a garden of weeds

A low buzzing of my alarm jolted me out of my sleep. My stiff hands patted the bed until my fingers stumbled over the edges of my phone. The small device continued to buzz as I squinted at the light from the screen.

'5:01 AM.'

I tapped a button with impatience and sighed when it finally stopped. Rolling over, I gazed at the two small forms on the bed beside me, sleeping as if they had no worries. Of course they wouldn’t. I did it for them.

The lights were still out in our small, urban home, but beyond those four walls the day had already begun for many. Faint hums from vehicles filtered through the cracks in the windows. My cantankerous neighbour had let the cat out, his screen door’s hinges cried with displeasure. I heard his bark-like cough, then his curses at the cold masking the traffic until the door slammed shut. My threadbare sweater was my only defence as I padded out of my room. Bare feet on icy floors.

I paused in the corridor as I heard loud snoring. Peering around the corner, I found my stepfather asleep on the sofa. The remnants of his late night sat on the floor in a sticky puddle.

I felt along the wall towards the kitchen, being careful not to trip over anything the girls might have left on the floor. I still wasn't used to living in this house. Not since my mother packed up our lives to move here. I finally found the switch and flicked it on, but the corridor still remained encased in darkness. I flicked it again and again, letting out an exasperated swear when I realised the action was pointless.

The only light illuminating the house now, was from the battery-operated clock in the kitchen. The bright green numbers greeted me as I entered and carefully fished around in the cabinets for a saucepan. Outside was well below zero and the girls were already sniffling. It wouldn't help them to make them bathe in cold water too.

I shuffled back into the bedroom and knelt to look under the bed. I stored a small flashlight under the floorboards almost two months ago, the last time they forgot to pay the bill. The girls were stirring now, but I continued my search without disturbing them.

"Becca?" a tired voice called.

"I'm right here, honey." A small form wriggled free of her blankets and crept across the mattress until she was close to my face.

"I don't wanna go to school today," she whined.

I reached up and absently ran her hand through my sister's thick, dark hair and wondered if I had enough time to braid it.

"You've got to go to school, Tammy." I sighed. "How do you think we're gonna get out of here?"

"Wake your sister up, so you can shower and get some breakfast, okay?" I planted a kiss on my younger sister's forehead.

"Okay," Tammy conceded. "What's for breakfast?"

My mind went to the empty cabinets and even emptier refrigerator.

"Cereal."

"Great."

------

I stood at the door, waiting for my sisters to come out of our bedroom. The sun was up now, casting mismatched shapes of light onto the floor at my feet, next to a pair of well-worn boots. The room was empty, our stepfather woke up while I was in the kitchen and had disappeared into some far corner of the house. He never noticed I'd cleaned up his mess, so he never thanked me. I was sure I would find another one somewhere in the house the next morning.

I frowned at the gilded object on the wall. It was something I was not overly fond of. The girl who stared back at me was someone I did not recognise. Her wide, dark brown eyes and broad nose were strong, but tired. Her dark skin, which her grandmother once described as more beautiful and richer than clay, was becoming thin. My ageing beanie at on top my head, I inched it down so it would cover my ears. Gloves sat snug on my long fingers. I hoped they would last me until Christmas. With my bonus from the job at the mall, I could buy myself a new pair. The smooth, black pair with insulation floated before me, as if it projected from a Macy's storefront to my miserable excuse of a living room. I looked around at the old, mismatched chairs, the busted end-table my step-dad found in a dumpster. He sanded the legs and varnished them to make it look like new. My mother assessed it without comment, leaving him to stand around looking sheepish. He only had enough varnish for two of the table's legs.

----

My bus was late. At the time, I never had the slightest inclination of the day's dizzying descent into nothingness. Maybe I was too busy trying to get the girls ready so we won't be late, or maybe I became used to my circumstances – a modern example of a Pavlovian experiment.

Note, I said my bus. My sisters and I stopped going to the same school when my mother remarried and moved us to this part of town. She could no longer afford to send all three of us to the same one, so I ended up in the public system and the major chunk of my dead father's estate took care of the girls. A necessary sacrifice, I suppose. I was almost college age anyway, which meant I'd be unleashed into the workforce with a high school diploma instead of the scholarship to the college I'd long coveted.

The girls huddled on either side of me, gripping my gloved hands with theirs. It was almost seven forty. The sun, though making its slow ascent, had been obscured by clouds on this winter morning. A rumbling came around the corner of our block. A big, yellow bus shuddered to a stop in front of me, its hydraulic doors flapped open to reveal a middle aged man with watery blue eyes. Wisps of grey hair surrounded his round, wrinkly face.

He tipped his peaked hat to me, revealing a shiny scalp. "Mornin', Miss Rebecca."

"How are you, Earl?" I returned, gently nudging the girls up the steps. They've been quite until now, and whispered their goodbyes to me.

I squinted through the windows of the dimly lit bus as Earl relayed his current woes which most often surrounded his arthritic knees.

"I hate these winters," he grumbled, gesturing to the sky. "Been wanting to get someplace warm for years, but the wife won't let me."

I suppressed a smile. Mrs. Earl Wexler had been known to many a student who rode on this bus, as a force to be reckoned with. Hurricane Irene was what we called her.

"Just a few more years to retirement, Earl. Maybe she'll change her mind."

With a grumble of "unlikely", the doors shut in my face and the bus moved on. Two small, brown faces peered out at the back of the bus, next to a pale, larger one with freckles. They waved and I raised a hand. I spotted a sly wink from the owner of the pale face before they all turned around. I knew the girls were safe with him. My best friend, Sam. We knew each other from kindergarten at St. Thomas's. The odd pair called by some, ebony and ivory by others. I took that as a compliment, Paul is my favourite Beatle.

I followed the sound of the bus, lost within the swirls of its smoky exhaust. Sam Taylor. Homecoming King, Debate Captain, the golden child of two lowly college professors. He was the boy who I couldn’t go a day without thinking about. He was the one whose sole existence made me crazy. I know how his eyes light up when he goes on about his favourite things, and how I can barely focus when he enters a room. He fell asleep on my lap one fall afternoon. Just seeing him lying there, I told myself “that’s it. I’m done.” Worst thing about it was, he had no idea. Wasn’t that always the case?

I glanced at my watch then at the end of the block. First bell was set to go off in fifteen minutes. Mr. Krause's AP History class started five minutes after that. My stomach clenched at the thought. I wasn't even going to be on time to get some breakfast. There wasn't enough to cereal for three.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. Mellie's number flashed on my screen.

"Hey, where are you?" Her voice chirped through the line. Sighing, I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder.

"Standing by the bus stop outside my house,"

"No bus, huh?"

"Nope."

There was a pause on the line, I heard someone asking her what to do.

"Okay, Bec, I'll swing by and get you. Me and Jerome."

Calm flooded through me, the nausea I felt settled. I hung up and walked over to the bus shelter, sitting with my legs tucked close to my chest. I met Mellie when I started going to East Lansing High in August. She sat next to me while we waited for orientation to begin. She took one look at me in my skirt and collared blouse and asked if I was new. It was hard for me not to hide my surprise. She gestured to my get-up and said the only thing missing were my oxfords. To tell you the truth, I did plan on wearing them, but my stepdad got to them first. I wasn't about starting my first day at a new school reeking of stale vomit.

She offered to take me around the school and show me all the spots and places to avoid. She often thought I was too serious for my age. I told her I liked to think of myself as an old soul and she laughed. A high pitched cackle. After each time, she blushed as though she couldn't believe that noise had come out of her mouth. I thought it was cute.

A car pulled up in front of the shelter, metallic grey in colour with a black interior with cracked seats. I was surprised I hadn't heard it pull up. Jerome's car was known for its power. Once, he revved up and teachers in the school parking lot scattered.

"Hey hun," Mellie beamed at me as I slid into the backseat.

Mellie was stunning. Her skin was a bronze colour and had curly black hair. Her mom was Hindu, her dad, a Christian. They met in college.

"Hey guys," I said.

"Hey Becca," Jerome boomed. His voice was as loud as his car.

Jerome and Mellie reminded me of how my parents were with each other. She was the only girl in his world. Been together for ages.

"You ready for History? Russian Revolution?" Jerome asked over the hum of his engine. He took AP classes with me, while Mellie was in standard. Not that she minded.

"I guess so," I answered back softly, only they didn't hear that, but my grumbling stomach instead. Mellie turned up the radio, an old Alanis song filtered through the speakers. No one said much after that, but when we pulled into the parking lot with five minutes to spare, Mellie slipped a granola bar in my hand and squeezed it.

-------

You can always tell something has gone wrong at school by the way the teachers acted. Teenagers are full of secrets. They mastered the art of maintaining a blank face. If something big happened, no one ever knew by looking at them, but word always got around. Teachers are the opposite. They flap around like headless chickens, shooting one another anxious glances.

It was past nine by then, and I sat in the front corner of the classroom with my pen stuck between my teeth. Mr. Krause gave us an in-class assignment to do in silence. We could use books, he said, while he pulled a stack of papers from his briefcase.

There was a flurry of something in the atmosphere. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I knew it made me feel uneasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our guidance counsellor, Ms. Shaw gesticulating to our classroom. Mr. Krause noticed this too, and went outside to speak to her. His face wore an annoyed expression and I figured he was peeved at having his grading interrupted. His annoyance faded at the words Shaw spilled out. At once, both of them along with someone I could not see, turned to look through the panelled glass of the classroom walls. I knew at once that they were looking at me.

Mr. Krause re-entered the classroom and stood gripping the door knob. His face was white.

"Miss Walker, would you mind?"

I rose uncertainly from my chair. My classmates' eyes were on me, boring tiny holes in my back.

"Uh, sure."

I moved into the aisle with hands clasped tightly in front of me. I willed myself not to wring them.

"Bring your bag, please, Rebecca."

----

The principal, Mrs. Gibbs, sat flanked by the Guidance Counsellor, and the deputy Principal, Mr. Warner - a slightly paunchy guy who always smelled like tobacco.

I remember always liking Mrs. Gibbs because her accent reminded me of my grandmother. She too was a teacher who lived in North Carolina. I supposed that helped because of what they were about to tell me. Most of which I barely heard.

I knew my mother was unhappy with our situation. Georgie-boy, my stepdad, was in a bad way. He claimed the economy was horrible to him, he'd lost a lot of money. What I discovered after they got married was that he gambled most of it, and drank the rest. This, among many other observations I'd made, I neglected to share with my mother. I wanted her to see the rotten fruit of her decisions.

Ms. Shaw opened the conversation with the offer of grief counselling; something which went over my head. I turned away from them to look out the window. Their voices were muffled as though they tried to speak to me through layers of shatterproof glass. Almost like visiting hours in prison.

But what I remembered most about that particular morning was it started to snow.

My mother never liked snow.

-----

Ms. Shaw drove me home herself.

I sat in the front seat with my knees rubbing against the dashboard. Behind me, my two sisters sat confused that I'd pulled them out of school. I hadn't told them about Mom. Ms. Shaw kept giving me sidelong glances when either of the girls asked what was going on.

The car smelled faintly of lavender as if it was something natural. Unlike most of the cars I'd ridden in, hers was actually clean. No clutter in the backseat, or shoes strewn all over the floor. She only kept a box in the middle seat and even its contents carried some semblance of order. Ms. Shaw - Kate - was from Rhode Island. She told me that once when I first started school there almost six months ago. I was the new kid, brought here under unfortunate circumstances. Dead dad, screwed-up mom, and gin-soaked stepdad. It was all in the school record though worded much better than I expected. She wanted children of her own, but couldn’t. I wasn’t sure why she told me that at the time. Therapists weren’t supposed to overshare.

I looked over at her while she drove. Her frizzy, blonde hair was piled at the top of her head. A few, long strands lay trapped beneath the blue of her scarf when she wrapped it around her neck with haste. I thought she had a striking profile, almost pretty even.

“What are you thinking about, Rebecca?” she asked me, as if I’d come to her office to confess something and couldn’t find the words.

“I don’t know.” I turned away from her and watched the road.

We drove south along the snow-filled road. Slightly swerving when she hit patches of ice.

My parents met originally in college. Both of them were history majors - him doing a Master’s and her in undergrad. They fell for each other, slowly. Even during their marriage, years later, it felt like they still were. Back then, my mother was happy. She taught at a school in our old neighbourhood and my father got tenure at Michigan State to teach history there. They worked hard for my sisters and me to go to St. Thomas’. Things were fine, then. We were fine. Then my dad got sick.

Pancreatic cancer is one of those things that drains the life out of all of its victims. My mother never got over it. She walked around looking like she’d lost something and couldn’t quite remember where it was. After work, she started going to bars. Work eventually became neglected, but the school gave her a break. She was grieving. Somewhere between trying to function and still be a broken woman, she met Georgie Boy - Errol George Matthews - a stock broker. His cards always said E. George, a dignified way of saying he hated his first name. He had one of those, round, shiny faces and a boyish smile. When she brought him over to meet us, a mere six months later, I could not believe it. Mom thought it all made him look cute. He squirrelled his way into our home, convinced her to follow his advice on lousy trades. By the end of it, he’d sucked her dry. Heirlooms, antiques, my father’s collection of rare books - all gone. The only thing he couldn’t put his sticky hands on was the money left to my sisters and me from my father. To do that, he’d have to go through the lawyer and have me sign the papers.

Three months later, the house was gone and we had to move. Half the stuff in this little bungalow were things he’d found in people’s trash and tried to make new. E. George’s employment status was barely skimming the barrel when he met her, now I’m not so sure what he does.

We pulled up at the house to see the front door wearing that flimsy, plastic ribbon you see in on an episode of Law and Order. Police cars were parked on the curb and officers stood in the snow. Some scribbled on their notepads and others puffed away on cigarettes. An ambulance had inserted itself on the small front lawn, its back doors stood open and welcoming.

I opened the door without waiting for the car to come to a complete stop and just stood there. Georgie boy stumbled out first. He managed to pull himself together long enough to entertain a police presence. Behind him was a gurney with a black bag seated on top of it, not all the way closed. The EMTs were stone-faced. One of them, trying to avoid my stepdad, slipped on a patch of ice and fell. The body bag skidding off of its carriage and into the snow. The force of it shook the contents and I found myself staring into the lifeless eyes of my mother. I hadn’t even realised the girls were out of the car too until I heard them screaming.

I remember just standing there amidst the screams and the mad scramble to stuff my mother’s corpse back into the bag. The air around me flickered like someone trying to tune a radio. Spots filled my line of sight and I slipped. The lights went out before I hit the ground.

-------

I awoke to darkness. Hushed voices penetrated my ears and I struggled to move. Firm hands gripped my shoulders and pushed me down onto the bed. Thin lips brushed my forehead and cheek.

I squinted in the darkness to see a lanky form hunched over on a stool next to my bed. I tried to move but my legs felt like lead.

"Who's there?" I said hoarsely.

The form shook as though amused and leaned forward so I could make out the outlines of its face.

"Twelve years of friendship and you don't recognise me, Rebecca?" A southern drawl teased me out of my stupor. I felt my face grow hot.

"Sam," I reached for him and he eased on to the edge of the bed.

The memories of the past few hours hurtled through me like a train. I struggled beneath his sudden embrace and gasped. My words fell out of my mouth, utterly incomprehensible. Sam shushed me.

The room burst into light when someone opened the door. Kate Shaw bustled in with a tray, followed by Mellie, her eyes dim. Behind the pair was a small woman with cat-eye glasses, wearing a two-piece sweater set of a bilious green colour. She gripped a clipboard in her child-like hands.

Mellie sat on the other side of the bed, burying her head in the crook of my neck. Ms. Shaw set the tray on my makeshift dresser and I felt the urge to make the room look tidy. I was too tired last night to do anything of that sort.

They all remained silent, but I could feel them staring at me. I looked down at my ratty comforter and picked at the tag.

"Where are my sisters?"

In my bout of hysterics, I had a vision of their little faces. They were screaming.

"They are outside with someone from Social Services," Mellie whispered, then when feeling me stiffen, she added, "Jerome is sitting with them."

"Rebecca," Ms Shaw spoke for the first time since she came in.

I tilted my head in the direction of her voice, but said nothing.

"This is Sylvia Rogen, a social worker from the Department of Child Services."

The tiny woman stepped forward until I could see the hem of her sweater.

"Hello, my dear." She said. Like my history teacher, her voice was husky, probably from years of smoking. Her fingers had a faint yellow stain. Every few seconds, they twitched. I wanted to go in search of a cigarette just to put her out of her misery.

"I am sure you were informed about your mother at the school," she continued.

All I could see was my mother's face staring up at me from the snow. Half of her head blown apart with pale, shrivelled pink matter peering out. Her left eye was gone leaving a hole. Her mouth was open wide like one of those theatre masks depicting tragedy. She always had a flare for the drama, my mother. Even now, I realised she hadn't lost her touch.

"Yes."

She paused, I supposed she threw a glance to someone before continuing. "Do you have anyone - a relative - who can look after you and your sisters?"

"You skipped my step-dad so soon?"

I heard her sigh. "He isn't really your stepfather,"

My mouth opened, but her words were so damning I don’t think I could answer her.

"He and your mother were not legally married." She looked uncomfortable and refused to look at me. "Whoever signed the papers wasn't...legit."

I snorted. Of course. Of course.

They looked surprised at my outburst and in spite of myself, my laughter got louder. Beside me, Sam's lips twitched.

"All of a sudden, my life has turned into something only Gillian Flynn could make up."

Mellie chuckled next to me.

"Well, honey," Sam whispered. "Our lives were fucked up from day one."

-----

The snow had not let up on the day I buried my mother.

We stood under umbrellas watching the casket sink into the icy ground. My sisters stood on either side of me gripping my hands. They watched as the lid of the coffin disappeared. The last time they saw our mother was the week before, on a Sunday afternoon, when she yelled at them for leaving their toys in the corridor. That was their last memory of her. It was a pity.

My grandmother sat on the opposite side of the grave in a fold out chair. One of her many nieces fluttered around her. She never looked at us much as she sat there. In fact, she hardly spoke to us at all since she arrived the evening before from Durham. I couldn’t decide which one was more painful for her: never seeing her daughter again, or having to look at me and see my mother’s face.

Georgie-boy sniffed loudly as the pastor began to pray. I noticed my grandmother fix him with one of her stares and he stopped. A tiny smile flitted across her face until the mask covered it up again.

The social worker moved us out of the house. The girls stayed with an old friend of my father’s, he and his wife were professors at Michigan State – their godparents. The girls were quite small before my father took ill. His friends stopped coming to the house and his body wasted away. Still, they were one of the first I could think of who would take care of my sisters, a task they accepted without hesitation. I stayed with Sam and his family a couple blocks away.

Mrs. Rogen was still negotiating with my grandmother about taking us in. She was an old woman. Not fit to take care of a seven and five-year-old, though the social worker assured her that I would help. I couldn’t blame her for being hesitant. There wasn’t much room in that house. Since my grandfather died, she allowed it to be filled up with junk. The upper floor she never used because she couldn’t climb the stairs. They’d gotten her a wheelchair assist on the flight out.

Things were different at Sam’s house. It felt good to have hot water for once on mornings. Mr and Mrs Taylor were very nice people who’d known me since I was a baby. Mr. Taylor knew my father from college and they even worked together at Michigan State. He was the assistant coach of their football team. There was a bit of talk though, before I came to stay. Some of the neighbours were concerned about having me as a neighbour. You see, the house I lived at with my Mom and E. George was in a rough part of the county. Once an upstanding new development had fallen on hard times, so anyone with cash could get a brand new house for 20% of its original cost, complete with a shitty neighbourhood watch system and vacant lots. They thought I’d bring the bad things with me.

I’d been there for at least a week. The Taylors were very kind, but there was an uneasiness whenever they approached me. I was the true definition of an orphan. I’d lost my parents through some very tragic means. God only knows how I’ll find the money to pay for therapy in a couple years. I’d like to say it felt like they walked on eggshells around me. I can add all the other clichés here to make me feel like I’d done a decent job depicting that particular feeling. But I won’t. The topic of my parents’ deaths, more specifically, my mother’s suicide, was messy and uncomfortable. Any mention of it at all resulted in sputtering and profuse apologies, all of which I waved away as though they were nothing, because the Taylors were nice people. In the days I’d been there, my presence for the after meals conversation became less and less, until one night, Sam brought my meal up himself.

That was when things went south. I was wrong. So very wrong and now I made a mess of things. It wasn’t the right time. His parents were downstairs watching TV in their basement living room after dinner. The meal Sam brought remained untouched as I looked at him through dark eyes. I’d been crying. I just came from seeing the girls and I just felt so lost. Mom’s relatives planned the funeral, I was deemed useless. The social worker was still negotiating with my grandmother and Ms. Shaw kept insisting that I talk to her. I didn’t want to. I had nothing to say.

There is a kind of emptiness a person can feel after a profound loss. There is nothing anyone could say to make you feel better. Any feelings are taken in and flattened until they are nothing. Well beyond the point of feeling numb. But there was Sam. The boy I’d been in love with since I was ten years old. My best friend. My person. Here he was standing in front of me with those eyes and I felt I had nothing to lose. I needed an out.

He kissed me goodbye when it was over. There was a slickness between my thighs, seeping onto the sheets. I lay there, staring up at the ceiling with my vision growing foggy. When he closed the door, I sobbed into my pillow. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not when I was barely holding on. I thought about this moment for years. I thought about the speech I had planned and how I’d declare my love for him. Taking the role of an Austenian hero and coming clean. At the end of it, I imagined us both being happy, lying there in each other’s arms, and enjoying the silence. I would gladly sit in silence next to him knowing I’d never be alone again. That he’d always be with me. Now, we could barely look at each other and it was all my fault.

I watched him from under a tree after the service. He stood alone while Mellie and Jerome walked with the girls back to the car. They wanted to treat them to ice cream, just before returning them to the arms of their guardians. My heart thumped loudly in my chest as he turned. I walked towards him on rubber legs, hoping to God I could make things right.

-------

There is a land where they walk around with veiled eyes. Seeing is believing, and believing is hard especially if there is not much to hope for in the first place. Denial is a dirty sin. At least that’s what I always thought. Denial is awful, and regret is a heavy burden to carry. It leaves you winded. Broken. Most of the time, the wounds are too much. Healing is pointless if everyone around you carries just a little bit of salt.

Ms. Shaw asked me about this journal entry in one of our sessions a few afternoons after my mother’s funeral. My grandmother was back in Durham, trying to get her house in order while I finished up the semester. I sat in her office letting my legs dangle from the couch.

“Don’t you feel like talking today, Rebecca?” Her voice was tired, almost frustrated. I couldn’t blame her. Progress doesn’t become me. It never did.

What could I possibly tell her about that opening sentence and the overwhelming angst that followed? That is what my life is. I couldn’t tell her I re-wrote it fifteen times before it didn’t look like I sat writing in the rain. I couldn’t tell her that the tears spilled were not for my mother, but for the only boy I think I could ever love. The one who can hardly stand to look at me anymore, or worse, pretend nothing ever happened. Our talk didn’t go exactly as I had planned. My channelling of Mr. Darcy morphed into Bridget Jones. I fucked it up like I did everything else. My existence in that household is that of the silent lodger in the upstairs apartment.

Self-blame. Blatant signs of worthlessness. That’s what Ms. Shaw would tell me had she heard my story. I looked up the symptoms of depression the other day and made a print out. She took them without an ounce of surprise, but fell silent all the same. I knew what she was thinking, even though she might argue that I’m grieving.

There is a land where we are unable to walk with our heads held high. The shame of past mistakes is too great. With slumped shoulders we will ourselves to disappear.

I woke up this morning to the headline “Love Wins”. The thought of it left me feeling empty. Does it? Does it really? If it won anything, no one would have a reason to stay in bed every morning. There would be no need for therapists. Human beings would be more accepting of their fates.

“Rebecca?”

I flinched at the hand on my shoulder shaking me. Like a thief in the night, I became overwhelmed. I could not breathe. I gasped as the tears splattered into my trembling hands.

I lost him. 

-------

Sometimes I found myself looking for him in familiar places. Old haunts. Other times, I’d pray that the next knock on the door would be his. It had been over a year now since we last spoke. Maybe two. It was that icy afternoon in the cemetery after my mother’s funeral. He’d moved on, and so did I.

A scholarship to Michigan State which he really didn’t need; his grades were enough.

Me? I waited tables on weekends, and was a shop assistant on weekdays. I went to classes at a small tech college in Durham, hoping to get enough credits for Chapel Hill in the fall. My half of the inheritance helped to pay for my tuition, the rest I put into a trust for the girls.

I did keep my checks on Sam though. Through friends, friends of friends, and even social media - as damning as it is, it does have its uses. I thought that the hole he’d left in the middle of my chest had sealed, but of course fate has a way of intervening, doesn’t it?

It was a new customer at the dive I worked at. An assistant couch from Michigan State’s football team.

“Where are you from, honey? You look familiar.”

“Michigan.” I put his used plate on my tray. “You want some more iced tea, sir?”

“Sure.” He squinted at me through his sky blue eyes. “Didn’t you go to Saint Thomas’s? Dad a history professor?”

Was.

I stood up straighter. “Yes.”

He nodded his large head slowly. “You used to be with Coach Taylor’s boy, right?”

The tray shook in my hands. “I - yes, I used to.”

“What’s your name?”

It did not matter if I’d given him. My name was bright red and stuck on the left side of my chest. Right above the heart.

He beamed up at me then. “Small world, isn’t it? I’ll tell him I saw you. He comes to help his dad out sometimes.

I nodded with my smile frozen in place. Deep down, I wanted to throw up. It was then that I realised that the ache in my chest never really left me, it just waited until the right moment.

————

I saw him in the flesh a few weeks later. We were in Kansas City at Union Station, heading in opposite directions: him to Ann Arbor, me to Raleigh. He sat next to me on the bench while I sifted through my college prospectus.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” It was a habit of mine to respond to anyone who said ‘hello’, whether I knew them or not, but there was something about that voice that amide me look up.

“Sam!” My eyes widened at the sight of him - he’d gotten taller, and his face and body looked more solid. The space in the middle of my chest throbbed.

“How have you been, Becca.”

“Fine,” I nodded. “You?”

“I’ve been good.”

“Someone told me they met you in Durham. One of the coaches.” He said after a beat of silence.

I flicked through the pages of my book, looking at words I could no longer see.

“We had an interesting talk.”

“About what?”

“About my life in Michigan, school… you.”

“Me?”

“Yup.”

I felt my mouth go dry. “About good things, I hope.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

I shrugged. “Well, it’s been such a long time, things were said…who knows what you must think of me now?”

It took a while before he could answer, his voice became raspy. “I never stopped caring about you, Rebecca. Never. It’s just - we were both in a bad place.”

“And now?”

He shook his head, a small smile lit up his face - different to what I’d seen in his photos - it was a real one.

“My feelings haven’t changed.”

I wasn’t aware that I was crying until I felt his hand on my face. I buried my face in his chest and choked out my sobs. It amazed me how human beings reacted on the verge of loss, but when they gained…when they really gained, it was something to be in awe of.

I pushed myself off his chest and sniffed. There were so many things I felt we had to say to each other. Two years worth of feelings, thoughts, regrets. Two years we missed being in each other’s lives. As if he could hear my thoughts, he nodded and kissed my forehead.

“I know.”