Didi
So have you decided what you’re going to do?” Jessa asks, setting a cup of coffee down in front of me.
I shake my head and stare out of the window at the ocean, which only serves to remind me of Walker. Everything, in fact, reminds me of Walker. The other day in a bookstore I saw a signed copy of Misery and thought of him. In the paper I saw a photograph of the Brazilian soccer team and thought of Walker and his dream to sail to South America. Jessa bought me sushi. I thought of Walker. I saw a stuffed seal toy in a shop. I thought of Walker. I watched An Officer and a Gentleman. I thought of Walker. Every time I look in the mirror I think of Walker.
Six days since I last spoke to him and my skin still burns from where his hands traced patterns over my stomach and thighs. When I lie in bed and close my eyes, I can still feel the aftershocks from his touch, small electrical pulses like signal fires being lit along my neural pathways.
I miss him. I miss him like phantom limb syndrome. It hurts. I keep expecting him to be there. I’ve been so used to being with him, seeing him every day, and now I feel lost, at sea, completely disoriented without him. All the time I thought I was the one holding him in place, anchoring him, keeping him from being pulled into his dark place, he was doing something similar for me and I didn’t realize it.
“Are you going to go?” Jessa asks, sitting down beside me and drawing her knees to her chest.
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s this triathlon happening?”
“Monterey.”
“I think you should go,” Jessa says. “See him. See how you feel when you do.”
“I know how I’ll feel when I see him.” How I always feel. As if I’ve been hit with a cloud-wrapped sledgehammer, as if my heart is shattering in my chest from the impact.
“I’m scared,” I admit to Jessa. “I mean, things are never going to be easy with someone like Walker, are they?” I don’t say anything more, but I’m thinking of Jessa’s father, whose battle with post-traumatic stress disorder has caused absolute chaos in her family. Things are better now, but the things Jessa and her mother went through . . . is that what I want for myself? Not that Walker is that bad, but the potential is there, especially as he refuses to confront his issues. “Maybe I should just walk away completely.”
“Is that even possible?” she asks. “Can you just leave?”
I sigh. “I think my mom was right. I should have gone into it with my eyes open wider. Dad tried to warn me that getting involved with a marine, and a wounded one at that, was a dumb idea.”
“Not always so dumb,” Jessa comments, sipping her coffee. “Look, Didi—you don’t get to choose who you fall in love with.”
“Who said I was in love with him?” I counter.
She raises her eyebrows at me. “You’ve been staying with me for six days and you haven’t talked about anything but Walker. You’ve barely eaten. You’re not sleeping. I’d say that sounds like love.”
“That doesn’t sound like love. That sounds like depression.”
Jessa smirks at me and I avoid her eye. She’s right, though. I am in love with him. Totally. It’s just that admitting it out loud isn’t something I want to do. What’s the point?
“Talk to him,” Jessa says. “Tell him how you feel. Isn’t that what you therapists are always preaching? Talk. Get things out in the open. Here you are accusing him of not talking to you or opening up, and you’re doing the exact same thing to him. The only way you can have a relationship with someone is if you’re honest.”
She puts her coffee cup down and takes my hand.
“Didi, speaking from experience, when someone’s pushing you away the hardest, that’s often when they need you the most.”
I remember what José said to me about not hurting Walker, and Sanchez warning me not to walk away, too. I didn’t listen to them. But then again, Walker hasn’t tried to call me these last few days either. He obviously doesn’t want to see me or hear from me.
Jessa’s looking at me expectantly. I stare back at her, at a loss for words. I don’t know what to do.