Page 19 of The Time It Takes
“What do you have to be sorry about?”
“For falling in love with you when you told me not to.”
His words bounce around in my head and cause me to cringe.
The leftover Chinese food I had for lunch threatens to come back up, but I force it to stay put. To be fair, I did warn him that I wasn’t the committing type. Now he knows it’s him that I can’t commit to. I wasn’t always certain that I’d stay in New York, but there’s been a few things that have made it my reasonable choice.
I’ve grown accustomed to the melancholy of being alone. The routine of living in New York welcomes me most days. On others, I’m reminded of what it feels like to have the sea resting just beneath my palm and the warmth of fire nestled near my skin.
I audibly sigh aloud. So many times, I wanted to run back. So many times, I’ve wanted to pick up my phone and call, but seeing them again means explaining myself. Explaining myself means reliving the worst moments of my life—all the moments that happened on that same horrifying night.
I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’m still scattered shards of a picture frame pretending to be whole.
There’s no going back to what Julian and I were before. That much is clear. He told me he loves me and not only as a friend. The idea fills me with so much regret and I wish I could stuff the words right back down his throat.
I run my hands through my damp hair which now stops just below my shoulders rather than down to my tailbone. I already called my job to let them know I’d be out of town for a few days. After a long walk in the city, I came straight home and hopped in the shower. I even brought my lunch with me so that I could feel the hot water beat into my skin at the same time I ate.
It was all very depressing, and it ended up ruining my meal.
Now I’m just waiting. It feels like my life here is ending and reality is about to waterboard me.
I’m waiting for a feeling to come, and when it does, I can’t identify it long enough to know what it is. The ache in my gut is enough of a warning that I should stop thinking so damn hard.
I pull my phone out of the pocket of my sweatshirt and check the messages to see two from my mom.
Colleen wanted me to tell you that she can’t wait to see you!
She also wanted me to let you know that she left the key under the flowerpot on the bottom step. Remember the one you painted in art class in kindergarten for Mother’s Day?
I roll my eyes at my mother’s messages and then at Colleen. The flowerpot. What a universal cliché. I close my eyes for a moment and breathe in the stench of the city.
I don’t have the energy to respond so I send a thumbs-up emoji and stuff my phone back into my pocket before crawling back through my apartment window.
My eyes fall to the piano I have sitting where the dining room table should be. All my sheet music is cluttered on top of it. I pause where I am, letting my thoughts remember Ben. My brother took me to all my lessons since my mother couldn’t. Dad was sick at the time, so Ben would walk me. It was my only form of escape after our father’s death. Ben seemed to resort to other methods of escape.
A wave of exhaustion sifts through me, and I collapse onto my bed. Every wall in my apartment is covered in red brick. I have potted plants at every corner and empty space of the room—all fake of course. I always forget to water the real ones. I used to buy a plant just to watch it die until Julian came over and pointed an offended finger at me and said, “You cruel woman!”
I shake my head at the memory of him, a sad smile lifting the corners of my mouth. It falls when I realize I’m about to walk straight into my past. The past I walked away from. The people I left behind without so much as a blink. I’m only content with my life because it hardly feels real most of the time.
The truth is, that night I became just as much of a ghost as my brother.
I MADE IT to the airport on time and with a few minutes to spare.
I’m staring at the gate and I’m remembering something. I’m remembering that I can’t do this. I’m remembering that I must. Then I’m remembering that I’m completely still petrified of flying. I haven’t flown in ten years. It was easier back then because I was running away.
Now here I am running back.
I send a quick text to Abigail, letting her know where I’ll be. For a moment, I second-guess myself and wonder if I should just forget this whole thing.
It’s the last call to board and my feet are nailed to the airport floor. I think I’m lying to myself. I think I’m more petrified of seeing the lives that have gone on without me. Time doesn’t stand still anywhere. Time loses nothing, yet we lose everything in its presence. It’s an illusion that it gives anything at all. It’s a ridiculous notion to think that there will ever be enough of it to do the things we want to do. To talk about the things we should talk about. To heal the wounds that cut so deep they still bleed ten years later.
Time holds no pity for the fools who watch it pass. So, I ignore it—because it ignores me too.
I can’t live like this anymore. I’m a statue covered in crimson, but underneath I’m soaked in dirt.This needs to be done. This is the hell I choose to get my wings back.
“Fly,” Julian had said.
I put one foot in front of the other until I’m walking down the narrow aisle of the plane. I find my seat and put my suitcase in the compartment then sit down. I realize now how badly I’m shaking.
