7 - Still You

7

Still You

T he conversation strays after that. We don't ever talk about Drew. Not that there's much to say besides he doesn't deserve to pine after someone who's not sure she wants to be pined after. It's a waste of his time and careless of his feelings in a way I don't want to be.

But I can deal with that on my own.

Fresh drinks are in front of us with plates of food waiting for the lights to dim.

Maazina mumbles around the bite of nachos, "These are delicious."

"Remember when you had the nerve to call me a child earlier?"

"Yup, and I would do it again."

I laugh for the first time since we pretended Maazina didn't cry at the table and I didn't voice my fears of never falling in love again. I pluck out a chip that's mostly just cheese, glancing up. "Thank you, for earlier," I say, clearing my throat.

"You don't have to thank me for being your friend," she says, side-eying me before focusing on the food again. "That's the whole point."

"Shut up and accept the thank you, Maazina."

She smiles as the lights finally dim. Claps echo around the packed room as the manager, Cleo, takes the stage. "We've got a few great acts tonight, everyone, if I do say so myself. Some readings, some singing, some bands. You know, a mix of everything. First up is our very own Nelli, reading a short story piece that was published in her college's creative arts magazine because she is determined to leave no stone unturned at that school."

Nelli approaches the stage, cool and confident as she takes the center. The story she reads is about her mother and her grandfather, and somewhere along the line, it turns into a story about her and her father. How the relationships mirror each other and how we sometimes become the people we try the least to be like. It resonates with me, how she touches both the negative and the positives of it. She gets a standing ovation when she finishes, and there are fewer dry eyes than wet ones.

Cleo returns, hugging Nelli before she returns to work. "Next up, a new addition to the city of Philadelphia. He's a poet and a professor starting this fall, and tonight, he'll be reading from his debut poetry book coming out in two weeks titled, Someone Else's House ."

What the fuck .

"Welcome, Isaiah Bryant."

Maazina chokes on her drink.

I would laugh if I wasn't frozen in my seat.

"Aurora, what the fuck?" she whisper-yells as everyone else claps.

"What do you mean, what the fuck?" I glance at her, blinking. "What the fuck."

Isaiah steps on stage, and he looks beautiful. I want to die. Whether that is in correlation to him being here or him looking that good, I'm not sure. Low lights cast shadows over his brown skin, gorgeously highlighting the ink that I wish I could trace, wish I could memorize the art that he decided to memorialize.

He holds the poetry book in his hand, the title flashing like neon signs in my head as he strides up, owning the small stage. A perfect smile—one gained after years of braces—tilts his lips, and the only way I know it's not my smile is because his little dimple isn't there.

Someone Else's House. What the fuck.

It means nothing substantial to everyone else sitting here, but it means something to me. He used to say this when we were kids. When he felt alone, when he felt like he could never fill the shoes of his brother or the expectations of his mom, he used to say, "Sometimes, I just want to go to someone else's house. Live someone else's life. Just for a day. To step away and remember why I love mine." And while it wasn't a fix, we just always went to my house.

"Is he stalking you? Does he have your phone bugged? What the hell is going on?" Maazina says, stuffing food in her mouth because she's anxious.

"Maazina." My eyes don't stray from Isaiah as he takes a seat on the stool.

"He's a poet? He writes poetry?"

"Maazina." I hate how good he looks.

"How are you so fucking calm?"

I am, obviously, anything but.

Isaiah adjusts on the stool, resting one long leg on the step and stretching out. It's a small venue, but it's huge for him—or younger him, who hated crowds and public speaking. And reading his poetry to anyone but me. But then again, he's going to be a professor now, too. Either way, a bud of pride blooms in my chest despite wishing it wouldn't.

"I'm gonna be honest, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous as hell up here," he says, his mouth barely curling. "I've only read from this collection a few times, mostly to my mom preparing for my first year of teaching college students and for publication. To be completely honest, I'm scared shitless." A small echo of laughter follows.

He casts his eyes down, focusing on the book before glancing out at the crowd. I swallow, my grip tightening on my glass, wondering if he's seen me yet. Isaiah clears his throat. "But I've written and rewritten these poems more times than I can count. And to understand any of them, you need to understand that they're about the same girl. Pretty much everything I write is about the same girl. She used to be the first person that saw anything I wrote. Now, I'm just hoping that somehow, she hears these. So, thanks for letting me get up here to be a completely hopeless romantic in front of a bunch of strangers."

"Has he seen you?" Maazina whispers to me, tapping her fingernails on the table.

At that moment, his eyes fan out over the crowd, and they find me in a heartbeat. His smile doesn't falter to the outside eye, but I see the moment he contemplates dropping it. "He has now."

"Fuck."

I look around the room, seeing everyone watching him with locked eyes, but when I turn back, his eyes remain on me. Even in a crowded room, I feel each second of his heated look. Isaiah runs a hand toward his forehead over his short-cropped hair. I notice every tiny detail, even from afar. The thin silver bracelet around his wrist contrasting against the ink, the very slight tightening of his fingers on the book, and the way his foot taps nervously on the stool.

"The first I'll be reading is called "West View High" . "

It's a prose poem, he explains. He always loved those. Getting to let his thoughts run without the constrictions of a certain form or line requirements. He loved stricter poem forms, too, but I used to watch him write prose like his hand was on fire. He couldn't get his thoughts out quickly enough. I used to love his prose poems.

But right now, I have no idea how I'm going to feel.

How I'm going to feel about any of these—because I realize, these poems, from these six years of distance, are the only ones in his life that I haven't read first.

A piece of my heart aches, curling in on itself.

The poem starts. Isaiah's voice slows and deepens, and chills dance up my spine. It's a long prose poem, but it's enticing—the way he tells the story, the way he repeats phrases, the way he paints his life.

He turns the page, the end approaching. "I never wanted to go to West View High. A static public school stuck in the suburbs of Pennsylvania with lockers of gray and poorly painted walls. Heaving myself out from under warm covers to push through crowds of people who never saw me, all while wishing for a life that I was too na?ve for. Even now, there is one thing I miss—the early dawn mornings, the sky painted pink, the house with green shutters, and the girl who lived within. I never wanted to go to West View High, but I always wanted to walk there with her by my side."

It goes on, and my eyes never leave him as he reads it. The whole thing is simple yet beautiful. Maybe that's why the line that I can't forget is the simplest of all. I never wanted to go to West View High, but I always wanted to walk there with her by my side.

Maazina's eyes are burning holes in my cheek with her stare, but I refuse to look. I'm scared if I even blink, tears will fall. Isaiah glances up, locating me in seconds as the crowd claps at the end of the first poem. Even from a distance, in his eyes, I see all the other memories we made as teenagers. All the jokes we told on the early morning walks to school, all the times he carried my soccer bag, all the times we worked on a poem together. And I remember all the times I wanted him to hold my hand.

Below the table, I intertwine my hands together tightly to stop them from shaking.

"The next one is a poem form known as a cinquain: a five-line, twenty-two-syllable poem. Short and sweet. I realize that sounds nerdy, but bear with me, it's one of my favorites." He smiles; the crowd smiles back. "It's called "Still You"."

Life was…

Jade green, sweet smiles.

Sunshine on brown skin,

Hands that brushed, eyes that shone. Life is

still you.

A poem of simple phrases, all of which hit like a shot to the heart. The cadence of his voice, how he emphasizes, pauses—it feels like he's speaking directly to me in a room full of people.

Tears streak out of my eyes without my permission.

"I'll be outside…I've gotta…" My words are jumbled, lost in the sound of clapping hands, and I'm not even sure if Maazina hears them. I quickly push away from the table and make a beeline to the street, where the rain has finally started in a slow drizzle.

My blood is pumping. Two simple little poems did this to me—God knows what else is in that book. Hot air causes the misty rain to stick to me, and the tears roll over my cheeks. The brick wall at my back is the only stability I can find.

Of all the places to end up in, it had to be the same night he was there.

"Aurora?"

Exhaling, I open my eyes to Isaiah. "What?"

"I didn't know you were going to be here."

All I can think is how neither of us knows anything anymore. "Obviously."

We stare at each other.

"You're crying," he says, hesitating.

I huff, more tears falling. "Clearly, Isaiah. Why did you come out here? To point that out?"

"No, I…" He sighs, running a hand over his face, disrupting the droplets of water that have landed there. "It just took me by surprise."

"Yeah, well, you being here took me by surprise."

Our eyes meet. Emotions flash in his deep brown eyes as he studies me and studies the tears that won't stop. I wonder if he can see all the hurt I've tried to hide.

I swallow anything but anger down. "I don't get it, Isaiah. You show up in this city, at my game and tell me that you're here for me." My throat tightens, but I don't break eye contact. "But where were you? You went six years without me, and you think you can just waltz in here and show up and think that fixes it? Not days, not weeks, not months…years."

"Rora…"

Hurt burns my skin. "Don't call me that. You don't get to call me that ever fucking again."

This entire thing is whiplash. One minute, I'm wanting what he said to be true, that he's here for me, that he'll show it, and the next, I'm so livid I can barely breathe. It's exhausting.

And I hate that when I look at him, I see it mirrored in his eyes. More hurt than anything. I hate the way he focuses on the raindrops on my skin, like he's jealous they're touching me, and he's not.

"I didn't come here to hurt you, I—" He pauses and inhales. The frustration is visible on his features. I know how much he wants to retreat because I used to be where he retreated to. "I came here to say I'm sorry. To find out if you were happy—"

"Happy?" I step forward, straining my neck to look at him. "Do I look happy to you?"

The pause is heavy, weighed down by the truth that he doesn't want to acknowledge. I'm not sure I really want him to either.

Wiping away the tears is pointless, but I do it anyway, rain drops taking their place until more fall. I attempt to stride past him but don't get very far. Isaiah's hand curls around my bicep, gentle yet firm enough to keep me in place.

"Aurora, wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

His hand is a brand on my arm, each finger burning its own imprint. Every inch of his skin that touches mine is heated. And familiar. And yet, it is also foreign.

Swallowing, I pull my arm out of his grip.

His eyes are full of emotions I don't want to dive into. "I miss you."

A shot to the heart would hurt less.

My chest caves in; my heart grows claws that dig for safety.

"I will explain everything if you just let me. I will apologize until you tell me to stop. Just please believe me when I say I miss you, that I've missed you every single day," Isaiah pleads while I stare at him.

I believe him because there wasn't a day I didn't think of him. But that doesn't mean it's all okay. In fact, it feels even worse.

My head shakes on its own accord as I step back. I swallow as I try to talk around the lump in my throat to no avail. He doesn't push. Instead, he waits. Eyes filled with hurt become patient as I try and search for my words. For any words at all.

I turn my eyes up to the sky, letting them close as the rain patters against my skin. When I open them again, Isaiah is still looking at me. Finally, I choke out the words, "I need some time. You want to explain—fine. But I need time. I will find you when I'm ready."

With that, I step away and place one foot in front of the other like it isn't shooting pain in my chest with every step. Maazina waits in front of the door. I was so distracted by him that for a second, as terrible as it is, I forgot I wasn't here alone.

I hate that I'm crying and she's here to see it. She doesn't like seeing people cry, and she never really knows what to do when someone does—much like myself—but she walks by my side, holding the umbrella over both of us as she takes the lead towards my apartment.

Before we turn the corner, I can't help but look behind me.

How could I not with Isaiah's stare burning holes in my back? Sure enough, he's still standing in the rain with his eyes on me.

He stands, waiting there, knowing he has to keep waiting until I decide to end the torture.

I leave knowing that he missed me. After wondering constantly, staring up at the ceiling in the middle of sleepless nights—

He missed me.