Page 71 of Given Our History

I’d reached the cathedral, and any other night, I might’ve marched on past. But tonight, I stopped to look at the Gothic clock tower, its knuckled spires all the more menacing in the dark. They’d erected a Christmas tree on the lawn, the wind-tattered boughs strung with lights that glowed a soft, buttery white. “Why’d you call, then?”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” I said, a little wary.

“I mean it when I say that, you know. I think about you every minute of every day.” His deep voice was hoarse, raw with some unnamed emotion. Maybe he’d been drinking, too. “I thought about flying out there to surprise you, to talk about everything in person, before I realized that was completely idiotic,” he said with a gruff laugh. “I don’t even know your address.”

My eyebrows pinched together. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about us.”

Us. One word, and the whole conversation shifted, like the world’s axis was nudged slightly off-kilter.

“God, I’m butchering this,” he said with a humorless laugh. “It’s just that all this, Dad having the stroke, trying to juggle everything with my research, it’s a lot. And I’ve been thinking. You’re the one thing in the world that makes me happy right now, you’ve been there for me through all of it. I guess I don’t really understand why we’re still wasting time.”

I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me, feeling small in front of the colossal Christmas tree and looming cathedral. In some ways, I’d wanted there to be an us for a long time. But at the same time, transitioning from friends to something more felt like taking a leap across an ever-widening chasm, hoping we’d find our footing on the other side.

“We’re not wasting time,” I said. “We’re working toward things. Focusing on—”

“But what’s the point, if we could turn around and lose everything tomorrow?”

I tossed up a hand. “What’s the point in anything?”

“Sorry, I don’t think I’m—” he said, sighing, a rush of wind in my ear. “I’m not saying we both drop out. I’m saying that I don’t want to waste another day not being with you.”

His voice sounded tinny through the phone, small and faraway. There was something unsatisfactory about it, to not have him standing in front of me, looking me in the eye as he said all these things. Things I might’ve liked to hear, under different circumstances—later, I wanted to beg him. Tell me these things later. Because right now, all they did was hurt. “I have to finish school,” I whispered.

“Then finish it,” he said. “I’m not asking you to drop out. You’ve got six months left in Manchester, and then you can come back here, find—”

“I’m not talking about my master’s,” I interrupted. “I’ve applied to a doctoral program at Notre Dame. In Indiana,” I added, with emphasis, when he didn’t immediately say something.

“Then we try long distance,” he said, undeterred.

“That never works.”

“It could work with us.”

“It’s a distraction,” I blurted, throwing my free arm wide. “You’re only saying all of this now because you don’t have anything better to do.” It shut him up; the line went deathly quiet. “Shit.” I pressed my fingers into my forehead, hanging my head. “That didn’t come out right. All I meant is that you might feel differently once you’re back in school.”

“You’re not listening,” he said. “You matter more to me than school. More than some stupid plan, tenure by thirty, whatever else I thought I was going to—I mean, what the hell, I’m only studying history because you showed me how to fall in love with it.” My heart stuttered at the mention of love, even when he wasn’t directly confessing it. “You’re always there, Clara. In everything I do. You’ve always been it, for me. Tell me you don’t feel the same.”

What scared me most was the temptation to say yes. Frustrated tears had welled in my eyes, smudging all the lights on the Christmas tree, because I already knew what I had to say, and it was going to kill me to say it. Later wasn’t an answer. Later would only create a false sense of hope, warp our friendship into some sort of sadistic waiting game—though maybe it had always been that, in a way.

“No.”

“No, what?” he asked, annoyed.

I took a shaky breath. “No, I don’t feel the same.”

His voice cracked a little as he said, “You’re lying.”

I shut my eyes tight. It killed me, hearing him like that. But I had to stand my ground. “I’m telling you no.”

He fell silent, breathing hard. I just stood there, wiped my nose on the back of my sleeve, waiting for him to say something. The minutes seemed to stretch on, until finally, he managed a quiet, “Merry Christmas, Clara,” and the line went dead.

CHAPTER28

PRESENT