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“Why wouldn’t I?”
She shrugs her bony shoulders. God, she’s so thin. How have I never noticed before? “You didn’t want us to talk about him. You once yelled at me that you couldn’t stand hearing about him, that he was dead. That he gave up.”
I slap a hand over my mouth to stop a sob. “Oh God.” It’s true. A vague memory is surfacing, of myself yelling, kicking at things.
Telling my mom that he was gone, and that I didn’t want his ghost around.
Because it hurt too much. Thinking, remembering him hurt like a hot blade in my chest, and I chose to bury him deep inside my mind.
“Not everyone can come back from the dark places,” she says. “Angel couldn’t.”
And what if Shane can’t, either? If he gives up? What then?
“I loved Angel,” I whisper. “Still do.”
“I love him, too. I’m his mother. Did that help him any?” She takes a sip from her mug, her eyes distant. “You have to want it. Want to live.”
“But sometimes without help, you won’t make it.”
“Nonsense.” She puts her mug down. “We did all we could for Angel. He still didn’t make it.”
“Not everyone’s mind works the same way, Mom.”
Shane won’t give up. He wouldn’t.
“Did Angel ever tell you what happened to him in the Army?”
I stare at her. “I thought… I thought it was seeing his friends dying. Seeing war. Why? What else is there?”
“He did see war. A shell exploded and took out his friends. He saw a little girl lying in a pool of her own blood. And he didn’t break. Until he returned here, home, and found out his girlfriend had left him for another. Love,” Mom tsks, “ruins you, baby. Not war. Love. See where I’m going with this?”
I put down the album, something bitter in my mouth. “Don’t, Mom.”
“Wait the boy out, if you don’t care getting hurt in the process. Sooner or later, everyone shows their true colors. I say, guard your heart. Once it’s broken, nothing can mend it.”
But why have a heart at all if it’s never used for anything else but to measure empty time and your own loneliness?
***
After hearing nothing from Shane all day and night, the next evening I squash my doubts and drive over to his place.
Nothing has changed. So what if he hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend? What if we aren’t on the same page? We’re in the same story, and I’m not giving up on him that easily.
Taking a fortifying breath, I buzz his apartment—then remember he gave me a copy of his keys and enter the building. I try not to think as I ride the elevator up to his floor and then walk down the landing to his door. Not to worry.
Not to remember all the doubts my mom’s words brought back.
Patting my ponytail, wishing I had a mirror to check that my make-up hasn’t run, I open the door—and he’s right in front of me, dressed in loose sweats, his long hair draped over his broad shoulders and his tattoos. He’s like an image from a half-forgotten dream.
His eyes are wide, but one corner of his mouth lifts. “Cass.”
“I, um. Just came to check on you.” I wave a hand nervously.
Stop being nervous, Cass. And stop worrying about how you look.
This thing between you and him doesn’t have to mean anything. Remember that. Remember you’re here for him, not for you.
Is that so? a tiny voice whispers inside my head as he closes the door and draws me close, runs those strong, callused hands over my face like a blind man memorizing every detail. Didn’t you run here as soon as you finished work, your heart racing at the thought of seeing him?
