Page 1 of All The Ways to Miss You

after

Cait

one

Aggie’s everything I’m not. Short. Blond. Adorkable. Outgoing. She knows who she is in every fiber of her being, whereas I’m a tall brunette with a serious case of high-functioning depression. And let’s not forget the identity issues. I remind myself retrograde amnesia will do that to a girl. This, at least, is one thing I’m sure of.

Tonight we’re drinking. A lot.

I’d like to say it’s not a normal thing, but that would be a lie. At least this time there’s a reason—a breakup. Hers, not mine. I try to care, but I despise Brad. When I consider her ex-boyfriend’s weasel face and condescending personality, my lips draw tight at the corners.

Still, I’m doing what I sense is my part, being a good friend and helping her forget “that bastard.” He is one, no doubt about it.

But I’m not drinking to forget their existence as a couple. I drink to do things I wouldn’t normally do, like hanging out in a park after hours when there’s clearly a sign stating this section closes at dark, or worse, sitting on the hood of a car that doesn’t belong to either of us. Nothing too crazy, but under normal conditions, breaking these little rules would make me anxious, make my shoulder twitch.

And then there’s my highly irrational sense of hope. No matter how small, its dangerous whispers suggest alcohol may have a revealing effect, releasing my lost memories from a black hole of intoxication.

Aggie doesn’t know about my past. No one in Chicago does, which is how I’d like to keep things. Five years ago, I woke up in a hospital, scared and near death. When I opened my eyes that terrible day, a line was drawn. The violent slash divided my life into two parts.

Before

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After

Everything in the before was severed. The life I had was erased, leaving a nearly blank slate. I was a twenty-one-year-old newborn starting over in the after. But it’s been a long time since before, and I’m ready to move on. I think.

I blame Aggie. After knowing her, she’s changed something in me. I long to be like her. Worry-free. Anxiety-free. Just . . . free. She spins through life with her arms spread wide and her chin lifted skyward. Even after suffering a breakup, she exudes happiness. She can’t help it. She’s unrelenting luminous sunshine, and I’m just rain. Dark, cold, pelting rain. That’s how I know she’ll be okay. Me? I’m not so sure.

Tonight we’re at North Avenue Beach at my favorite spot. From this vantage point across a wide cove, we view the spectacular, long-reaching Chicago skyline. Window lights shimmer and sparkle, reflecting on the waters of Lake Michigan.

Aggie trekked here from her condo in Lincoln Park after another disastrous texting marathon with Brad. I supplied the two bottles of champagne we’re guzzling, but only after Aggie decided her breakup was cause for celebration, rather than the pout festival she hosted the prior seven days. If she were anyone else, I think there would have been some crying involved, but I’m honestly not sure if the word crying exists in her vocabulary.

“I need Mr. Right Now.” Aggie takes a deep chug from the champagne bottle, winces, and hands it to me.

“Maybe you only need you for now.” I take a swig and finish it off with a shiver, then balance the empty bottle on the roof of the car.

“Gross, no. I get bored with me.” She flinches. “I need to find a new someone to forget the old someone. It’s better to line them up, one right after another.”

She hoists her petite frame onto the car’s hood and lies down with her back against the windshield, her hands settled in her lap. I do the same, pointing my gaze skyward, searching for one twinkling star to wish upon, but this is an impossible task with all the light pollution from the city. Not that it matters. All my wishes after seem impossible. My arms settle heavy at my sides.

“That’s crazy talk. You only need you,” I say.

“You’re so right. I need to get out and sow my wild womanly oats.” Her arms flail. It doesn’t take much to animate her melodrama, and when she drinks, her cute Southern twang emerges. But the crazy? That’s 24/7.

“That’s not what I said. Not at all. Pay attention.” The sound of my laughter surprises me. She makes me smile, though she’s never given me much choice in the matter. “I didn’t know women had oats to sow,” I confess.

“Of course we do. I need to explore more, bypass all the relationship bullshit for the main event, you know?” She winds herself up and kicks the air with her foot before sliding off the car’s hood to the ground. “And you should too.”

“Not likely.” It’s been a long time since I had a relationship. Before. Back in high school, or so I’ve been told. I twist the hem of my shirt.

“You can, Cait!” Aggie continues ranting about her new plan. “We’ll both do it. We’ll march right up to hot guys and tell them we want them. We’ll write a book about our adventures, start a YouTube channel, host our own talk show, and get famous. The usual stuff.”

“Isn’t there already an app for that?”

Aggie ignores my comment and continues her incoherent rambling. “We’ve been programmed to fit into this stupid, puritanical B.S. mold where guys sleep around and people call them studs, but when girls do it, they’re called sluts. It’s an epidemic. No, it’s bigger. It’s an international crisis of double fucking standards.”

I give her a look.