~ Clay

“Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I whisper after giving a quick look around the workshop, finding only Rick who has his huge headphones on, moving his head to the music as he puts the screws back into the CPU he is about to finish assembling.

A second later, I hang up, putting the phone on my desk so I can finish reformatting the laptop in front of me.

It’s not that I’m not proud of my girlfriend. I am. Totally. Andrea is the most amazing girl in the world – beautiful, smart, sweet. She was my best friend for two years and now, she’s the best girlfriend an eighteen year-old, somewhat ordinary guy like me, could ever ask for.

I just don’t want the other guys I work with to feel worse about not having a girlfriend – a living, breathing 3D one that is.

Liar.

Oh, alright. I’ll admit it. I feel shy telling Andrea I love her in front of other people. Not ashamed of her. Just shy. I’ve never been in love before, after all.

I never thought I’d fall in love with Andrea, either. She’s a complete opposite of me – sure of herself, carefree, from a perfect family that loves her no matter what. Yet, that contrast was what made her even more fascinating to me and me to her, laying the groundwork for a friendship that eventually, some say inevitably, led to something deeper, stronger.

We’ve been together for a year now. It’s not that long, I know. It only seems long because we’re in high school and most relationships fall apart after a few weeks. Some don’t even last a week. I’m well aware, too, that things will be harder once I leave for college in a few weeks. I’ve already heard rumors of people betting on me leaving Andrea for an older girl or on Andrea dumping me for one of those guys lurking around her.

That’s not happening. I love Andrea and I trust her. I trust us.

We’ve already made our plans. I’m going to Cornell University in New York ahead on a scholarship provided by a local non-profit organization. In two years, Andrea will follow to study Psychology. I’ll move out of the dorm and she’ll find her own apartment. We’ll be living as close as we can to each other. Then after I graduate, I’ll look for a job and after a few months, we’ll move in together. I’ll keep working. She’ll keep studying and when she graduates, I’ll propose. That’s the plan.

I know, I know. We might be planning too far ahead, getting ahead of ourselves. But I really think we can make it.

“Hey,” Rick’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Yup?” I look at him.

“I thought I was the only one with headphones on,” he says, getting up from his seat.

“Sorry.”

“I’m just going for a break.” He stretches his arms. “How much longer do you think it will take you to finish that?”

“Half an hour. An hour at most.”

Shortly after I moved in with my grandparents here in Coldwater, Michigan, I started working part-time at Rick’s computer repair shop. The work isn’t hard. Mostly, I have to install stuff or deal with simple hardware problems, which I’ve learned how to do online. Rick’s good, too. A real geek but he’s kind. And the pay’s not bad. In fact, I’ve managed to save quite a bit to help me through college. All in all, I can’t say I’m glad to leave the place behind, but I can’t stay here.

“If you say so.” Rick squeezes my shoulder. “What will I do without you?”

“Fix more computers. Play more MMORPGs.”

He chuckles. “Man, I’ll really miss you.”

I just grin. After he leaves, I get back to my work, my fingers dancing across the keyboard. I’ve barely managed to get any more work done, though, before my phone rings again.

I look at the screen. It’s not Andrea.

It’s my Grandma.

I answer the call quickly. “Hello.”

“Clay.” I hear my grandmother’s soft voice on the line. “Clay, are you there?”

“Yes,” I speak louder, remembering she can’t hear as well as she used to. “It’s Clay, Grandma. Is something wrong?”

“I need you to come home right away. I have to tell you something.”

---

“You had me come home from work just to tell me that my mother called?”

I look at my grandmother with raised eyebrows. And to think I rushed home, too, thinking there might be an emergency.

As it turns out, my mother just called. So what? She hasn’t called me in years, having forgotten all about me after dumping me with her parents. I no longer care about her. I even told myself she was dead. If she’s come back to life, it’s probably only because she needs something.

Bad.

“She’s dying, Clay,” Grandma tells me. “She was diagnosed with cancer. It’s in a bad stage and she doesn’t know how long she has left to live.”

I sit down on the couch. “How do you know she’s not lying? She’s never been good at telling the truth.”

“Mary Ann wouldn’t lie about this.”

Unfortunately, I have the same feeling. My mother hates me. She’s always blamed me for the fact that my father left her. She wouldn’t want to see me again unless she’s really dying.

“Fuck.”

“Language,” Grandpa scolds.

“Sorry,” I mutter, running my hands through my hair. “What does she want me to do?”

“Go to her,” Grandma answers, sitting beside me. “I believe there’s a lot the two of you need to talk about.”

“There’s nothing we need to talk about.”

“Maybe there isn’t anything you want to hear from her,” Grandpa says. “And I don’t blame you. God knows my daughter has made a lot of mistakes. But there are things she’d like to say to you and I think you should give her a chance.”

“Why?” I ask. “She’s always hated me.”

“That’s not true.” Grandma places her wrinkled hand over mine. “She may not have been the best mother but no mother can hate her child. If anything, I think it’s herself she detests.”

“But I was the one who suffered,” I point out.

“I know. I know. But that’s in the past. She’s dying, Clay.”

“So I’m supposed to forgive her just because she’s dying?” I scoff.

“If you don’t want to do it for her, that’s fine.” Grandpa sits across me. “Do it for yourself. Do it so you won’t have regrets.”

Grandma squeezes my hand. “She’s your mother, Clay.”

I say nothing. She’s never been a mother to me, just a selfish woman who did nothing but complain and pine for the things that could’ve been, for the things that can’t be. Grandma’s right, though. In spite of everything, she still is my mother. Grandpa’s right, too. If I don’t go to her now and talk to her, it might come back to haunt me one day. I don’t want that possibility.

“Please, Clay?” Grandma begs.

I look into her eyes, tender and brimming with tears. Oh, if only my mother was even an ounce the mother hers is.

“Fine.” I place my other hand over hers. “I’ll go.”

I’ll go so that I can ask my mother all the questions I’ve always wanted to ask and tell her all the things I wanted to say then move on and never look back. That’s all.

“Here’s her address.”

Grandma hands me the notepad and I tear off the top sheet on which she’s scribbled an address in San Diego, California.

On the West Coast, huh?

Suddenly, I remember something.

Andrea.

Right now, she’s on vacation with her family in Washington but she’ll be back soon. What if I don’t make it back before her?

I think of calling her but decide against it. What do I tell her? That my mother’s dying and I have to go to her side? That’s perfectly acceptable, of course. She’d understand. Except I’ve already told her my mother’s dead. That’s one of the first things I told her, back when I despised my mother so much for leaving me in Coldwater.

What? I’ll tell her I lied?

No. I can’t break her trust.

You already have.

Fine. I’ll tell her but not on the phone. I’ll tell her when I’ve returned. For now, I’ll just write a note.

Getting up, I head to the shelf where the mug of pens are, grabbing one and scribbling my own note. Then I fold it and hand it to Grandma.

“Just in case I don’t get back soon, please give this to Andrea.”

Grandma nods.

I head up to my room to pack. The sooner I leave, the sooner I can return. Who knows? I might make it back before Andrea. Grandma will never have to give her the note and she’ll never have to know I was gone or why.

And everything will be alright. Andrea and I can leave for New York and then we can both take a step closer to our happy ending just as we’ve planned.

I take her framed picture on top of my bedside table, running my fingers over it.

Just give me a few days, Andrea.