6 - Keepsake Box

6

Keepsake Box

M emory Lane is a shit fucking place, and I'd fight anyone who disagreed.

The keepsake box won't stop staring at me. I know it's an inanimate object, but it hasn't left me alone all day. I've had it since I was a little girl; it's moved houses with me, and it has pieces of every part of my life…of course, pathetically, regarding Isaiah. Bigger things, like soccer or my nieces, are in picture frames on walls or showcases with trophies. This box is pretty much everything else.

For years, I've forgotten about it—haven't added anything to it.

Now, I can't stop fucking staring at it.

Nostalgia is absolutely my worst enemy, forcing me to remember days and moments in vivid detail when I'd rather forget them. Life would be so much easier if I could live in the present more, especially considering, most days, I love where I'm at. But I can never escape the spiral of those days I'd kill to relive. A gentle touch I'd kill to feel again. A smile or a laugh I'd kill to have directed at me and my annoyingly fragile heart.

Nostalgia creeps in gently until it decides to sting.

Still, knowing that bite is coming, I pull the keepsake box closer.

My fingers curl around the edges, grazing the cracked paint. Somewhere out in the world, Isaiah has one that looks similar. We got them together at the Goodwill in our town. Originally, it was part of a larger chest, but it was broken and splintered.

Our moms had gotten together and made these for us. Sawed and sanded the wood, placed new locks on them, and handed them over. With Eli's help, we both carved the number seventeen on them. And our names next to each other on each box. Because God forbid we did anything separately.

Then, we made them our own. Isaiah painted his in shades of green since that was his favorite color and delicately painted some of his favorite poetry as he got older. Mine was more chaotic. Shades of whatever color were my favorite at the time, jagged flowers or shapes that I liked, a crappy shoreline, a scrawled version of the Philadelphia skyline, and whatever else I loved.

Without thinking, my fingers find the number on the upper left corner of the box. I trace it, wondering if I could transport back in time. Back when I wasn't angry or hurt or left behind by Isaiah; I was just with him.

I open the box and find the lid painted with all the things I forgot about. Memories flood; when we got to high school, maybe at the end of sophomore or beginning of junior year, that's when it all started—it's when we both started painting the inside of the boxes with things we didn't want the other to see. I have no idea what's in Isaiah's, but my tiny paintings are very clearly all related to him.

An outline of his glasses that he didn't like to wear, the title of his favorite poetry book, Windless Sails , and milkshake cups from our time at the diner. Those were just the paintings.

Inside, I find more. An old Twizzlers wrapper since Isaiah could eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. A copy of the poem that won in a competition I forced him to submit it to. Pictures of us taken after my games, at the diner in our booth, or in the street or yard as kids. Pictures of us with each other's families, at dinner, on our first day of school—everything and anything you could think of.

Jesus, it was fucking endless.

I flick through, ignoring things I know are guaranteed to hurt more than I can handle. Like more of his old poetry or the stupid notes we would pass in class. There are some random things in here that aren't related to him—things like old friendship bracelets from my early soccer teams or pins I won at the tournaments.

But the little pouch tucked under it all clinks together, and I know exactly what it is. Turning it over, I tug until the jewelry falls out. The first is a thin, gold chain Isaiah used to wear. The memory of him placing it around my neck after getting MVP in the championship game comes to life as soon as I touch it.

The second is a ring—a gold signet ring with a slight dome polished to perfection. It was a family ring, passed down from his grandfather (maybe even beyond that) to his dad, to Eli, and then, to him. On the signet, a tiny B is engraved for their last name.

I remember when he gave this to me, too. Or really, left it. It was the end of summer after we graduated, and we weren't really talking because of Eli. He left it on my desk with a poem that's tucked away because I can't bear to look at it. Part of me hates this ring. It seemed that in every story I'd heard after it was given, whether intentional or not, the person left. His dad gave it to Eli before he died when Isaiah was a baby, then Eli gave it to him before disappearing, and then, he left it to me.

Still, part of me loves this ring.

I slip it on my middle finger where I used to wear it. Spinning it three times…it just feels like it never should've left that spot.

God, look at me, fucking sentimental over a ring. That's not mine. That I haven't worn in years.

Pushing away the box, I lean back into the bed. Pressing my palms against my eyes doesn't do much to alleviate the sting building, but I don't want to cry over this. I cried over this for two years and haven't since—but here I am, all over again.

I want what he said to be true. And yet, I'm infuriated by it.

Before I fully succumb to whatever torture my thoughts want to put me through, I step out onto my balcony with my phone in hand. For a second, I consider not calling anyone—not letting anyone in. But it's not doing me any fucking good as it is.

Humidity dampens the air, and the sun scorches the skin of my shoulders. Warmth spreads over my cheeks and lightens my shoulders, clears my lungs. I wouldn't describe myself as a summer child, but part of me has always thought it was the closest to Heaven any of us might understand. The smell of fresh cut grass or clouds heavy with the scent of rain. Maybe it was the nostalgia that summer brought, the freedom we felt. Or maybe it was that under the sun, the weight of the world didn't feel as heavy.

Scrolling through my favorites, I land on Maazina's name. She answers on the second ring. "What's cooking, good looking?"

I snort, huffing out a laugh. "You are a special character."

"Don't I know it," Maazina says warmly before her voice turns gentle. "What's up?"

My arms rest on the balcony railing, the heat distracting me from the stinging in my eyes. "Are you busy tonight?"

"Not at all."

"I need to get out of the apartment."

"Me, too."

I check the date, and low and behold, it's August second. A year ago, her mother passed. A month later, her fiancé broke up with her. Left her a note on a Post-It.

"Maazina, are you okay?"

"Yes and no. Like always."

Maazina may be the jokester, but under that comedic surface, she is far more nuanced than she wants people to believe. No one else on the team—not even Sylvia and Viv—know how deeply she dealt with depression after her situation. There were nights I stayed up with her so she could sleep. If I couldn't be there, I was on the phone. Sometimes, she slept here because she couldn't bear to be in her own apartment. She is one of the most caring people I know and is someone who feels more deeply than many. I'm terrible at handling other people's vulnerability; she excels at it. Knowing exactly what to do with it, knowing exactly what different people need.

But Maazina can forget about herself sometimes. She knows how to be strong for everyone else, how to create a safe space for their emotions, but she forgets that she needs that, too. I think she gets so lost in the current of other people's wants and needs, she pushes her own aside. More willing to let herself suffer than those around her.

Whereas I excel in sitting in the sadness, floating down the river of what-ifs, and overthinking. So when she finally gets to the breaking point, I never let her do it alone. I think that's why we gravitate toward each other—two souls who need one another more than they could ever know.

"Well, come over. I need someone to hold my hand," I say, knowing she needs that, too.

"Let's do it. Should I bring anything, or did you have something in mind?"

"No. We can go out. Maybe dinner? Ice cream? Just text me when you're on the way."

"Coolio." I laugh softly. "I'll see you later, loser."

I give another snort. "Yeah, alright."

The phone beeps, and I exhale before turning back inside. I pick up all the items sprawled out on the floor and shove them back into the keepsake box before heading to my closet. Carefully, I tuck it back where I found it, only to stumble upon two new items that fell to the floor.

An old sweatshirt of his and two tiny stuffed animal octopi. The first, he gave me for Valentine's Day in middle school, and the second, he won for me at a carnival in high school. I leave the sweatshirt and the first, smaller stuffed animal on the floor. But I take the other—a pink and purple octopus—and roll it around in my hands.

Isaiah knew how much I loved them, so whenever he saw anything octopus related, he got it. It wasn't often, but I do have a small collection of items because of him. This one just meant the most. I leave the other behind but this one, I pull close to my chest before tucking it under my comforter.

I'll analyze that decision another day.

Four long, sporadic buzzes let me know Maazina's arrived.

"Well, hello there!" She grins, leaning against the door frame. You'd never know that she's having a bad day.

"Let me just finish up, and then, we can go." I jog back to my bathroom, swiping the mascara over my lashes and dabbing on lip gloss.

Maazina sits on the couch upside down, legs thrown over the back with her phone in hand. The sight stops me in my tracks.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"It's comfortable, duh." Her eyes focus on me, and she contorts herself off the couch. "You ready?"

With a nod, I grab my bag and close the door behind us. Maazina eyes me. "Come on, grumpy, cheer up." She nudges my shoulder until my lips pull into a smile. "There it is."

"You talk to me like a child."

"Sometimes, you act like one."

If my eyebrows could touch the sky, they would. She's right but damn. "And you don't?"

Her green-brown eyes twinkle. "Yeah, but in a different way. I'm all child wonder and immaturity." She motions her hand to me as the elevator descends. "You're all temper-tantrum-like and moody."

I can't help but laugh. "God, I hate you."

"I believe the word you're looking for is love. It's spelled l-o-v-e. Have you ever heard of it?" Instead of answering, I start walking. "Where are we going?"

Above, the sky has turned dark and gray, the smell of rain overwhelming.

The clicking of our heels pauses at the crosswalk. None of us wear them often, but sometimes, when I'm feeling small, the additional height makes me feel like I'm on top of the world. Maazina just likes the sound. "One of my favorite bars is doing an open mic type thing. Usually, it's small bands, and honestly, it's always good. They don't do them often. Is that okay?"

Excitement blooms on her face. "Of course, that sounds good. They have food, right?"

We cross hand in hand when the street traffic stops. "Of course. I'm starving."

We approach the restaurant and pay the small cover fee that gets split between anyone who goes up on the stage tonight. Most times, they all decide to donate it to the charity of choice that the restaurant chooses for each event, and even if they do keep it (as starving artists should), the restaurant donates whatever the amount would've been. More often than not, they double it—if not more. I love this place. They care about their staff, their customers, and those that come here and are brave enough to get on the small stage.

The host, Nelli, smiles as I enter. We've got a good relationship. I've given her a few tickets to some games. She takes my constant take-out orders without judgment and gets me a good seat for these events.

"Hi, Ro! Good game!" Nelli pops out in front of the stand with a big smile.

My cheeks warm at the compliment. They always make me feel strange, no matter who they come from. "Thank you, Nelli. How's school going?"

She waves her hand. "You know, it's school." I raise a brow. Nelli is currently double majoring with plans to pursue med school right after, all while being on the division one soccer team. She shrugs at the look, gathering menus in her hands. "Come on. If you don't ask, I'll make them comp something."

"You're in charge here; I'm merely a humble customer."

Nelli stops in front of a two-top table off to the side of the stage but with a great view. The dim chandeliers placed around in a pattern create warm lighting over the floor. "You're my favorite though."

"I know." It's at that moment Maazina steps fully into view, and I fight my grin. Nelli is a huge fan.

Nelli's eyes widen, and her mouth gapes ever so slightly. Frantically, her eyes jump between me and Maazina, who's grinning ear to ear. "Hi."

"Oh, my God, Maazina Aybar? Aurora, that's Maazina!" Nelli's voice takes on a tone I've never heard. "I mean, of course, you know that. She's your teammate. Oh, my God." She swallows, forcing herself to breathe. "Hi. Imma huge fan."

"Oh, that's sweet. Thank you. It's wonderful to meet you." Maazina shines at the compliments, at the attention. Confident, not cocky. A fine line that she walks well. "We'll have to get you to the next home game or two—maybe onto the field? What do you say, Ro?"

"Sounds good to me. Nelli?"

She squeals. "Please? I would die!"

"No dying," Maazina says. "But absolutely."

Nelli hugs me, and before she can stop herself, she hugs Maazina, who laughs. "Thank you so, so much. I'll let you be now. It starts soon. But really, thank you." She practically dances back to the host stand before we can even say the words, "You're welcome".

It's not often that we get crazy fans like the other sports in this city. I doubt we ever will, but it's not about that. It's about the fact that we get to do what we love for a living, and it's about girls like Nelli. Neither of us says it, but we sit in silence for a moment, and I know Maazina is soaking it in, too.

Outside, the sky darkens, and the warm, yellow lights cast shadows over the bar. We order drinks and an appetizer to start, existing in a peaceful quiet with the low hum of other voices. But when Maazina hits me with a gentle look, I know she's going to ask.

"So…do you want to talk about it?"

"I mean, not really. But I should. Do you?"

"Absolutely not. Please talk to me about this. It's fresh and new, and I didn't come so you could feel guilty for being upset." The warm lights illuminate her freckles and the natural highlights in her long, brown hair. "You know I would never say anything. Anything you tell me stays with me. And if it's about Drew, don't think that because I introduced you that it has to mean anything."

I sit back, crossing my leg over the other. "I know that. Soph knows—"

"Of course, she does," we both say at the same time. My lips raise briefly before falling again.

"It's Isaiah. It's about Drew too, but not really," I say, exhaling. "I found an old keepsake box today just filled with everything from when I was a kid, in high school, and almost all of it related to Isaiah. He has one similar because we made them together. We did everything together."

I swallow, taking a sip of the mocktail in front of me. Around us, the restaurant has filled up, couples sitting at tables with warm smiles, friends sharing laughs over the table.

"We did everything together, and then, he left. No explanation, no real goodbye. One day, he was there, and he was my best friend, and…" More. My eyes burn. "The next, he was just gone. And now, he wants to show up and say that he's here for me? He hasn't been here for six years. And this, all this, makes me feel fucking crazy. I go from missing him to furious to this emotional mess."

My voice is quiet, but the words are sharp, the hurt spilling out of them like a bleeding heart. Maazina listens intently, never taking her eyes off me.

"I just—he wouldn't let me be there for him back then, and now what? What am I supposed to do? Fight it? Let it happen? Keep dating when everyone I talk to falls short because they aren't him?"

The next few words are ones I've thought of, kept to myself because out loud, they sound pathetic, but they're fighting to escape. "How am I ever supposed to try to fall in love again when I'm not sure I've ever stopped loving him?"

Maazina takes a long sip of her drink, blinking rapidly, and I pretend not to see the water building in her eyes.

When she looks at me again, her eyes are clear. "I don't think you have to make that decision right now. Or any decision. You don't have to know how to feel about him being here or try and work through that all at once." She hesitates, then clears her throat. "You don't have to stop loving him if you don't want to. I know some people would tell you to get over it or move on, but sometimes, when you know, you know. And if that doesn't work out, who's to tell you how long it'll take to move on? Who's to tell you if you should? You don't have to know what you want, Aurora, or what any of it means. My God, I wouldn't. Just cut yourself some slack. I know you're shit at that, but just do it."

We share a smile at that, but her words are on a loop in my head.

When you know, you know.

I knew.

At eighteen, I knew everything, and now, I don't know anything.