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Have I mentioned how Shelly has been following me around all summer like a lost puppy? It’s annoying as fuck.
I know she means well, but is it wrong for me to not want to be around anyone else right now?
Whatever. I don’t really care what anyone else thinks. All I know is this sucks.
It’s like I’m hyperventilating all the time. I’m never able to catch my breath. And it’s like my heart is literally missing. If I thumped on my chest, I wouldn’t be surprised if it sounded like tapping on a watermelon.
Anyway. The point of these letters isn’t to depress you. You miss me as much as I miss you. I just wish I could hug you. You give the best hugs. Did I ever tell you that? No other hug on earth compares to yours. It’s warmth and peace and home all wrapped up in the perfect package.
Fuck! I’m crying again. I am sick and tired of crying. My eyes hurt. They’re always red and puffy and I have to hide them behind big sunglasses everywhere I go.
This really fucking sucks!
I really hope you’re able to come home sometime during the summer. Even if it’s just for a long weekend. I’m not picky and will take whatever I get.
Okay, I’ll wrap this up. In a few hours, you’ll call me and we’ll talk until we’re forced to hang up. But I never want to hang up. Ever.
I love you so much!
Cora
I trifold the letter and stuff it in an envelope, along with the drawing. After I address it, I ask Mom for a stamp and then walk it out to the mailbox. I place it in the mailbox like it’s my most prized possession. And for good measure, I press my palm over the envelope and send a piece of myself with the envelope to Gavin.
When I walk back inside, Mom tries to lure me into the kitchen. “Want to make cookies with me?”
Do I look l
ike I’m five and I want to lick the dough from the mixer blades? But I don’t say that because I know she is only trying to lift my spirits. She has been trying since Gavin told me they were moving. And more so since the day his parents put him on the plane. I am grateful to have her as my mom, but her love will never be the same as what I give and receive from Gavin.
She means well, and I love her greatly for that, but I just don’t see how making cookies will make up for losing someone.
“No thanks, Mom.”
I walk back to my bedroom, lay on my bed and curl into a fetal position. I hug my phone to my chest and close my eyes. It won’t be long before Gavin calls, but until then I just want to sleep. Sleep away all the minutes and hours and days between when I get to talk with him again. Sleep away every tick of the clock until I get to see him again. And hopefully that day arrives soon.
Seven
Gavin
Present
Is this what dying feels like?
All the years spent apart from Cora and I never felt as horrible as I do now. Did I miss her every goddamn day? Hell yes, I did. Seconds felt like years and years felt like centuries. Did I want to kick myself in the balls for the choices I made? More often than not. Do I regret my idiocy? More than ever.
But the past cannot be changed. It is what it is. No use dwelling on what has come to pass. The future… now that is something I have more control over. Or at least I hope I do.
My stomach churns as I picture her on the ground crying. I stop breathing. Clutch my chest because it feels like I am having a fucking heart attack. Fear rips through me and shreds my insides. And I let the feeling consume me. Let it slither through my veins and take me over. Let the pain settle in my bones. Because seeing Cora in that state was like having someone throw mace-coated sand in your eyes. And I deserve to suffer for not sharing everything with her.
I will accept my punishment. Will let it weigh me down temporarily. Because our relationship can only go up from here.
Since leaving her house yesterday, I have made a new best friend. The porcelain throne in my suite and I have spent quite a bit of time together. I keep telling her I want to see other people, but she is a persistent bitch. As is my stomach, which has kept nothing down.
I press a loose fist to my mouth as I stand beside the bed. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. For the love of all that is holy, please do not let me throw up again. One—I don’t like it. I loathe it with a passion. Two—my body cannot handle much more of this. My head hurts from all the dry heaving. Lips are dry as fuck and starting to crack. Throat feels as if a carpenter scraped a layer of tissue off with sandpaper.
I take a few more deep, methodical breaths and am thankful when my stomach finally calms.
I resume packing my suitcase, but the whole act is robotic. Pull from hanger. Fold clothing into a shape other than a ball. Put in suitcase. Repeat. Shoes set inside. Brush. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Razor. Hygiene products zipped in a bag.
