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Cora
Twelve and a half years ago
Today isthe most important day of my life. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
On this day two years ago, Gavin and I officially started dating. Before he moved to California, we celebrated every possible relationship milestone. One month. Three months. Six months. One year. But today, on our two-year anniversary, I haven’t heard a word from him.
His lack of reaching out to me can easily be blamed on time zone differences. The hour is still early in California, and he is probably sleeping. But a sinking suspicion in my gut tells me it has nothing to do with the time zones. This nerve-laden ache has been getting bigger each day we are apart.
Six months has passed since Gavin left Florida. Six very long, dark months. The last four… I haven’t heard from Gavin at all. No return phone calls or texts. No response to the numerous letters I have mailed him. As if he vanished from the earth. Poof. At one point, I called and asked Mrs. Hunt if Gavin was still alive. She apologized profusely and told me Gavin was not doing well with the transition.
Neither was I, for that matter.
Since Gavin left, life has been complete and utter shit. My mom is lucky if I get out of bed each day. After weeks of tears and depression, Mom and Dad took me to see a therapist. We talked, she prescribed me anti-depressants and that was all she wrote. But pills will never replace my heart. Pills will never make this ache vanish. Only Gavin can do that. And he is gone.
Poof.
As with Gavin, everything I ever loved disappeared. My love for art has been almost nonexistent. School is going down the drain at a rapid pace. The only thing that kept me attending each day was the opportunity to sit under our tree. To trace my fingertips over the carved wood where our initials reside, along with his words only for me. Under that tree was our spot. Will always be our spot. The only physical piece of him I have a connection to every day.
I call Gavin’s house and the phone rings twice before Mr. Hunt answers. “Hello?”
I waited as late as possible, so it isn’t too early on the west coast. Currently eight in the morning in California. “Hi, Mr. Hunt. It’s Cora. Sorry to call so early. Is Gavin awake?” I pick at the hem of my jeans as I wait, nervous.
“Good morning, sweetheart. It’s not too early. But I’m sorry, Gavin isn’t home. He stayed over at a friend’s house last night.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointment evident in my tone. “Okay, thank you. I’ll try calling his cell phone.”
Before I hang up, Mr. Hunt speaks. “Cora? I’m so sorry about everything. I know neither of you is handling this well.”
I bite my tongue to avoid crying in the phone. I wonder if he knows how distant Gavin and I have become. Miles and states aren’t the only things that separate us now, it is also our lack of connection. Our lack of communication.
Is this what happens when soul mates are ripped apart? They drift and fade and become shells of themselves.
“Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” I manage. “Please let Gavin know I called.”
“I will, sweetheart. If we don’t talk again before, have a happy Thanksgiving,” he says.
And I almost lose it on the phone. “You all too.” Then I hang up.
I wait a few minutes, gathering my thoughts and emotions. The last thing I want is to call Gavin and cry during our conversation. Although, nowadays I cry more often than not.
Opening Gavin’s contact on my phone, I tap the little phone image before bringing the phone to my ear. First ring. God, I have missed hearing his voice. Second ring. But not more than I have missed his touch. Third ring. Or the feel of his lips pressed against mine. Fourth ring. And the way he held me close any chance he got. Voicemail.
“This is Gavin. Leave me a message. Or don’t. I really don’t give a shit either way.”
Why isn’t he answering? By now, it seems as if he purposely avoids me. And I don’t know why. Because he won’t fucking talk to me.
Beep.
“Hey, Gavin. It’s me. Your girlfriend. Although that seems questionable since you haven’t spoken to me in four months. Not once. I really miss you. And of all days to not respond to me… guess I should’ve known you’d find someone else to love. Thanks for having the balls to tell me. Whatever. You probably won’t even listen to this. But if you do… Happy anniversary. Hope you have a great day.”
I hang up and throw my phone across the room, screaming at the top of my lungs. And it’s no surprise, no one comes to my room and asks what is wrong. Because Mom and Dad both know. They know what day today is. They know that I have only gotten worse with each passing day. Mom also knows I haven’t spoken to Gavin in months. The longer I don’t hear from Gavin—let alone see him—the more bitter I become. The more withdrawn I become. Whatever his reason for cutting me off, it would have been nice if he made me privy. As it is, I feel like I have been played.
After screaming a few more times, I rummage through my closet. When I locate my art supplies, I yank them down and cast them across my bedroom floor. For the next few hours, I submerge myself in charcoals and my art pad. My fingertips are coated in black coal, and I am certain my face has streaks from where I scratched my face a couple times.
But it doesn’t matter. Nothing fucking matters.
I draw and shade and accentuate. When I finish the first image, I tear it from the pad and start a new piece. This process happens on repeat for hours. By the time I stop, the sun has begun setting. Three finished drawings lay in front of me, another still attached to the pad and left unfinished. I stare at the three images as a tear drips from my chin and splatters on the charcoal.
