Calm Like Home (14 page)

We’re standing side by side, relishing the treat when Annabelle rounds the corner and catches sight of us.

“Don’t mind if I do!” she calls out, tearing one in half and stuffing it in her mouth.

Carly makes piglet noises at her and we all giggle. I manage to box up my table’s food and make it through the shift without breaking down, despite the constant reminders haunting every square inch of that place. No matter how hard I try, he’s never far from my mind.

Annabelle comes to find me before I close out for the day. I’m rolling silverware in the back, trying desperately not to remember how fun this used to be with Adam at my side. Now the steel table just feels cold against my fingertips, the napkins coarse to the touch. She pulls out a chocolate from her apron pocket and hands it to me.

“How are you holding up?” Her voice is calming, her blue eyes brimming with concern.

I give her a weak smile. She’s the only person who can ask that question without me wanting to punch her in the face and cry at the same time. Maybe only cry. “I’m all right.” I can’t say the word
okay
anymore. It has a different meaning now.

“You’re lying.”

I nod and bite my lip to fight back the tears. “He still hasn’t called, Annabelle.” My voice breaks and I press my toes into the ground in an effort to fend off this heart-wrenching sadness.

“I guarantee this isn’t easy for him either. He’s not any better at this than you. Maybe worse.”

I nod again, knowing she’s right. Waiting for an explanation from Adam is like waiting for rain in the desert.  Yet here I am, with bated breath, just waiting.

The days tick by in silence, each one stretching on and on. In an effort to keep my mind off of him I force myself to stay busy, but everything in my apartment is a constant reminder of our time together. The tiny couch we lay on and kissed the nights away, my freezer full of ice cream, and my bed. Oh, my bed. It seems every night since he left I’ve woken up from the most vivid dream of him only to find the bed empty and my heart crumbles all over again. Perhaps most tortuous of all is that I can still smell him there and I usually end up on the couch, unable to take the scent without the man. There’s no escape at work either. Every nook and cranny of the restaurant reminds me of him, all the times we flirted on the line, made out in the freezer, rendezvoused by the coffee bar. He is everywhere, even though he is three hundred miles away.

Chapter 15

It’s been eight agonizing days since I said goodbye to Adam, eight days I’ve felt a hole in my chest, eight days of misery. I haven’t heard from him, not a call, not a text, not anything. It stands in stark contrast to our last month together when we couldn’t stand to be apart for more than a few hours. Despite my overwhelming longing, the all-encompassing need for answers, I’m resolute not to be the one to call. Not after the way he left things. Maybe this silence is his way of telling me what I don’t want to know.

It’s a nice day out, not terribly hot for mid-August, so I decide to make the jaunt across the apartment complex to get my mail and clear my head. Anything to get out of my apartment. As I walk by the pool I make a mental note to text Javier when I get back to meet up for a swim. A little sun would surely do me good and get my mind off things.

As I’m walking back from the mailboxes, absentmindedly sorting through the accumulation of various bills and junk mail, I come upon a thin envelope in the middle of the stack. When I turn it over, a paralyzing thrill rocks through my body. That sharp, upright handwriting is unmistakable. My arms are suddenly weightless; my fingertips go numb. I come to a complete stop, midway between the pool and my apartment. Time stands still; there is no direction, no atmosphere. Only me and this letter.

I stare at my name, written by his hand, and softly trace my fingers over the letters. I’m completely terrified to open it, not knowing what it holds.
People don’t send letters
, I think to myself. They text, they Facebook message, they make phone calls, but they don’t write letters.
Unless
… my mind wanders.
Unless they don’t want or expect a response.
My hands are trembling so fiercely I can hardly tear the envelope open. Inside are two sheets of lined notebook paper folded neatly together, covered in that same sharp, vertical scrawl I know so well.

I scan the pages quickly at first, not really making sense of their contents, just looking for some clue to orient my racing mind. The writing appears hurried, and there are words crossed out here and there. I take a deep breath, preparing myself, and start reading at the beginning.

August 13

Alexa,

Try to imagine that we hadn’t met at Milano’s and instead we went to the same high school. I probably would have spent all my free time at school thinking of elaborate schemes for seeing you in between your classes. I can’t even begin to imagine how crazy it would have been to have the same classes together. We would have been separated and on opposite sides of the room in less than a week. It would have been fucking incredible and also there would be no need for me to ever do homework because you would want to do mine for fun.

Or imagine
if we had been neighbors
all
growing up, I would’ve spent all my days trying to impress you with stupid bike tricks and telling everyone I know that I didn’t like you when in honesty you were all that I thought about, ever.

I listened to the CD you made and you know what I realized??
I realized
That little CD wrapped in that case was the most thoughtful & perfect gift anyone has ever given me.
There is
There is no way I can even come close in articulating how wonderful it made me feel. I love it. I love how we ate ice cream almost every day. I love how we made out in the freezer at work. I love all the sensitive spots on your body, especially the one behind your neck & the one under your chin. I love how you couldn’t wink. I love our deviated septums and our crazy birthdays and all the other insane astrological parallels that let me know we’re a combination of each other. I love how much I wanted to kiss you the first night I dropped you off and how incredible it was when I actually did it on the second. I love that when I picked you up that first time and asked, “So, Alexa, where are we going?” I had no idea that I would be dropping you off 4 hours, 1 speeding ticket and about 150 miles later, completely happy.

Thanks for the CD Alexa, it was
okay
…

Adam

After reading the letter for the umpteenth time, I understand why he hasn’t called. He’s waiting for a reaction. He laid himself out there and is waiting to see what I’ll do with it. For seven days he’s just been waiting. With shaking hands I dial those familiar numbers. After several rings he picks up.

“Hello?” His voice is subdued, almost cautious.

I sit for a second in stunned silence before mumbling a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he repeats quietly.

“I got your letter,” I finally manage. He lets out a weighted breath but doesn’t say anything.

I want to ask him a hundred things, but really they’re all about one thing, the only thing that matters. Only I still don’t know how. I don’t know how to tell him he’s all I can think about, that I miss him so wholly, so completely, so terribly it’s difficult for me to function. So instead I ask lamely, “How is it up there?”

With that his tone changes to its usual upbeat cadence and he tells me about the guys moving back into the house and the parties they’ve been throwing every night preparing for school to start.

“It’s been nuts. But Damien and I got our room all set up. We painted all day Monday. We no doubt have the best room in the house. It’s going to be
the
hangout spot this year. I’m so effing pumped, Lex!”

Our conversation carries on this way, with us sticking to entirely benign topics when all I really want to know is where we stand. When I read the letter I thought for sure it meant he wanted to try to make this work, but with the way this conversation is going he could practically be talking to his grandmother, aside from all the references to drunken debauchery in a house full of sixty testosterone-filled guys. He hasn’t said he misses me, hasn’t said he wants to see me, hasn’t said anything about
us
at all. It occurs to me that neither one of us really knows how to bridge this gap. When we finally hang up I feel more confused than ever.

Against my better judgment I log into Facebook and pull up his page. I want to see his face, reacquaint myself with his smile, to somehow feel close to him despite all the miles between us. True to typical Adam form, his information is mostly blank, only his location and university are filled in. There are no page likes, no photo albums, no revealing information at all. In fact, from what I can tell he never posts anything directly. But that’s not to say his page is blank. Quite the opposite. His wall is brimming with activity. His name is tagged in other people’s pictures and check-ins and status updates. My heart beats faster as I scroll through the photos. There are hundreds. Most of them are group photos, taken at parties or bars or in the frat house. There’s one constant though, Adam is always surrounded by beautiful sorority girls. Even the most recent ones, the ones from the last couple days. The girls all have perfect hair and flawless skin and stunning outfits. Most of them could easily pass for models or wealthy socialites.

So this is what I’m up against.

I sigh and close my laptop, resigned.
Definitely not your best idea, Clausen.

The days tick by so slowly with Adam gone. I’ve had plenty of time to make a new playlist of my own. It’s all
I miss you, I wish you were here
. Every song is heartbreaking, a constant reminder of the distance between us, and yet I can't stop listening to it. The songs perfectly capture the way I feel. Every drive, every morning as I get ready for work, I push play and belt out every word as though he can somehow hear me across the miles, as though he can somehow feel how badly I miss his face and his smile and his jokes in my ear.

I want nothing more than to call him up and pour my heart out, to finally tell him how I feel, to tend the flame from the summer, but I just feel foolish. Between the call and the letter I have no idea where we stand. As much as I’d love for him to be hung up on me it doesn’t seem like he is. I don’t hear from him, and judging from his Facebook, he’s out partying every night, probably telling his jokes to the sorority girls, feeling them grip his arm in flirtatious laughter, not thinking of me at all. The last thing I want is to be the clingy girl, the one who doesn't know when to let go. I want to be the cool girl, the one who’s fine with his absence, the one who’s happy he’s out having fun, not jealous it isn't with me.

So I bide my time. I stay busy.

And I leave him alone.

The first day of classes for the fall semester arrives, marking day one of the most dreaded course of my college career: public speaking. I've put it off for as long as my graduation track would allow. Not only will I have to organize my thoughts using words in place of numbers, I'll have to force them out in front of a room full of strangers. I'll have to be convincing. I won't be able to hide behind my equations and my comfort zone.

I trudge to the class, the first of the day, and find a desk near the back, trying desperately to hide the loneliness and apprehension I feel. The classroom begins to fill up and before long someone slides into the seat next to mine. I glance up at the motion and the guy leans over to introduce himself.

“Hi, I’m Marcus.”

“Alexa.” I turn my attention back to my laptop, attempting to end the conversation. Marcus is attractive in that boy next door type of way. He has short, sandy blond hair, light eyes, and a serious face. He’s the opposite of Adam in every way. Apparently he hasn’t gotten the hint I’m not interested in talking because he leans over again.

“So have you been dreading this class as much as I have?”

“You have no idea,” I reply flatly, not looking up.

“I’ve been putting this off every year. I’m finally a senior so I’ve run out of time.”

“Well at least we didn’t wait until spring.”

“That was intentional,” he grunts. “I wanted a backup.”

The professor is starting towards the podium, cloaked in argyle and herringbone, his TA passing out syllabi. I tune out most of his opening spiel, wondering if Adam’s doing the very same thing right now three hundred miles away.

“This class can be intimidating,” the professor is saying. A few nervous titters sound at the front; the back slumps further in their seats.

At least he’s to the part that matters: grading. He tells us most of our points will come from a semester-long project, which will be to create a campaign about a local business. We’ll present different types of speeches on various aspects of the campaign throughout the semester. The project will be completed in pairs and we’re allowed to choose our own partner. Mass chaos ensues with everyone scrambling to pair up.

Marcus leans over during the ruckus. “Want to partner up on this thing?”

I force a smile and nod. “Sure.”

“So, how are things?” Annabelle asks when we meet for coffee that afternoon.

“Things are fine, Annabelle.”

“Really? Because you look like hell.” She has concern written all over her face.

“I feel like hell.”

“Have you talked to him?”

I shake my head, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. This day is getting to me. Day ten. “Only the one call and that was brief. We didn’t talk about us at all.” I choose to omit the bit about my Facebook stalking and my fears that I’ll soon be replaced.