3
THE BOOKSTORE STILL FELT like her.
I shouldn't have gone in there. Priya looked at me like it pained her to even see me. Her tight voice, her attempts to be calm about my presence. But I could see the hurt in her eyes and the worry as she glanced to the back corner, then back at me.
Ophelia was there.
I considered for a moment walking back there and saying something. Anything.
Everything.
But doing that wouldn't fix us. Not with our last moment ending the way it did. With me walking away.
I take a glance at the fantasy section, the one we'd browse for hours in the summer, giving up the money we'd saved together and sharing a book.
I don't know how long I can take this.
"Do you need help finding something?" Priya had asked, her voice tight.
"No, I'm just… looking around."
But I couldn't stay. I couldn't breathe. I was out the door fast and walking away. I shouldn't have gone in there. But I wanted to remember what it felt like to be there. To be near her.
Ending up at Every Brew Café is probably the best decision I've made since returning to this town. The autumn air breezes past me as I sit on the patio, blowing crisp orange and brown leaves past my feet. I sip my coffee—black and bitter with just a little sugar to take the edge off.
I can still see the bookstore. See Ophelia when she walks out. I consider only for a moment going up to her. There's a longing in my heart, an emptiness in me that still seeks her presence. But the friendship we had is broken beyond repair.
I didn't think Ophelia would still live around here. I wouldn't have blamed her for getting away as fast as she could. I know I did.
But running away from my demons only complicated things more than it ever healed them.
The coffee isn't calming my nerves like it usually does. After downing what's left in my cup, I leave a tip tucked under the potted succulent on the outside table and walk down the street. Quiet is all that surrounds me, leaving me with too much space to think through everything. It's why I've taken so long to come back home. I've come to see my mom on holidays, but only ever for a day.
This is the first time I was brave enough to stay for the weekend. I didn't really want to be here this long, but my mom begged for me to come for a weekend stay. She said she missed me and wanted me home for a few days.
I didn't have the heart to tell her this wasn't my home anymore. I know she's lonely, ever since my parents got a divorce and my dad moved out of state. My older brother and his wife also live across state lines. I'm all my mother has, and I barely come here if I can avoid it.
My mom's house is tucked into the farthest part of the neighborhood, so I never had to worry about Ophelia finding me if I stepped outside. I never ventured farther into town on my one-day visits.
I don't know why I'm here now.
Maybe as punishment to myself.
I tuck my hands in my pockets, making my way down the street. Home is just around the corner. Although that's not too comforting when I know what will greet me. The look of pity on my mom's face because of my situation.
It's been a few years, I said to her when she started worrying. It's not like much has changed around here, anyway.
"I know…" she said, "but you only just came home again for longer than one day. I know it has to be hard on you."
Home.
I don't know if this is home.
I don't know if I have a home. This place reeks of death and loss. Grief permeates the air.
Two of the most important people in my life, ones I spent years with, gone in moments. And there's one I didn't give enough time to—to grieve or even consider.
Which is why it's all coming back to me now. Losing Ophelia was losing part of myself. But I was too caught up in my own emotions to realize that.
I find myself turning right before I reach my mom's neighborhood, heading towards the cemetery instead. I only visited her grave twice—once for the funeral and once before I left town. Yet I could find the place with my eyes closed.
The headstone looks as new as it did the day she was laid to rest. It does nothing to ease my mind to see the grave look fresh, almost as if this all happened yesterday and not five years ago. The vase is full of fake flowers, longer lasting than real ones. They're yellow and orange, the colors of the season. Her mom must've put them out recently. The sun hasn't faded them yet.
Her headstone is simple granite, the name bold and clear compared to the rest of the graves here. This is the newest one. Even in her death, it shows how young she was when she died.
Moriah Adams
2002–2018
"I should've made time to come by more," I say, as if she can hear me.
I kind of hope she can.
But the guilt in my heart doesn't really have to do with visiting the grave, or my lack of it. It has to do with what I should have done when all of this happened.
If I'd made better choices, maybe Moriah wouldn't be six feet under.
Sometimes I wish I could talk to her.
If she were still alive, though, I know we wouldn't be together. I probably wouldn't have kept contact, either.
She'd probably have some rich boyfriend who takes her on the European trips she talked about.
Yet, sometimes, I wish I could speak to her one more time.
Take back the things I said that caused all of this.
Prevent her from hurting me any further.
She wasn't perfect, like I used to think when we first started dating. Growing up without her has let me see the truth. She caused a lot of damage between me and Ophelia.
She also caused a lot of damage to me.
It took a while for me to see that I had changed into someone I didn't like when I was with Moriah. I was mean. Just like her.
For a long time, it was just Ophelia and me. We were united, unbreakable. And then Moriah moved to town. It became the three of us. It was like she had been the missing piece we didn't know about. My friendship with Ophelia was wonderful. But the three of us were perfect.
Or so I thought.
But then feelings got complicated… and the accident happened.
I couldn't stay in this town. I couldn't handle the reminders of both of them, knowing I was the one to break everything.
It was my words that made Moriah break.
It was my inaction that made Ophelia give up on me.
I couldn't be here, around the very town we all grew up in. Not after that.
Both of those girls deserved more from me. And now, neither of them is around for me to make things right.
I don't stay long. My heart can't bear it. I find myself walking to my childhood home, where my mom thankfully is not. Work probably has her tied up.
I decide to shower, to see if I can gather up some warmth where the world has left me cold.
I don't take long, though. I think too much in the shower.
After I get dressed, I find my mom has gotten home and is cooking in the kitchen. She gives me the same sad smile she always does and says, "I'm making your favorite soup. I thought you could use a nice meal before you drive back to your apartment tomorrow."
"Thanks," I say, coming up to hug her. She hugs me back, holding me tight.
We eat in comfortable silence. When I was a kid, we would always talk at the dinner table. Our conversations dimmed when my dad left. Eventually, this became normal.
Silence is all I can handle. I don't want to talk about what happened. It's been five years. I should be over it.
When darkness falls, I make my way to bed, even though I don't sleep until long after the rest of the world. I never can fall asleep. The calm and quiet of night brings up too much. And when I do finally drift off, my sleep is accompanied by night terrors.
I scream every time, which always brings my mom running into my room. She'll grab hold of me, pull me close, and let me cry on her shoulder until I wake up on my own. Otherwise, I'll claw at my face, at my hair, at my arms.
I shouldn't cry. I'm supposed to be the strong one, the man of the family.
Yet I can't seem to get a grip on myself.
"We should find a doctor," my mom suggests when I calm down from yet another episode.
"I'll be fine," I reply, like I always tell her. "I'm sorry for waking you."
Tonight, I don't fall back to sleep, despite the alarm clock on my bedside table blinking :0 a.m. But I pretend to sleep for Mom's sake. She'll be concerned and want me back on medication if I don't sleep on my own.
Sleep is for those who aren't haunted by the ghosts of the past or the demons of the present.
It's not for people like me.
I LOAD MY DUFFLE bag into the passenger seat of my truck. My mom waits on the sidewalk for me. I shut the door and hug her. "I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer."
"I know it's hard for you to be here. And I know you're happy in the city, with your new friends. But remember that this will always be home, if you want it to be."
I reluctantly pull away from Mom, nodding slowly. "Always. I'll call you when I get to my apartment."
I don't look back when I get in my truck. I don't want to see her tears as I leave again. I never stay for long. I'm too scared to let the memories overcome me.
It rains when I'm driving home. I turn the heat up in the truck, but nothing will touch the chill that's overcome my heart.
Maybe I was hoping to say something to Ophelia, and that's why everything feels empty and pointless.
She'd hate me. Hate that I had come back. She'd probably have yelled at me for even being there. For entering her safest space.
I shake my head free of the thoughts. I don't want to linger on the memories. I focus on the rest of the drive, making mental notes of each recognizable place I pass. Tomorrow, I'll go back to work. I'll go back to pretending this part of my life never existed. It's easier in the city to drown out the noise in my head.
I pass by Darkest Night Bookstore, and for a moment I consider stopping one more time. One more opportunity to see her.
No.
I don't know what that would accomplish. I run a hand over my face as I leave the main area of town. I long to see her again, but I know she wants nothing to do with me.
I'm not even sure why, after all these years, I wanted to try.
Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment after all.
I drive straight through, stopping only once at a burger place to get something to eat. Three hours isn't a terribly long drive, but I blast the radio loudly, not letting myself get lost in thought.
The rest of the drive is easy. There isn't much traffic on a cold, rainy day like today.
I pull into the gated parking of the apartment, sighing when I turn my truck off. Trips home remind me too much of what I've lost. I don't see my hometown: I see the things that no longer exist.
I don't see Carter's car in the parking lot as I walk to our apartment building. I climb the stairs to the third floor and unlock my door.
He's not home.
That's for the best. I can't handle his—or anyone's—concern for my wellbeing.
I drop my duffle bag in the living room, leaving my shoes on the rack by the door. I hang my coat in the closet, on my specific hook.
The walls start to close in.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Repeat.
I glance around the apartment, at the mess that has accumulated since I wasn't here to keep Carter on track.
Mind spinning, heart racing, I know that the only thing that's going to cure my never-ending emotions is to take back control.
Time to get to cleaning.