Page 118 of All The Ways to Miss You

I’m not devastated for not remembering, but I want to know more, so I point to the pinboard. “And that?”

He turns his attention to it and grins. “You called that your vision board. You filled it with photos of places you wanted to travel, goals you wanted to achieve, and things you loved.”

Within my pocket, the photo I just stole, the one of Evan, seems to burn my thigh. My face heats, so I rise and step out into the hallway. Evan follows.

“Who’s this?” I point to the photo of the blond girl. The one I thought was the other woman.

“Steph.” He says her name with sadness. A smile materializes when he adds, “She was my best friend, our best friend. She set us up in a roundabout way.”

“Does she still live in Chicago?” Maybe I could meet her. Maybe she could fill in the gaps for me too.

His Adam’s apple bobs. “No, she was with you that day in the park. She—she didn’t make it.”

“Oh.” Now I’m mirroring his expression. Sadness.

I glance to the ceiling, desperate to find an image of Steph in my mind, one where we’re doing things that best girlfriends do. When I can’t find it, I have a new sense of guilt. My forehead crinkles. My best friend died and I didn’t even know? Why didn’t my parents tell me?

After a few moments of confusion, a new question emerges. “And you? Were you there?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, as if not wanting to remember. “You’d been locked in the apartment, working on your thesis for months. It was a beautiful Saturday, and I talked you into going out. I had to work, so Steph met you at the park. The plan was for me to join you after my meeting, but I arrived right as it happened. I—Steph—just—and you . . .” His words drift off, and he winces as if horrible images are flashing behind his eyes.

“You don’t have to . . .”

“I do. I need to. I’ve been waiting so long to tell you how sorry I am. If I had stayed home with you, everything would have turned out different. You never would have been there. Steph never would have.”

What would my life be like if that day never happened? I’ve deliberated over it so many times, and now I understand. Evan holds the key to answering that question. He’s the one person who can fill in the missing details and make everything clearer.

I return to my room and open the cardboard box, removing the contents and laying them on the bed. “Explain these.”

He picks up the tickets first. “You loved New Wave ’80s music. You drove me fucking nuts listening to Blondie, The Clash, and The Cure.” He chuckles. “This is the first concert we went to. It was the first night you kissed me. You kept everything; you were sentimental like that.”

“My shirt?” I ask.

He nods. “From the same concert.” He picks up the sock and turns it right side out. On the outside are yellow squares with big round cartoon eyes.

“You gave me the nickname SpongeBob the first day you moved in. Anytime you saw something with him on it, you would buy it for me.”

“I guess that explains the Band-Aids.”

“And the boxers, pajamas, T-shirts, and slippers. You went nuts, but I loved it. And when you called me that nickname not long ago, I about died. I thought you were remembering.”

“Did you want me to remember?” I cock my head when his gaze burns into mine.

“Every second of every day. Everything we shared didn’t mean anything unless the person I loved remembered it too.”

His admission causes a lump to rise in my throat. I glance away, unsure if he’ll find the truth in my eyes. I want to remember too. I want to remember us.

He picks up the next item—the jewelry box. “I never had the chance to ask you the right way.”

He opens the ring box, and it’s empty.

“I slipped into the hospital after it happened. It hurt so much to see you that way—so broken, so helpless. It drove me crazy not being able to help you. If I could have traded places with you, I would. In a heartbeat. I would have done anything for you, but I couldn’t. So I did what I could do. While you lay there in a coma, I told you all the things I didn’t get to before. I slipped the engagement ring on your finger, believing you’d recover and we’d be together forever. I didn’t know it would be the last time I saw you.”

“I don’t understand.” I shake my head.

“Your parents didn’t want us together, Cait. Long story short, there was a fight and a restraining order. It was a mess. But I can’t blame them completely; it was my fault too. I didn’t fight hard enough. Instead, I should have done everything in my power to be with you, no matter the consequences. I should have never given up, and I’ve lived with that regret for a long time. I’ve made all the wrong decisions since that day.”

There’s more to the story, I can tell, but I’m doing everything I can to remain calm and to gradually step into this world of understanding. I don’t want to get overwhelmed again. The important information is my parents kept us apart. Of what I know of their selfish ways, I believe they have the capacity, the money and power to do so.