CHAPTER 57
For the first time in weeks, I return to my apartment. The inside is how I left it on the morning of the marathon. A coffee pot sits in the sink filled with water, along with a mug and spoon. At my feet, I drop a trash bag filled with my dirty clothing.
I rub my hands over my arms to warm myself and move to turn on the heater in the living room. When it clicks three times and makes a dying groan, I kick it, but it doesn’t help. I sigh and move to my next option, the heater in the bedroom. After some whiny protests this one works.
I clasp my hands together and blow warm air between them. When I sent Aggie for clothes, I should have asked her to turn one heater on low.
I shrug out of my coat, searching for a sweater to layer on but pause at the sight of the cardboard box sitting on my bed—the one left on my doorstep the night before the marathon. I consider the contents and the drawings in my books. With the new information, I connect the items in the box to Evan, not my parents. Turning the box around, I peer closer at the return address on the outside flap. It’s Aggie’s writing, not my mom’s or dad’s. She’s been a part of this more than she’s led on. At least for those few days that she knew. She really is team Evan.
I’m not mad. How can I be after everything she’s done for me? I know she would never do anything to hurt me. Is that what she sees in Evan too? Someone who wouldn’t hurt me? With our chats the last few weeks, it’s become clear she’s sympathetic to his perspective.
Ready to seek more answers, I lift the box and carry it back downstairs. At Evan’s front door, I steady it in one arm while pressing the key into the lock with the other. Inside, the apartment is warm.
“Hello?” I call out even though he shouldn’t be here. His apartment looks like he picked up and left right after I did. DVD cases and even my water glass remain on the coffee table.
I shut the door and return to my room. I stumble over the label, but when I snap on the light and step inside, I don’t experience the same panic as the first time. Maybe it’s sunk in or maybe it’s something else entirely.
I set the box on the bed and step to the wall. My gaze wanders over a pinboard. There are photos of far-off places, inspirational quotes, dried flowers, movie tickets, and a million other tiny artifacts. I smile when I find a photo of Evan and me. We’re both younger. His hair a little longer, face thinner, but just as handsome. I pluck it from the board and slide it into the pocket of my jeans.
I examine the other items in the room. The clothes in my closet are a wide range of colors, not just black. But I do find a lot of running clothes. I find comfort in the fact that this hasn’t changed. At the computer, I stop to trace the letters on the keyboard with a fingertip. What will I find on it? Old emails? Old homework? More photos? I may have run away from some of these items in my past, but I’m in a different place than I was even a few weeks ago. Despite my lingering struggles, I’m ready for answers. With some of my memories returning, I’ve been anxious to find proof I’m not making them up.
After I’ve gone through what can be seen on the surface, I sit on the bed to stare at the art deco dressing table filled with costume jewelry and framed photos.
“We paid twenty bucks for it at Goodwill.”
I don’t react to Evan’s voice behind me. Instead, I try to remember that day.
He continues and steps inside. “I hated it, but you had it have it. You said it had pretty details and you wanted to give it a second life. So we borrowed a pickup truck, brought it home, and you painted it.”
He stands in front of me now, pointing down. “You accidentally dumped paint on the floor while you were working. If you look close, you can see teal paint in the crevices of the wood.”
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 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 cross to the hallway. Evan follows.
“Who’s this?” I point to the photo of the blonde girl. The one I had been thinking was the other woman all this time.
“Steph,” he says her name with sadness. But then a smile does materialize 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?” I shift. Maybe I could meet her. Maybe she could fill in the gaps for me too.
The knot on his throat 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, 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 as if horrible images are flashing behind his eyes. He winces.
“You don’t have to...”
“I do. I need to. I’ve been waiting so long to tell you how I’m 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. I remove the contents and lay them on the bed. “Explain these.”
He picks up the tickets first.
“You loved new wave eighties 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 white, 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, the pajamas, the T-shirts, and slippers. You went nuts, but I loved it. And when you called me that nickname the other month, 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 as if to move on will quell my nervousness. He holds the jewelry box.
“I never had the chance to ask you. Not the right way,” he admits. He opens the ring box and it’s empty.
He continues, “I snuck 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 laid 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. Jail time. 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 step into this world of understanding as gradually as possible. 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 and the money and power to do so.
My hand shakes when I pick up the light pink-and-blue book, which I now understand was meant to be a baby book. My words tremble as I ask the question, “I was pregnant?”
He takes the book and sets it on the bed. He steps closer, and I don’t protest when he gathers me into an embrace, because I’m already crying and pressing my wet cheeks into his chest. He hasn’t answered, but I know in my heart it’s true. It was the reason I was so happy at the park in my dream. There was a baby growing inside of me. Evan’s baby. Another something my parents didn’t tell me.
“I didn’t know until well after. Months after you left I found a present you had hidden for me. When I opened it, this was among other baby things. I think you were going to tell me that last night.”
Soft tears rolls down my cheeks. I grasp his sweater between my fingers. Evan cups the back of my head and shushes me. His calming breath blows warmth on my neck. Between us there’s a loss we were never given the chance to confront, grieve. The memory of my pregnancy is not completely there, but when I imagine losing a baby with someone I love, someone like Evan, it represents all that was stolen from us.
We remain like this for several moments. When I arch away and peer at him, his eyes are red rimmed. Wetness streaks his cheeks. I wipe my own face with my sleeve. Though our journeys have been different, he’s had to live with the truth all these years without anyone to understand him. And though I’m only starting to understand what I lost, Evan’s the one person in the world who would truly understand my pain. It sprang from the same moment and launched us in opposite directions, only to boomerang us back together.
“There’s so much to talk about. I don’t even know where to start.” He wipes his eyes. His eyelashes stick together in defined points.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“From day one you made it clear you moved to Chicago for a fresh start. I knew if I acknowledged who you were, you would have run. You were a husk of the old Cait. Anytime I tried to interact, you pushed me away. It’s not an excuse. I know, but I was selfish too. You have no idea how happy I was to see you again, even if it was in passing. I accepted the situation because I wanted you to have a chance to move on without your past haunting you. I just wanted to see you happy.”
“But you flirted with me. For over a year.”
“I didn’t think you noticed or cared.” He shrugs, becoming timid. “Until one day you did. Suddenly, we were talking and laughing like old times. You were becoming my Cait again. It was like you were remembering us. And that...”
He snags his lip with his teeth. “I tried to stay away, but you hooked me in, offered yourself, and I couldn’t say no. I thought if I had one final night with you, I could say goodbye and move on. But I was wrong. I fell in love with you all over again... and that last part I’m not sorry about.”
“But sorry might not be enough.” My words are unsure and low. I step away because I need more time to absorb.
“I understand,” he offers with a saddened expression. “Take as much time as you need in the apartment. Stay if you want. It never stopped being your place too. I’ll just—I’ll see you around, okay?”
He vanishes, and I’m left staring at the spot where he stood. I’m remembering standing outside his door after our night together. Inside, I screamed for a chance to see where our relationship would lead.
And now I understand why I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Why my every thought was consumed by Evan and winning him over. It was because of the bond forged between us years ago. It refused to break despite the interference of my family, a tragedy, eight hundred miles of distance, or the passing of time.