3 - We Have Changed

3

We Have Changed

I was staring the best and worst parts of my past in the face.

And I couldn't bear it.

My throat was tightening by the second, my stomach doing flips. I couldn't—my hands were shaking and my head was in a dizzying spin. All I felt was sick. All I could think about was that Isaiah was standing at a bar less than twenty feet away. After six years.

"Aurora," Soph murmurs, and I shake my head.

In one fell swoop, I down the rest of my wine. "What the fuck is he doing here?"

Our food arrives, but I feel physically and emotionally ill. He hadn't seen me when I turned around, and I keep myself faced away, even as every cell in my body yells at me to spin around again.

To look at him. To take him in.

To see what's different about him. To track every change.

To see if he's as beautiful as he used to be.

Sophia doesn't take her eyes off me as I try to stop myself from reeling. My fork moves aimlessly, doing nothing more than pushing the food around the plate. "Can we just eat and go somewhere else, please?" I look up, meeting Sophia's persistent gaze.

"Of course."

"I'm sorry. I don't want to ruin your night out, I just—"

She waves her hand. "Don't apologize, Ro. I get it." Her eyes flick behind me. "I wouldn't want to stay if I were you either."

I attempt a few bites, but they settle in my stomach heavily, so I give up on eating.

Sophia looks at me knowingly. I was the same way when I was a kid. Especially when Dad was disappointed in me (because he was never mad, always disappointed) and I would get so anxious, the idea of food made me nauseous.

Today, it wasn't disappointment.

It was the weight of Isaiah and all the unsaid words we'd left between us. The weight of him, which I would never completely lose.

"I'll take it home and eat it later, I promise."

Sophia nods; whether she believes me or not is a problem for another day. Thankfully, our server returns, and Sophia requests a few boxes and the check. Within five minutes we're pushing away from the table and heading toward the exit.

I was a fool to think it would be easy.

At the foot of the stairs, Isaiah stands there, looking up at me.

Looking at me like he never stopped.

I miss a step, turning into a stumbling fool. I recover and brush past him without a second glance, without a second thought, and make a beeline for the exit. It's strange running away from something instead of facing it head on. The disappointment punches me in the gut. For letting the fear take over. Usually, fear has one face. One instinctive reaction. This is a fear I don't understand. One I don't know how to react to.

I push through the crowd that's grown in size, but I've been elbowing my way through life for years, so it doesn't deter me.

I should've known Isaiah wouldn't give up so easily.

But at the same time…I don't know him anymore. Maybe he's changed. Maybe everything about the person I used to know is different now. Maybe the person following me out of the restaurant is just a familiar face and nothing more.

"Aurora."

That voice isn't different at all. It floats over my skin, searching for a weak spot, a place to infiltrate my walls and wrap me up in its arms.

I stop. I take a deep breath.

You can do this, Aurora. Turn around and get it over with.

Pulling my shoulders back, I find Isaiah only a few steps away.

Nothing could've feasibly prepared me for this. Seeing him standing there with his eyes on me feels like a fever dream. Isaiah looks…exactly like he used to. Seeing him there, it's as if I've walked into my childhood bedroom. Unchanged and yet different. All your favorite things are still there, plastered on the walls, drowning you in wistful nostalgia, but even though nothing has changed in the room, everything else has changed.

Life has gone on.

We have changed.

Isaiah's deep brown skin is smooth, drawn over his more prominent cheekbones, over the perfect curve of his nose, and around his dark eyebrows. Coarse curly hair that he used to either crop or braid is cut short now, curled on top and sharp around the edges. Though he's not smiling now, the image of what it looks like when he does, when the edges of his lips would start to turn up, is a perfect picture in my head.

There are two stark differences.

One, his dark, beautiful skin is covered in even darker ink. Painted and imprinted on his skin like artwork. Art that will never fully fade. It travels up from his hands, up both arms, disappearing under his shirt sleeve. One leg matches the look of his arm, almost completely covered in dark ink. It's strange and slightly insane to feel jealous of an inanimate object. A tattoo needle of all things. Knowing that sometime in the last few years, it got to touch his skin.

And I didn't.

I hate how that singular notion makes me jealous of everything else that may have learned Isaiah in those years. The rain that fell and traveled over his skin, the wind that wrapped around him wherever he was, the hands that might have decided to trace his shape. All of it. I cannot bear the jealousy burning through me at the world getting to have him for six years.

When I didn't.

The other difference is he feels different. IT makes me sound crazy, but it's true. He feels more refined, more mature—more everything. Even from a few feet away, he calls to me like a beacon. Like light calls to a moth and the moon calls to the sea. It's been almost six years, and yet, I still feel him like I used to.

But we have changed. Whether I admit it or not. Whether I can feel it or not. It is an undeniable fact that over the course of those years lost, we have changed.

I'm just not sure how yet.

"What are you doing here?" The words escape before I can stop them, more caustic than I intended. Sophia exhales from behind where he stands, rubbing a hand across her forehead.

Isaiah gazes at me, taking in every inch like he hasn't seen me in years. Which he hasn't. "I got a job here."

Fuck. "Here in Philly?"

He takes a step closer, and my heart beats wildly in my chest, but my feet are molded to the concrete. "Yeah, I start in a few weeks."

The pair of deep brown eyes I grew up looking at lock with mine. Isaiah was always quieter than I was; that isn't new. And with him, I never ran out of words.

But I open my mouth, and I have nothing to say. Because it hits me that I'm still mad at him. With a vengeance, that reminder comes right back, swirling like a cyclone without a care in the world who it might take out on its path.

I step back, my blood-chilling. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, watching me close myself off in an instant.

"Aurora, don't."

"No." I shake my head, coldly meeting his eyes. "You don't—don't Aurora me."

I break eye contact and turn, knowing Sophia will follow me as I do.

God, this sucks. Every time I have imagined seeing him again, it wasn't like this. Maybe in my imagination, I couldn't quite grasp how the emotions would take over and take control. Because this is so much worse than I ever could've dreamt up or practiced for. In my head, I told myself I'd be indifferent, that I'd play the cool girl. That I would be unfazed.

But instead, I am left walking away from him both angry and sad with no understanding of how to filter through this.

Dad would tell me this is pointless, that it isn't worth my time. Being sad or unfocused never got anyone anywhere. And Mom would tell me it's okay to feel my feelings, to let myself let it all go. But all I've ever done is walk the line in the middle of acting like I don't feel a thing when instead, I'm trying to swim to the surface to avoid drowning.

"Aurora, please. Wait." Isaiah's voice used to be my favorite song, and now it's one I can't listen to.

"Leave it, Isaiah. Not now," Sophia murmurs gently behind me.

And Sophia, the only other person who grew up with these same two people who never quite figured out how to love each other how they needed, quietly catches up with me. She wraps her arm through mine and somehow leads us back to my apartment, since I'm stuck somewhere in the abyss of my thoughts. I don't pull away, even though her arm touching mine puts me more on edge. Ironic that the person I was running away from was the only person I ever wanted to touch me when I was like this.

The moment the door is shut, I rest my back on it. Sophia takes a seat on the edge of my couch, her eyes soft with empathy and something else I've only ever seen in our mom's. Between my body and the door, I hide my hands behind the small of my back in an attempt to ignore how shaky they are.

Vulnerability all but seeps out of me. "I cannot do this, Sophia." My voice is shaky, not strong like I wish it was, but I'm not sure I could fake it even if I tried. I hate, more than anyone, how distraught this makes me feel. "We haven't existed in the same place for years. I can't do this."

Sophia twirls the ring on her left hand. "You can."

My eyes find a particularly interesting spot on the ceiling above me—both avoiding my sister's eyes, which also tell me you have to , and attempting to staunch the tears trying to creep out. For once, I wish Dad was here to tell me that crying never solved anything, that it is a useless, weak display of human emotion. Because right now, being yelled at for having emotions sounds a lot better than actually having them.

"Maybe I don't want to, then."

Sophia is a mixture of our parents. She possesses the kindness of our mother in tough situations, but she won't just tell you what you want to hear. Somehow, while I am firmly on the side of being almost exactly like our dad, she (usually) finds balance in the middle.

"Ro, he is not the center of the universe. No matter how much it feels like he is, he isn't."

Drawing my eyes back to her, I stay quiet. My mind won't stop running back to the years when he kind of was . It's hard to explain, harder to get my thoughts to make sense, but when you're kids and your lives are so entwined with each other, it's hard to separate them. To find where each life was lived separately, when in reality, they were lived together.

Isaiah and I first met when we were young. He was four and I had just turned five at the end of May. Spring was finally giving way to summer, and he was new to the suburb we lived in. Just him, his older brother, and his mom moving into the house a few doors down.

We were such different kids. No one expected us to be friends. And we weren't really—not at first. He was a quiet, scrawny kid with glasses who liked to read, and not that I was loud, but I'd been playing sports since I could breathe. I was rougher around the edges, formed by my father's coaching hands, and a bit abrasive, even then. We didn't mesh. Until one day, some kid—I don't even remember his name, but he was the neighborhood bully—stepped on his glasses after they fell off Isaiah's face. And I, knowing Isaiah wouldn't, retaliated for him and punched the kid in the face.

From that day on, we were inseparable.

Funny how life changes in the blink of an eye, and suddenly, you're on your own without the person you thought would be there every step. Funnier that people say time heals all, but they don't really mean it. What they leave out is that if you love— loved— someone, most times, the memories don't completely disappear, the feelings don't just evaporate. No. Instead, they become a red wine stain on your favorite dress.

And we're left feeling like we know better, that they aren't the entire world, but that sometimes, standing alone in a crowded room or under the safety of your covers, it still feels like they are.

"Of course, he isn't." I try to tell myself I believe it. Pushing off the door, I head into the apartment. There's nothing to clean up, but I find myself doing it anyway. I don't get far before Sophia is beside me, grabbing the cloth out of my hand.

"Manically cleaning isn't going to make whatever you're feeling go away."

"I'm not—"

A sad, emphatic smile comes over her face. "Sometimes, I think you forget we have the same parents." Manically cleaning when upset was always dad's thing. No wonder I picked it up and she didn't. She continues, "I wasn't telling you that you had to be fine tonight. I was just telling you that you will be."

She plays with the bottom of my hair, tugging on the curls before patting my cheek. "Let's go cuddle in bed."

That gets a smile out of me, whether I want it to or not. "You'd think that someone with a husband as needy as Kian and two kids, you'd want some alone time."

"Oh, I do. Just not from you."

I roll my eyes, though the sentiment does relieve some of the pain lingering in my chest. Behind me, I shut the lights off, shrouding us in darkness aside from the lights from the city streaming in as we walk down the hallway. Side by side like we used to in the Jack-and-Jill bathroom we shared in our childhood home, we wash our faces and change into PJs before climbing under my big comforter.

The large TV on the opposite wall lights up the room as I scroll for something to watch, while beside me, Sophia pulls out the rest of the candy. "Thought you might want these."

I take them without a word and hit play on The Best Man. A movie that isn't comforting in the slightest given the circumstances of the plot, but one that brings me solace whenever I turn it on. I'm not sure I'd ever admit how many times I'd seen it if someone asked.

"You never get any less predictable."

"You are such an asshole."

"Least I've changed crushes in the last few years. You're never going to move on from Morris Chestnut." Sophia rolls her eyes but settles in further because she loves this movie almost as much as I do.

"Why do I need to move on from him? He's beautiful."

After a brief pause, she concedes. "Yeah. He is."

Silence settles except for the movie in the background, and in between eating more Kit Kats than I should and brushing our teeth, I find myself cuddled up to my big sister like when I used to climb into her bed after a nightmare. Thank you is on the tip of my tongue, but instead of speaking at all, I let the silence cascade over the room as the TV flashes. One of the best parts about Sophia—and it might be a part that is reserved for a select few—is that she always seems to know what someone might not say. And through it all, through every facet and shimmer of all the emotions I've felt in the past few hours, this is the one I hold onto as I fall asleep.

Somehow, waking up is anything but peaceful in my own apartment as my bed is suddenly overtaken by my two nieces, Azalea (Zaza to me) and Joey.

"Good morning, ladies." Blinking my eyes open, I find Kian leaning in the doorway with a smug smile.

"Giving you a key was a mistake," I say, raising my arm to make room for the ten and three-year-old as they squeeze between their mom and me. "Did you at least bring my French toast?"

"We did!" Zaza answers for her dad, her curls tickling my chin. My hands find my favorite ten-year-old in the world and squeeze her, hugging her tight to me. She squeals as I kiss her cheek and nose. "I'm too old for this, Ro."

Exclaiming dramatically, I lean back. "Too old? Nuh-uh!"

Joey, my favorite three-year-old, climbs off her mom and over to me. "I'm not!" Her words are still babbly but clearer than they used to be.

I pull her in and adjust to cuddle them both. "Well, thank God for that."

Sophia crawls out of bed and into her husband's arms. They wrap around her without hesitation and fit her into place like a puzzle. He kisses the side of her head. "Breakfast is on the table, and I started coffee."

"I knew I loved you for a reason," Sophia mumbles, patting his stomach. Kian is a large man, just like his dad, from his Samoan heritage, and he's strong and maybe even intimidating to those that don't know him. With the intricate tattoos and the muscles he built from playing sports his entire life, he stands tall and proud—he always does. But around Sophia, around his girls, even me, depending on how nice I am that day, he softens, and it's a beautiful thing to see.

Not that I'll ever say anything of the sort out loud—God forbid.

"Come on, girls. Go help your mama," he states, sparing me a glance before raising a brow at them.

Zaza and Joey kiss me on the cheek before climbing recklessly out of bed. By the way Kian remains, I know that somehow, Sophia has already told him what happened—probably after I fell asleep. I stand up and take a long swig of water before meeting his eyes. He stalks towards me and doesn't even give me a chance to fight the big hug he wraps me in.

It's almost pathetic how easily I melt into my brother-in-law, but I'll kill him before he could ever admit it. "You alright?" he asks softly, like the morning sun illuminating the rug.

"I'm fine."

"Well, if you're not and wanna let me know, I won't tell anyone."

A laugh shakes my body as I squeeze him in response. "I'm okay, really. It'll pass, and life will go back to normal."

Pulling back, Kian looks like he doesn't believe me, but he leaves it at that. He spins, throwing his arm over my shoulders. "Let's go eat."

I pause before we step out. "Thank you." I don't meet his eyes, but I know they're watching me. Whether he knows me well enough to know that a response might cause me to pull away or because he's an incredible dad with a knack for reading those around him, he lets the silence persist and leads me down the hallway.

Being greeted in the kitchen by my sister and nieces is a pleasant sight, one that doesn't happen often since it's usually me bombarding them at their house. The morning feels full. Squeals of laughter from the girls who won't leave me alone (for which I'm thankful) and horrendously awful dad jokes from Kian that somehow still make us laugh. It's not until the whipped cream can is emptied, the plates are put in the dishwasher, and I'm being hugged goodbye by my favorite people in the world (and Kian) that I appreciate living so close to them. Kids aren't something I've ever seen for myself, but when my nieces wrap their arms around my legs, my heart swells. And Sophia and Kian wrap it up in a bow when they join in.

"Okay, okay, get off. You are going to suffocate me."

Kian glances at me, not loosening his hold. "Might not be such a bad plan."

"Daddy, that's mean!" Zaza frowns and rolls her eyes like I taught her. "You can't be mean to Auntie Ro."

He narrows his eyes. "You've turned her against me."

I whisper, "Like it was hard? She was always going to pick me."

"Over her father? Are you—"

Sophia cuts in, shutting Kian up first with a pinch. "Enough you two. My God." She kisses my cheek before breaking the big, warm group hug. Before I know it, I'm holding the front door open for them as they head out, and when I step back into the apartment, I'm all by myself.

It's something I'm good at. Which is something I hate. Sure, I have a lot of good things in my life, and I'm beyond aware of that: soccer, my girls, my team, my sister, my parents. Maybe it's being freshly twenty-five and young, yet it also feels old. Like you've crossed this weird spectrum into growing up and life is different from how you once thought it might be. In some ways, it's amazing, and it's perfect. And in some, it's not.

And as much as my parents did their best to prepare me for life, I don't think anyone could've prepared me for that. For straddling the lines of being grateful and also mourning the life that you dreamed about: the one that was warm and shiny and perfect.

In a perfect life, I wouldn't have gotten so good at being alone. Maybe more people would realize how much I hated it if I was better at being vulnerable.

And in a perfect life, I'd be more willing to do something about it than concede.

There are a lot of things I hate losing. An important match, an argument, a competition. But this?

Accepting this is a lot easier than fighting it.