Page 95 of Every November

That’s when I realized I’ve always chosen wondering because not knowing felt safer than the truth. With my family, wondering looked like going back every year, telling myself maybe this time would be different, because at least hoping let me avoid finding out for certain that it wouldn’t be. With Evan, it looked like silence instead of reaching for him for help, because as long as I never tested how much he could carry, I got to believe there was a limit.

It was the same fear both times. That if I ever asked, I’d get proof of what I’ve always suspected, and I’d have to live with the answer.

This time I want to choose differently.

So, I showed up here, hoping he’d be in Bloomington for the holiday like usual, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll give me a chance to explain. And if he tells me it’s too late, or he’s done with me, or he’s moved on, or whatever it is, at least I’ll know. At least I won’t have to wonder.

Or maybe, we could still find our way back to each other.

My phone buzzes in my hand and my heart stops as I stare at the message on my screen.

Evan:

On my way.

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck!

He’s coming. After months of silence, after me disappearing without explanation, after all the hurt I know I caused, he’s still coming.

I set my phone down beside me and drop my head into my hands as I sit there shaking, not sure if what’s moving through me is relief or terror. It feels like both are so tangled together I can’t tell the difference.

This could be the start of us working on moving forward, or the last time I’ll ever see him.

I feel like I could throw up, but I need to get it together. I have maybe twenty minutes before he’s standing on the other side of the door, a whole year I need to explain, and no idea if any words could make up for how badly I hurt him.

Sorry doesn’t feel like enough. Sorry feels like trying to edit out a year with one cut. But that’s all I have. That and the truth. The messy, ugly truth about what happened, my mental health, and the slow, painful process of putting myself back together. About how I thought about him every single day but couldn’t bring myself to reach out because I was convinced he deserved better. I don’t know how to admit that I was afraid to tell him about all of this because no one has ever loved me or supported me through it, and I thought it’d be too much for him.

I don’t know if there’s anything I can share with him that will help him forgive the silence, or if he’s going to walk through that door and take one look at me and realize coming here was a mistake.

My stomach twists at the thought, but at least I’ll know.

I stand up and pace the room in an attempt to get some of my nervous energy out, knowing he’ll be here soon.

I wonder if he’s nervous too. I wonder if he’s angry, if he’s hurt, if he’s moved on. I wonder if he’s with someone else now. He probably is. Eleven months is a long time. Long enough for him to meet someone, to start dating, to build something with someone who isn’t two thousand miles away and emotionally unavailable. Someone who can show up, who doesn’t disappear.

I sit back down on the bed and stare at the door. My leg bounces and I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin.

A few minutes and a lot of panic later, there’s a knock at the door.

My heart lurches into my throat as I stand up, wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, and walk to the door. My hand hovers over the handle for a second. Fuck, this is it. This is the moment where I find out where we go from here.

I exhale, shake my body out quickly, and pull the door open.

Evan is standing in the hallway, and the sight of him hits me like a punch to the chest. He’s wearing a dark green jacket over a gray hoodie, jeans, and boots. His hair is shorter this year, but still curling slightly at the ends. His face is guarded, mouth tight, tired blue eyes assessing me like I’m doing to him. He looks good. He looks so fucking good it hurts. His mustache is still there and his jaw is dusted with hair like he hasn’t shaved in a few days.

“Hi,” I say, my voice coming out rough.

“Hi,” he greets flatly.

I step aside to let him in, and he walks past me. This is it. I let out a deep breath and turn to face him. He’s standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, looking at me like he’s trying to figure out what the fuck we do from here.

“What the fuck, Marcus?” His voice is laced with hurt and question.

“Can I—” I gesture toward the small desk by the window, there’s a corner chair and a desk chair. “Can we sit? I have a lot to say.”

He hesitates for a moment before he crosses the room and sits, arms crossed, waiting.