everett stops the waitress for a glass of water, leaving his Coke float untouched. He pushes it to the side, under the glaring heat of the sunlight streaming in from the window beside us, where it falls into a messy, irreparable heap of ice cream and our past. And I can’t help but think how irreparable our hearts have become in the last twenty years. We’d merely placed crappy pieces of Scotch tape over the cracks of our hearts, enough so we could ignore the ache seeping through those breaks and fissures. Maybe we can just swirl everything together, wipe around the frosty glass, and make it look presentable. Enough so that we can look at it and think about how much we loved each other. So we can finally say goodbye to those kids who unexpectedly fell in love.
* * *
The drive to Josh’s is quiet. The buzz of lazy weekend traffic drifting around us, mingling with the strong ocean breeze and late morning sun, masks the words Everett and I are holding down.
The thing with heartbreak is that you believe time will heal. The days, weeks, months, and years pass, and the pain starts to lessen. They become dull and numb and something much more manageable. But what about the pivotal moments that lead to heartbreak? The ones that change you. Right down to the neurons firing inside your brain, lighting up every time something crosses your path, reminding you how you’ll never be that person again. I started to measure moments in my life before and after Everett. When I got my driver’s license? That was B.E. Before Everett. When I had Sadie. That was After. When I withstood thirty-six hours of labor and a C-section, and I couldn’t tell him about it. I didn’t have the choice to call him and tell him about the happiest day of my life, and how holding Sadie while I nursed her and shushed her to sleep only drudged up the memory of him.
“Thanks for dropping me off.”
I turn to face Everett, nervously eyeing Josh’s front door, when he reaches for my hand resting on the armrest between us. I should pull away, draw back from his touch, if only to remind myself that I’m still angry at this man. That I’m still hurt and sad and resentful of the past twenty years. But am I? Was I really ever mad at him? Maybe I was just hurt. And the pain seeped into a territory I didn’t know how to navigate. So being angry at him felt easier. Something I was able to sit and live with.
“Sure,” I answer. I finally pull away from him, feeling like the space in the car is growing smaller and smaller. And it has nothing to do with Everett’s large six-foot-two-inch frame filling the seat next to me. “Look, Everett?—”
We’re interrupted by the front door opening and Josh’s sudden looming presence. He stands there, one hand on his hip and another shielding his eyes from the sun.
“Take care,” I finish. “I’ll see you at the wedding.”
Under the scrutiny of my older brother a few feet away, Everett doesn’t push his luck. Instead, he opens my car door and steps out, leaving this emptiness in my chest I haven’t felt in twenty years.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Everett
THEN
“Eight-year-olds like Batman, right?”
I look up to see my mom walk into the kitchen with a Batman figurine and a bright blue gift bag. She waves the toy in my direction, beckoning an answer.
“Uh, yeah,” I answer, dipping my spoon into my cereal.
She sets everything down on the kitchen counter, taking out the tissue wrap and stuffing it into the gift bag. A blank, apathetic stare takes over the focus in her eyes. Like she’s checking out, doing what she can to forget the changes surrounding us. The emptiness in her home signifying the absence of her parents. The lack of my dad’s voice constantly on the phone or busy running through the house, always late to a meeting or practice or press-related things, exposing our new living arrangement, making it harder for her to ignore.
The bell chimes, announcing a guest at our door, and my mom offers a placating smile before walking away to answer it.
“Everett!” my mom calls. I walk to the front door to find Josh there with a basketball tucked under his arm. When my mom sees me, she opens the door wider. “I’ll see you kids at the party in a few hours,” my mom says, walking away.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Josh answers, jerking his chin in my direction. “Wanna play until the party?” He tosses the ball in my direction, and I catch it against my chest.
“Yeah,” I answer, throwing the ball back at him. “Let me just go change.”
An hour later, I’m in Josh’s driveway in my swim trunks, ready for Andrew’s pool party, with Josh already sweating bullets down his bare chest. I join him, pulling off my own shirt, already soaked through, and tossing it to the side.
Josh rests his hands on his knees and smacks away the ball bouncing in his direction. “Shit, I’m more out of shape than I thought.”
I laugh. “Summer will do that to you.”
“Coach is going to be pissed if he sees me like this.”
“You still have some time before pre-season starts up,” I say breathlessly. I’m just as out of shape as him, and the unexpected workout has me winded.
“Josh! Help set up the tables!” We turn to look at the front door where Josh’s mom has poked her head and is waving a hand in our direction. “Hi Everett!” she adds before hurrying back into the house.
