Page 34 of Left of Forever

“I already texted him,” he replies.

“Oh, okay.” Of course he did. “Thank you.”

A wall of fear shoots up before me again. Without Sam between us, what do we discuss? Where do we start? Maybe Sam really was the link, and now we’re doomed to these silent blank spaces. Maybe this trip will be a waste.

Maybe we’re just exhausted and drained from a long, emotional day. We’re here, and it’s too late for me to back out now. I need to put my ass to bed.

I awkwardly work my key into the slot, then shove my suitcase inside even more clumsily before I turn to take my other bags from Ellis. He steps past me into my room instead, carefully placing them on the floor. I hover against the door, not trusting myself to let it shut us in.

The sight of him silhouetted in the moonlight pouring through the window behind him makes my head go empty for a moment.Him…next to a bed, in a blue-lit room. I could stack a thousand other memories next to it that look so similar from a distance.

“Thanks,” I whisper, keeping my eyes glued to the bags.

He hesitates when he reaches me, and I am instantly cognizant of how narrow this opening is. With only inches between us, I can make out the shape of his firm pecs, his nipples beneath his plain navy T-shirt. The smell of sweet mint gum when he blows out a quick breath. My lagging brain makes the mistake of fixating on his mouth. The mustache he grew back with the heavy five-o’clock shadow across his chin. Goose bumps scrub up my arms, and my nipples cinch when I imagine how that stubble would feel against me.

“Good night,” he rasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Night,” I mutter softly, closing myself in.

I sleep in restless fits. Probably because of the car nap.

More likely because of the frenetic buzzing in my veins, knowing he’s just on the other side of the wall, only a few feet away. It’s night one of us alone, and the devil on my shoulder isalready chirping about things that should not be anywhere near the forefront of my mind. Like whether or not hooking up with my ex-husband might be an essential part of this journey rather than a diversion, which, in and of itself, is a very diverting line of thought.

By the time morning streaks in through the open blinds, I fully regret that we’ve avoided being alone together so much over the last few years. I should have desensitized myself to him and the maelstrom of emotion he stirs up in me. Instead, it’s as fresh and bright as the neon sunrise sparkling across the waves right outside my window and just as hard to look at directly.

I let out a quiet groan when I see the time on the alarm clock. Only 6:30A.M.I’m still on bakery hours, I guess.

It’s too early to text Ellis and find out what his plan is for the day, so rather than give my mind time to wake up and overcrowd itself again, I decide to write. The first thing that comes to me is another time in our lives that felt like a new, if slightly awkward, beginning.

It wasn’t until we were in seventh grade that I fully realized that the kid I’d always known as my buddy Ellis was, in fact, very much aboy. I’d always known we were different, of course, but not in the fundamental way that it hit me that year. With my mom running a bakery, my hours had to adapt, too. This meant she would usually drop me off with the Byrd family on her way into work, where I’d wait until it was time to go to school.

Ellis always came downstairs a little after I got there. He’d turn on some cartoons and pour some cereal for himself or for us both if I hadn’t eaten yet. We’d sittogether quietly until we were fully awake, until the entire Byrd house was up and alive with noise.

The first day of school that year, I was especially anxious to see him. I’d barely spent any time with him over the summer. That previous year, his mom had passed away, and it seemed like an imposition to go over whenever I felt like it, like I would have during summers before, or to ask him to meet me. Up until then, the Byrd house had always been somewhere it was safe to be loud. There was always someone bickering or laughing or some kind of ruckus. Compared to being an only child in my softly bustling (often lonely) home, the Byrds had felt like a perpetual recess.

But… since Ellis’s mom died, their house felt too quiet, like they were all afraid to wake the monsters of their grief. Ellis seemed to take it on more than the rest of the Byrds. He’d always been a little set apart from his siblings, I thought, despite the fact that their age differences weren’t huge.

That first day of seventh grade, I walked into the Byrds’ home and found Ellis already awake in the kitchen, assembling a small line of lunches on the counter.

I’d been downright gobsmacked by the sight of him. He had to have grown six inches since I’d seen him last. And when he gave me a small smile, nodding at their kitchen table and saying, “I’m gonna make pancakes,” that day, I noticed a new layer in the tone of his voice, like a deeper one was caught somewhere beneath it.

My phone suddenly buzzes on the desk with a text from Ellis.Hey. I’m sure you’re awake already, but take your time either way. Thought we could walk to a coffee shop across the street for breakfast and check out the beach today, whenever you’re ready. Maybe go to the boardwalk if you’re interested?

His openness continues to be alarming to me, and I don’t know what to make of it.

Another text comes through.I made a reservation for dinner tomorrow, but I figured it’d be ok if I only made loose plans for the rest of today.

Like he’s nervous about not having a more defined itinerary all of a sudden?

That sounds good, I reply back, after I delete and retypethatfive times, debating if it sounds too eager.How about we go at 8?

He hearts the message and then changes it to a thumbs-up, which makes a laugh burst out of me. At least we’re both being clumsy about all this.

8 is good. I’ll save you a seat in the lobby, comes his reply.

I hop in the shower and get ready for the day, butterflies and anxiety at war in my stomach. I can’t think of a nonawkward way to incorporate my journaling journey into a productive conversation, no matter how I mentally rehearse it. Putting thoughts into written text is different, like the distance from my brain to my hand allows time for it to come out the way I want it. The distance between my mind and my mouth is too short.

Either way, it’s a twisted joke that I find the idea of going through the past with the man I shared it with more daunting than a first date.