“Hello?” A groggy voice answered. Oops. I forgot it’s the middle of the night.
“Uh hey.”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Chris. I’m using Quinn’s phone.”
“Chris?! What are you doing calling me at 4 in the morning? Did something happen? Are you ok?”
“My fault, sorry. I thought… nevermind. I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Ria.”
“All this anxiety isn’t good for the baby,” my friend joked. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, Ria. Go back to bed. Everything’s fine.”
“Ok. ‘Night Christy.”
“Don’t-” Click. -call me that.
I handed my phone back to Quinn dejectedly. “Woke her up?” He asked genuinely, opposing Owl’s stupid grin.
“Yeah. Forgot it’s like four a.m. or something.”
“Four eighteen to be exact,” Owl smirked. I wanted to slap that shit-eating grin off his face but Razor beat me to it, backhanding the side of his head hard enough for the smack to echo throughout the van.
“Oww,” the younger man winced, rubbing his shaved head as though to relieve the pain. “What was that for, Razor?”
“I told you already. Play nice. I don’t like repeating myself.”
“Fine,” Owl huffed, sinking into the passenger seat.
“I can never tell if those two act more like brothers or lovers,” Kian chuckled in a low voice, out of their earshot.
“They do make that line incredibly thin, transparent even,” Leon agreed in a whisper. Quinn laughed. But my mind was already elsewhere. If Toby were here… since when did that start becoming part of my daily vernacular? I’m grateful for this spaced-out feeling sometimes. If I were fully here, the pain would be unbearable. I never really learned how to face my problems. Only run away. Like now.
Meeting him was the best and worst thing to have ever happened to me. He was my world, my everything. But I am nothing now that he isn’t here with me. Was my identity always only ever his shadow? I’d like to think I was more, am more, but I don’t even know who I am right now, much less who I’m supposed to be.
I used to dream about the day I would meet That Man again. It would be on some street corner near that old shack I used to dread coming back to every evening. I always told myself I would walk up to him with the confidence of two million foolish fruit flies and sock him right in the nose. I would hit him over and over, just like he did to me. I would make sure that, when he did look back into my eyes, he would never look at me the same way, with that disgusted glint in those bloodshot eyes. I would hit him right in the jaw as a finishing blow, just like Tobias taught me to. I would scream at him, make him beg, make him cry. Like he made me.
But now I know--I know--I would cross the street. I would raise my hood and turn away. I don’t want to see that man ever again. I don’t ever want to see my childish reflection in them. I don’t ever want to feel that panic rising in my chest, my sweaty palms and racing heart, the blood pulsing in my ears, the lump in my throat. I wouldn’t even look at him because I know, still, if I did I would cry. I would burst into tears and beg him to forgive me.
I would beg that despicable man to open his door to me once more and shelter me in that house of broken glass. And when the sharp edges cut, I’m not even sure I would complain. I would think it's better this way. It’s better this way. And that’s what really scares me. Because I get him now, That Man. I understand that pain he felt. But the last thing I ever want to admit is that I now empathize with the man who turned my life into a living hell. So yeah. I’ll cross the street with clenched fists, wondering why I was always too pitiful to fight back.
Quinn is right. I’m all bark and no bite and even a random thief I picked up at the edge of Ohio could see straight through me and my bullshit.
Christy, you’re such a fuck-up. God I hate that name. I hate it. Christy. Christy. Christy. Whenever Toby said it, it just reminded me of him. But whenever anyone else says it, it reminds me of her. Now it’s just a combination of awful memories. Christy doesn’t exist anymore, not without Toby. So why is that person haunting me still? Am I having doubts after all these years? Or is it just me trying to cope with the guilt and pain of losing the only one who didn’t actually give a shit what I was? I wish I could just shut my brain off. If I were asleep or fucked up I wouldn’t be thinking so much right now.
A cool hand on my forehead made me jump a little in my seat. I spaced out so bad I forgot where I was. I met Quinn’s worried look with a scowl, brushing his hand off of my head.
“Chris, you’re burning up. Are you feeling-”
“I’m fine. You’re not my mom so stop acting like it.” The tone of my voice was harsh and jagged, but obviously trembling with anxiety.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a fever before?” Quinn frowned, ignoring my daggered glare.
“Because I don’t. I’m not sick.”
“Yes you are. Stop pretending like you’re fine all the time! This is why you have to start wearing a jacket in the cold. You don’t take care of yourself-”
“Why don’t you stop pretending like you care!” I felt cornered, resorting to a childish instinct of fleeing as I crawled out of the van and away from the many eyes watching me. I hate myself. I hate this person I am. I hate making people worry. I hate that I can’t take care of myself properly. I hate hating myself. I just wish I could be someone else, someone capable of normal shit, someone happy and loving and confident, someone that doesn’t disappoint everyone all the time, someone with a loving family and friends and partner.
Fuck. I fucked up. I realized it as soon as I stepped outside. How childish. Quinn was only looking out for me because of that stupid intuition of his and personal nature to “do the right thing”. But what can I do now? I can’t just come crawling back in and apologize. Or could I? I never know what to do in these situations. People are difficult. I’m difficult.
I dragged my feet back to the car and unlocked it. The interior was cold, even colder than outside. I didn’t bother relocking the car as I climbed onto the backseat, beneath the cold sheets, and cradled my head in the crook of my arm, pillowed uncomfortably beneath my head. My whole body shivered against the cold air. I fucked everything up in front of one of my favorite bands, in front of Quinn. I need to stop sulking and just go to sleep. I’m just tired right now. Maybe that’s what’s putting me more on edge.
Stop it, Christy. You’re thinking too much again.
***
I awoke to the sound of rain. That, and a deep, steady breathing. I had to pry my eyes open against my exhaustion and puffy lids. Quinn was asleep, seemingly uncomfortably, in the passenger seat. It was pouring outside and freezing cold and he only wore his sweatshirt as a blanket. Out of guilt or an unspoken apology for last night, I took the blanket off of my body and draped it over Quinn’s. The shivering in his shoulders immediately stopped and a content sigh spilled passed his lips as his body subconsciously curled into the new warmth. I threw a thicker sweatshirt that I found in the backseat over my flannel and put my dead phone to charge with my portable battery.
I took out Toby’s letters and reread them until my head hurt from the tension of straining my eyes in the dim light of dawn to spell out each word. By now, I bet I don’t even have to read it, actually. The words are tattooed to the back of my eyelids.
I cranked the snowglobe’s music box, listening dreadfully to the tune that had my whole body tensing. It left me feeling empty. Or maybe too full of emotions to register them anymore. But without that feeling, I was convinced I would forget. Is that what I’m so worried about? Forgetting? Is that why I do this to myself? But who could forget those eyes or that laugh? The way he sang or compared me to a snowy winter’s evening? His few moments of unrelenting joy or immense sorrow or the way he became pure poetry in both? Who could forget the contrast of our voices? The way my smaller hand fit in his larger one? The nights and mornings we shared? His reckless youth spurred on by my own? The way his naked body beneath the moonlight of that pumpkin patch looked like an oil painting dipped in a hazy fog of a cool morning?
Will I forget? Will I one day forget the way that he looked or acted or sounded like? How would I live with myself if I did? I think the guilt would kill me.
The song ended and Quinn shifted slightly in his sleep. He tensed up slightly, his brows creased and a frown carved onto his lips. It looked like he was having a nightmare. Without thinking, I brushed the hair away from his face, holding the back of my cold palm against his sweat-slicked forehead. He just looked so helpless, so alone and afraid despite his strong exterior. Maybe he reminded me of myself then. Maybe I’ve always wanted someone to tell me that it’s ok not to be strong and really mean it.
I used to imagine my mother doing this to me, brushing the hair from my face to wake me up from a nightmare. “It was just a dream,” my make-believe mom would tell me. It was just a dream. But I never woke up from it.
“It’s just a dream,” I whispered to the me-not-me in the seat. And I wondered if I was trying to comfort him or convince myself.
Without giving myself the freedom to think back too much on last night’s events, I pulled myself away and into the driver’s seat. I took the keys out of the cupholder and started the car. Time to drive, I suppose. Well, at least we have a place to be in two days.
The rain came down even heavier as I merged onto the interstate. Lights left streaks on the wet pavement. I felt like a shooting star, not the one you’d wish on. I felt like the kind that was burning up in space as it entered the atmosphere, catching fire and threatening to split the whole planet in two, unable to stop even if it wanted to. A meteor.
While Quinn’s head lolled against the back of the seat in sleep, I gripped the steering wheel tight, until my knuckles showed white. Today it feels like I don’t exist. Is today even real? Am I still dreaming?
I inched the pedal forward and the car pushed faster, gliding against the water. How fast until I feel something? Anything?
There were only a few cars in sight, all heading at the same fast speed as we did. It just added to my feelings of utterly spaced out. In the downpour, I felt like my own little bubble. Even without the downpour, I would have felt like that anyways.
I swear I’m not suicidal but what if I just floor it? What if I just let the car drift ever so slightly to the right? What if I let go of the wheel? What would it feel like if the car flew off the bridge? What would kill me first, the impact or the water filling up the cabin fast? Fuck. I feel like I’m spiraling. I feel like I’m nothing at all.
I seriously considered it for a second, slamming my foot to the rug and letting what happens happen. But I heard Quinn mutter something in his sleep and it reminded me I’m not only responsible for myself right now. If I can’t live for myself…
***
“What are you doing, madame?”
It looked like I caught her in the act, sneaking away before the sun came up, like all of That Man’s one night stands since. But this woman wasn’t just another mistress. And it wasn’t his room she was sneaking out of.
“Christine,” she whispered with a curt nod.
It was hers. Not that she ever used it, of course.
“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement. I couldn’t even bring myself to be more upset. We were strangers after all. This was only the fourth time I ever remember seeing her. I didn’t know it would be my last.
I was more scared of what That Man would do to me when she left. Still, I knew there was nothing I could do about it.
“Yes.”
“No goodbye?” The look in her eyes would almost be guilt if it wasn’t so skittish.
“Why are you up, Christine?”
“Had to use the toilet, madame.” That was a lie. I heard her footsteps outside my bedroom door, as light as they were. I was anticipating it, after all. It was odd of her to show up out of the blue like this. But there was a diamond on her finger she wasn’t wearing last night and that was all I needed to know. She didn’t come here to take me away after all. She clenched and unclenched her thin fists.
“Goodbye, Christine.” It felt final. I would have picked up on it too, if I weren’t so fucking disappointed and ashamed of feeling that way at all.
“The back door doesn’t creak,” was all I told her before walking back into my room. I knew that look, the one she was giving me. It was the same look I had begged that empty sky to see on her face so many years ago. But now it was pointless. It meant nothing. No guilt or pity or empathy or regret was going to change the fact that she’s leaving. And I was never going to be part of that plan. I’m no idiot.
Maybe if I knew that would be the last time I ever saw her, I would have said something different. But, if I’m being honest, I’m not so sure I would have. I never loved her. She never loved me. After all,
we were only strangers.
“Chris!”
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