12 - I Missed You

12

I Missed You

T he diner is packed.

Families take up almost every booth, and loud chatter echoes throughout. Luckily, I'm quite attuned to the tone of Joey's babbling and more so, the inflictions in Zaza's voice when she has an attitude.

I slide into the cracked, blue, leather seat, right next to Joey's booster seat, where Sophia was just seated. Before anything else, Kian pushes a metal cup toward me.

"Milkshake number one," Kian says, stretching out across from me. Zaza sits between him and Sophia with quite the pout on her face.

"Thank you," I say, turning to Joey. "Hi, honeybun." Her golden-brown cheeks widen at that, a rosy pink taking place. "What's with the pout over there, Zaza?"

She huffs. The grip on her crayon tightens, and she continues angrily coloring in the picture. I glance at her parents and mouth, " What's wrong ?"

"She's related to you," Kian snarks, and I kick him under the table.

"Hey," Zaza and I say at the same time. Her lips quirk, but she pulls them down before she shows any signs of happiness.

"Alrighty then." I glance at Sophia, but she just spoons ice cream into her mouth.

"Auntie Ro, will you help me?" Joey mumbles, haphazardly pushing crayons toward me. When she does, Zaza huffs but continues, angrily grabbing a magenta crayon from her dad's hand.

Sophia sighs. "We ordered for you. I hope that's alright. I just couldn't deal with the hungry gremlin over here."

"I am not a gremlin."

Sophia twists the curl in her daughter's hair. "I know, sweetie. I was referring to your daddy."

I snort, helping Joey color in a dinosaur, and take a spoon of ice cream. Kian smiles anyway, even though his daughter is admittedly taking after me and his wife is picking on him. Instead of saying anything, he reaches over Zaza and gently tugs Sophia's ear, making a kissy face at her.

"Ew, Daddy, stop." Joey frowns, pointing her crayon at him.

"Yeah, ew," I encourage. I already feel better now that I'm here. Even if I'm avoiding it all, I'd rather do it with them.

"And we wonder where this one," he points to Zaza, "gets it from. Or actually, where either of them gets it from."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I am a wonderful influence and a perfect aunt." Even Sophia can't keep it in at that one, laughing after her next bite of ice cream. "Joey, why are your parents so mean to me?"

Her brows furrow in the cutest way, and she purses her lips. "I don't know, Auntie Ro. But I love you." Joey leans into my side, and my heart swells. Over her head, I stick my tongue out at the so-called parents.

"I love you, too, Joey."

"What about me?" Zaza cries out, her pout trembling. They aren't exaggerating when they say me and Zaza are one in the same. Similar moods, similar attitudes, similar in most ways.

"Zaza, baby, you know I love you. So much."

"I wanted to sit next to you." She tosses her crayon on the table. I see her eyes glistening, but she doesn't let any tears fall.

I reach my hand over the table and grab hers. "How ‘bout we switch after we eat? You can come sit with me, and we can draw something together."

"Fine, but I don't wanna sit with Joey."

Her sister is unfazed, which makes me laugh internally—not externally, unless I want to be the next recipient of Zaza's scorn. "Okay, we'll work it out." She nods and squeezes my hand back before she holds out her palm, and Kian oh-so-carefully places a crayon in it.

He doesn't let go. "Azalea, what do you say?"

She looks up at him, and his eyes soften when she does. "Please."

Kian sighs and sits back, fingertips dancing over Sophia's shoulder. "So, I see we've all had fantastic days today."

"I have!" Joey's toddler speak tumbles out.

The three of us chuckle softly. Joey's always been a happy baby, and she often makes us smile even when it feels like we can't. Even Zaza and her attitude makes me feel better. Something about the deep, intense problems of a ten-year-old.

The bickering settles, and I relax into the seat. Chocolate melts on my tongue with the next spoonful.

"Can I ask a question that may potentially upset you?" Kian asks.

I raise a brow. "I suppose."

"How are things with Drew?"

"I ended it yesterday, actually."

Both Sophia and Kian frown. "I'm sorry, Ro—"

I wave them off. "Stop. It's okay. He was super nice about it. There was no use in putting it off. Maybe I could've given it a bit longer if you-know-who hadn't shown up, but he deserved better than someone who had to force herself to feel butterflies," I say, dryly laughing.

Rather than say anything, Kian kicks my foot under the table.

"Do you want to talk about it—"

"Nope." I stare at him until he raises his hands in defeat.

The smell of food wafts toward us, and seconds later, our waitress appears with a tray on her shoulder. She smiles as she hands out the food, Sophia taking and distributing further. I'm handed a plate of chicken tenders and French fries, of which I certainly won't complain about.

Kian goes about collecting the crayons and the coloring pages, of which is his first obvious offense when Zaza narrows her eyes. Then, he splits a large platter of chicken tenders onto two plates—one for Joey and one for Zaza. Joey doesn't mind, immediately pawing a French fry, but Azalea has other plans. I can see the fire brewing in her eyes, and I grab some fries to prepare.

"I don't want to share with her."

"Oh, brother," Sophia murmurs.

Kian frowns. "Why not? When I asked earlier, you said that was okay."

She crosses her arms, her brown cheeks turning red. "Well, I changed my mind." Tears pool in the corners of her eyes. My heart aches. I'm not sure if she's tired or having a bad day, but it's a lot of emotions, and it makes me sad to see her sad.

"Hey," I say softly, meeting her eyes. "What's wrong? Can you talk to me? Want to come sit with me now?"

Most times, if she doesn't want to talk to her parents, she will talk to me. Zaza hesitates, but eventually, she gives a tearful nod. Sophia lets her out of the booth so she can crawl in next to me, where I've placed her portion of food.

"Thank you."

I wrap my arm around her waist and kiss her cheek. "Of course. Do you want to tell me what's wrong, or do you want to eat first?"

She exhales and grabs a fry, and the rest of us all take a deep breath. For the next five minutes, everything is calm. Joey talks and talks, some words less babbly than the others, and we listen intently as if we understand all of it. Zaza is quiet, but there aren't any more tears in her eyes.

But then, she taps me. "Can I ask you a question?

"Of course."

"Do you hate Isaiah?"

I blink in surprise. Kian blows a raspberry. "No, of course not. Why would you think that?"

"Why didn't you invite him?"

"Tonight?"

She shakes her head. "After your game, for ice cream."

"I didn't think about it, but he can come next time."

"You just don't want him around."

I have whiplash from how quickly kids can go from one mood to the next, but I school my features. I'm not sure when or how she's picked up on the tension between the two of us, but obviously, she has.

"That's not true, baby."

Azalea huffs. "Yes, it is. He talks to Daddy all the time. And he talks about you all the time. But he's barely around, and when he is, you act all funny."

My body turns cold.

Sophia drops her fork and turns to stare at her husband.

Kian sighs. "Oh, shit."

Joey frowns. "Daddy, bad word."

I watch in frozen disbelief as Kian rubs his hands over his face. I stare until he looks at me. "Would you care to explain, Kian?"

"Is there an option B?"

Anger runs red hot. Tears prick my eyes. "I can't…believe you." I turn to my niece, my voice shaky. "Can you let me out, baby?"

Confusion floods her face. It's not her fault, but I need to get out of here and away from Kian. Zaza doesn't say anything but scoots out to give me room. I stand, almost spilling my water as my limbs tremble. Without looking back, I stumble outside. The air is no relief. It's hot and sticky, and it's suffocating.

Today has gone from bad to worse. I wish I could bottle it up and shatter it, act like it never happened.

"Aurora."

My head whips around to find Kian exiting the diner. I turn and walk toward my car, digging through my purse for my keys, but he catches up and steps in front of my car.

"Aurora, please."

"What? What do you want me to say?"

He looks distraught. But that's how I feel. "I want you to listen to me."

"I don't know if I can do that, Kian." For the second time today, tears fall without my permission. "How long?"

Kian sighs. "Since he left. Or a few months after he left, I guess. A while."

"A while?" I choke out, a painful laugh escaping me. I want to fucking scream. My mind is spinning, and it won't focus on anything. "You've been talking to Isaiah for six years? The same six years that I've been a fucking mess about it?"

Guilt appears for a split second when I look at Kian's face, but my anger overtakes it in the next breath.

"And how in the hell did you hide that from Sophia?"

He leans his head up to the sky. "He asked me not to tell anyone."

"So you told the ten-year-old?"

"No one said I was a star pupil." Kian shakes his head, the joke falling flat. "She didn't see him much at the beginning, barely remembered who he was. But in the last year or so, there's been more calls. Joey met him, too. It's a mess; I know that."

I swear I can hear my heart beat faster as realization blooms. "Did you know he was coming here?"

Silence.

"Kian." My voice cracks.

"Yes. But—"

"Please let me leave," I say, my hand tightening around my keys.

He steps toward me, and I squeeze my eyes closed, unmoving. If I cry another fucking tear today, I am going to go sit on the highway.

"I didn't do this to hurt you, Aurora. I did it because he needed someone." My heart burns, the pain getting worse with every pulse. "He wanted to tell you. Please believe me when I say I would've come to you the moment I knew that he told you. The last thing I expected was for my daughter to spill the news over chicken tenders." Kian squeezes my arm. "I'm sorry."

I nod, stepping back. My fight or flight is in full effect, and I've never wanted to run so badly.

"Do you know his address?"

Kian studies me with a sad look. "Yes."

"Will you text it to me please?"

He nods, and I get into my car, sinking into the seats. I keep my eyes closed until I'm positive they're dry. Outside, Kian stalks toward the diner, pausing outside for a moment. Sophia won't be that mad considering she's not good at staying mad at people, but she'll put up a good fight—mostly on my behalf. I stay put until my phone vibrates with a text.

Outside, the sun still shines in the blue sky, but the colors of the sunset are starting to reflect on the clouds. I wait until my heart doesn't feel like it's going to grow talons and rip itself out of my chest before plugging in the directions.

I stare at the brick wall of Isaiah's apartment building. It's not far from my own, but it's charming—all brick with a small garden in the front and a pathway that leads to the apartment entrances. I bet there's exposed brick on the inside and built in bookshelves filled to the brim. The idea of his living space comes together so easily in my head, and it's easier to stand out here and make it up than to take a few steps toward finding out what it's really like.

I thought being angry would've made this easier. Instead, I'm overwhelmed. My fingers pull on a loose thread on the bottom of my shorts until it tears.

I find his door, knock three times, and wait.

Isaiah opens the door, black-framed glasses over his eyes. Almost instantly, his face clouds with confusion. "Aurora? What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk."

"Okay, come on in," he says, holding the door open. The smell of Isaiah wraps around me like my old, favorite blanket.

It's as if the city of Philadelphia made this place specifically for him. I kick my shoes off and stride in. On the right, there is a fully exposed brick wall that accents his living room and leads to a hallway. His desk is up against the wall, his laptop open and a notebook with a pen close by. The kitchen overlooks the living room with a breakfast counter adorned with candles and photo frames. A rusty orange chair sits next to his couch with a blanket folded over the back and a book open on the arm.

"Is everything okay?" He wipes his hands on his cotton shorts, the edges of which touch a large tattoo that accentuates the shape of his thighs. Good God, I was not prepared.

Not for Isaiah at home. In his glasses and in his element.

I wrap my arms around myself. His eyes survey the movement before meeting mine. "Kind of. Not really."

Isaiah sighs. "Let me get you some water. Sit down, and we can talk."

He leaves me standing there, and I can't take my eyes off him. The simple, gray t-shirt accentuates every muscular curve. Stark, black lines of tattoos decorate his visible skin, and those glasses frame his face perfectly.

Fuck me. The glasses.

He hated them when we were younger, especially in middle school. Hated the way they fogged up when it was humid and how he always had to push them up when he was reading or writing. Hated being picked on for them. In high school, I was the only one that saw them. When we were together in the safety of our homes was the only time he felt comfortable enough to put them on.

I've never not loved him in glasses. The way they frame his angular face and highlight his eyes. Now, as an adult, who is comfortable in his body, the confidence visible in every step, the glasses just…hit different.

I tear my eyes away and force myself to sit on the couch, ignoring the warmth building in the pit of my stomach. The rug underfoot is soft. There's a candle burning on his coffee table and a mug on the table next to his chair.

"For you," he says, startling me. He sinks into his chair.

"Thank you," I murmur, trying to find the anger I had when I drove over here.

Isaiah leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I swallow when we lock eyes. I swear my heart rate slows, and my brain clears. Even when I'm supposed to be mad at him, being around him makes me feel safe. Even after all this time.

"So, you talked to Kian all these years?"

His face falls. "I was supposed to tell you."

"Yeah, well, personally, I wish there wasn't anything to tell."

"Rora—" he says, and I flinch. The nickname still stings. "Aurora, I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out from anyone but me. Kian wanted me to tell you, so I understand if you're mad at him, but everything he did, everything he didn't tell you, is because I asked him to."

I take a sip of water. All that boiling anger from earlier is now a simmer, which has made way for all the hurt that was hiding underneath. Hurt that I have pushed down and tried to ignore when, in fact, it's been eating me alive. Waiting to strike. Isaiah needed someone to talk to, and he chose Kian.

Sadness envelopes me. I hate that he was going through something like that. And yet, it stings that I wasn't the one he needed.

Especially considering, I always needed him.

"Why—" I interrupt myself when a sob escapes from my throat. "Fuck me." I turn my eyes to the ceiling, willing myself not to cry. My eyes blur anyway.

"Hey," Isaiah says, and I blink my eyes to see him start to stand.

I croak out, "Please don't. Or I will never get through this." God, I want to punch myself. "Why did you choose him? I know that you said you couldn't talk to me," I hiccup, "but I just…I don't understand why you didn't want me to talk to. I don't understand why you didn't need me."

Well, there it is. I left my bleeding heart on a blank page and handed the book straight to him.

"I want nothing more than to give you an answer that makes it okay. But I don't have one. I was so lost after he left." Isaiah leans back, his eyes flickering across the room. I follow, to find a picture of him and Elijah on his desk. "I had never felt that way before. That…down. That broken. And it wasn't that I didn't want to talk to you. I couldn't. I didn't know who I was anymore. I didn't recognize myself in the mirror. And I felt ashamed of that, and the idea of you seeing that, seeing that weak version of myself…I couldn't do it. I didn't want to be broken in front of you."

My hand tightens on the glass. I wish I had a magic wand and could go back and fix it. Make it so Elijah never left and make it so that Isaiah never felt this way.

"When Elijah left, there was this space missing. This thing that followed me around. And life—you know, life went on. But I didn't know how or why. I would go to tell him things, something that made me laugh or passages that interested me, and he wasn't there. He always used to be there, and he just wasn't." Isaiah's voice is soft, but the hurt…the pain, it's on every word. "It wasn't that Kian was a fix all or filled that space. No one could ever fill the space Elijah left. I just needed a way to stay connected. And half the time I called, we sat there in silence because I never knew what to say. I wasn't ready to come back, and I wasn't ready to really deal with what I may have left in my wake." He looks at me. "But I still needed to know that everyone was okay."

I shook my head. "I wasn't."

"I know that now." Isaiah moves, albeit slowly, toward me and takes a seat on the ottoman in front of the couch.

His long, dark legs trap me in, and I'm mesmerized momentarily by the ink on them, by how close they are to mine. Before I can stop him, Isaiah reaches up, tilting my chin up with his finger until I'm looking into his brown eyes. His eyes are open and honest and one of my seven wonders of the world. And I have missed them so fucking much.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you. I'm sorry that I left you. I would do anything to erase the pain I caused you."

His touch is a gentle comfort. A crutch. A grounding force.

"I'm sorry if I ever made you feel unwanted or unneeded. That is the furthest thing from the truth. Because I need you to know that I always want you. I always want to talk to you. I always have and always will need you. I needed you every day for the past six years. It's my own fault that I did that, I know, but it doesn't make it any less true."

Isaiah wipes away a tear I didn't know had fallen. How could I pay attention to anything else when he's gently taking my bleeding heart and starting to piece it back together.

I may still need some space, some time to let go of the hurt, but if we're going to have anything—be anything—whether that's friends or more, I have to stop acting like his being here means less than it does. I have to acknowledge how much I want him back in my life, in any capacity.

Before I can overthink, I lean forward, my knee brushing his, and wrap my arms around his neck. The sheer act of touching him lifts the weight off my shoulders, eases the pit in my stomach. I find warmth in the crook of his neck, and I can breathe again. It takes him a moment to catch up, but eventually, his arms circle me. Isaiah moves with care, with hesitancy, but soon enough, the weight of his arms settle on my back, his fingertips brushing the side of my ribs, and I exhale, tears falling from my eyes and onto his shirt.

"I'm sorry that he left." My words are whispered, and he tenses for a moment, letting me know that he heard them. But he relaxes and tightens his hold. "And I missed you so much."

"I missed you."

I squeeze him harder, breathing him in before I sit back. With the back of my hand, I wipe my cheeks. "Sorry I cried all over you. And I'm sorry I stormed over here."

Isaiah reaches up, his thumb tracing a tear track. "I told you I'd rather you yell at me if the alternative was not talking at all."

"I didn't yell," I say, and the corner of his lips turn up.

"That is true."

"Still, I should've just listened."

"You did."

"I'm sorry if I'm being insensitive about it. It's a lot to process, and I'm sorry if it's all bringing it back up for you."

Isaiah raises a brow. "You've said sorry four times in less than two minutes." He puts a finger over my lips when I go to speak. "I appreciate them, Aurora. I accept them. But I don't need them. You're not being insensitive. It's all been thrown at you in quick succession. I've had years to process Eli and you and all of it. But…if we could table the Eli talk for tonight, I'd appreciate that."

He takes his finger away. "I'm sorry," I say, and he chuckles. The sound tickles my skin, like a million little tiny kisses. "Can you point me to the bathroom?"

Isaiah stands, grabbing my hand and pulling me with him. He stands taller by a few inches, and we're close enough I can see the rise and fall of his chest, feel the heat emitting from his body. And all I am aware of is his hand holding mine.

"Down the hall to the left."

The hallway is short with just three doors, a bathroom, a closet, and his bedroom. As soon as the bathroom door is shut, I turn on the faucet and slide to the floor. My chest aches, and I don't know if it's good or bad or both, but I can't stop the sob that escapes. Today has been hit after hit, emotion after emotion, and I was going down one way or another. I try to muffle the sound in my elbow as my body shakes, as all the emotions forge their way out.

Being broken down by my dad is one thing—an unfortunately expected thing. I'm used to it. I'm used to the criticism, the heedless pressure for me to be the best, the silence when I say something he doesn't want to hear. But the Isaiah information has felt like standing in front of a dart board and being hit dead center each time. Opening old wounds that never healed because I refused to acknowledge them. After a while, they became a part of who I am. Anytime they reopened while he was gone, they bled and bled, and I picked and picked until it scarred. And the process repeated. The grief of losing him for no apparent reason was going to be by my side for the rest of my life, like a phantom. A ghost with unfinished business. But I had forgotten what it was like to have him in my life. Now, these wounds are reopening because he's back. But he's back . He's here with the same warm eyes of my childhood, the same steady hands, and I don't feel so alone.

When breathing doesn't feel impossible, I focus on the things I can see, the things I can feel, and count until my heart rate calms. The sound of movement breaks me out of my spell, and I exit to see Isaiah at the edge of the kitchen.

I come to a halt. "What is that?"

Ears perk up from the cradle of his arms, sharp and pointy. "A cat."

I blink and step closer. A bundle of black fur is curled tightly in his arms. There are spots of white—on the tip of the ear, on the paw hanging over the edge of his arms. Isaiah studies me, lingering on my swollen eyes and my red cheeks, but doesn't say anything as I reach out a cautious finger.

A slightly pink nose reaches out to sniff it, showcasing its green eyes. "Hi, there."

"Her name is Raven."

"Teen Titans or Poe?"

Isaiah laughs. "Both."

My eyes are sore, my head is pounding, and my throat is scratchy, but the little lady nudges her head into my palm, and I can't help but smile. Her tiny body rumbles with a purr before he sets her down and steps back into the kitchen.

Raven curls her body around my leg before collapsing on her back with a meow. I look back to Isaiah, who's standing over a recipe book on the counter. There is an undercurrent of awkwardness in the air—maybe because I just sobbed in the bathroom, or maybe it's all that's transpired—but it'll never go away if I don't try. If we don't.

I lean against the doorway. Raven wiggles on the floor until her paws touch my ankle, making me smile.

"So…you're a cat daddy?"

Isaiah places his palms on the counter, and another laugh rolls through his body. His shoulders shake, and a smile forms. "I suppose that's one way to put it."

My fingers spin the signet ring I've been wearing since I pulled it out of that keepsake box. His eyes lock onto the movement, but he doesn't acknowledge it. "Here—that's for you." He points to my glass of water, the two tiny pills next to it, and the washcloth on a small plate.

It has been my post-crying routine forever. Especially if I reach the breaking point, I always end up with a pounding head and swollen eyes. "You remembered?"

"I remember everything," Isaiah says nonchalantly. Inside my chest, my heart twists and swells. I swallow the ibuprofen and press the cool washcloth underneath my eyes. Moments pass in silence; the only sound is the knife on the cutting board and the music playing softly from his computer.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?"

Despite the fact that the idea of going back to my empty apartment and eating some crappy frozen meal from my freezer and sitting on my couch alone makes me feel sick, I'm also still on edge. One wrong move and I'm bound to burst into tears for the umpteenth time today.

"I think I'm gonna head home in a few. Believe it or not, this is not the only confrontation I've had today."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not tonight. Just Dad stuff." I wave my hand because it's always Dad stuff, but his eyes narrow anyway. "It's fine, Isaiah, I just need to…um."

"To sit?"

I press the washcloth into my face, hoping the pressure will alleviate. "Yeah."

With quick steps, he stalks toward me until I have to bend my neck to see him. "I'm glad you came."

"Yeah… me, too."

Without even thinking about it, I drop the washcloth and wrap my arms around his waist, immediately sinking into him. Isaiah exhales as his arms curl around me, and for the first time today, it genuinely feels like things will be okay.

Back then, with Isaiah around, everything always felt okay.

Maybe it'll feel like that again.