“I’m sorry, Grace,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, holding them there for a few seconds, his head down, shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath. Then he drops his arms to his sides and walks out of the room without a backward glance. My heart tells me to go after him, but my brain yells it’s not a good idea. That nothing will come out of it.
Slowly, the cards fold and the foundation crumbles. I’m falling, shattering into pieces. I’m nothing more than heartbreak. Desolation smiles sadly as she opens her arms, welcoming me. I throw myself into her waiting embrace.
This isn’t just a goodbye.
This is our end.
Swiping the tears off my face, I crawl out of bed and put on my clothes. Grabbing my bag from the desk, I leave Sol’s room. I head for the front door, but the sound coming from things crashing on the floor from the bathroom has my feet freezing on the spot. My heart aches at the thought of Sol being in pain, and my legs guide me to the door. I press my hand on the wood surface, ready to push, but stop when I hear him muttering something fervently.
“Why, God? Why did you put her in my life, make me feel what it’s like to be loved and to love someone so much? Why?” A hushed sob rips through his lips. “I don’t know what to do . . .”
Feeling like I’m intruding, I turn and leave without looking back. I can’t make him choose me and make him regret his decision later.
Three weeks later . . .
Days become weeks. I can’t seem to get my shit together, and I miss Sol. I miss him so badly that half the time, I fiddle with my phone, typing out a text message to him and deleting it without sending. The saddest part of all is that I never got to properly say goodbye to him. And that hurts more than anything else.
I feel like a five-year-old, still trying to navigate the world and find my place in it. Time doesn’t heal wounds. To me, time is an enemy. It doesn’t stand still when you want it to. It keeps moving forward, even if you’re still stuck in the same place. I haven’t moved forward emotionally because my heart is in Boston, not inside my ribcage, where I can protect it.
My stomach ties itself in knots just thinking about Sol. I swear to God, everything makes me think of him.
If I go on like this, I’ll go crazy. I need to move forward. I need to finally breathe, and the only way I can do that is by fixing that broken part of me. No one else can do it. I have to fix it myself.
Without giving myself time to think about it too much, I grab my car keys and head out. As soon as I’m inside my car, I call my mom to let her know I’ve gone out for a drive. She doesn’t ask me where I’m going, just tells me to be home by midnight. I know she worries about me. I see it in her eyes whenever she looks at me.
I can’t tell her the truth, though, because she’s going to try to stop me. Try to talk some sense into me, and right now, sense is the last thing I need. Not when I’m feeling like I’m cracking in a million different places, and the only thing that will heal those cracks is what I’m about to do.
Call it madness.
Call it recklessness or stupidity.
The heart is stupid and reckless and full of madness. And for once, my brain agrees with it.
My body thrums with anticipation as I swing the car onto I-95S. In desperate need of a distraction, I set my iPod in the dock and scroll through my playlist. “Just Like A Pill” by Pink thuds inside the small space, helping me momentarily forget the thoughtlessness of my actions.
Almost two hours later, my navigation system announces I’ve reached my destination. I pull into the closest parking spot and glance out the window. The sun’s already sinking behind the tall, red brick house. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure if driving all this way was such a good idea. The clock on my dashboard blinks 8:50 p.m.
My head falls to the steering wheel as I consider my options. When I finally look up, it’s 8:55. If I want to make it back by midnight like I promised my mom, I need to make this quick.
I pick up my phone from the passenger seat. When I find the name I’m looking for, I inhale deeply, then press the phone against my ear. Five rings later, the call goes to voicemail.
This is it.
This is a sign. I shouldn’t be chasing old memories. I should make peace and move on with my life.
I swipe my face with the back of my hand. Why the fuck am I crying anyway?
I’m so angry with myself. Why can’t I move on? Why am I so weak?
I throw my phone on the passenger seat, and I watch it bounce twice before clattering onto the floor. Then without giving it a second thought, I reprogram my navigation to home and drive away.
I screech to a stop at the first red light. I feel impatient to move, to race down the street and back home. Right now, even music can’t distract me.
My phone starts vibrating on the floor. I squint at the screen, and my heart, which felt dead only minutes ago, sputters back to life as I see the name flashing.
I unhook my seat belt and lunge forward, snatching the phone and answering the call.
“Gracie.” Sol’s voice is rough like he’s just woken up, and the way he says my name is like he’s breathing in some much-needed air.
My eyes burn, tears streaming down my cheeks. I can’t talk. There’s this huge lump in my throat, and my hands are shaking so freaking much.
“Are you there? Gracie? Is everything okay?” He sounds a little panicky.
The lump in my throat lets up a little, and the only words that fall from my lips are “I’m sorry.”
I hear something rustle in the background, followed by a creaking sound, then a soft thud.
“What’s going on? Where are you?” He’s talking too fast now.
I glance out the window and realize the light has changed to green. I hear a horn coming from behind.
“Grace! You’re scaring me!” He says my name louder to get my attention. I jerk upright in my seat.
“Stop shouting!” I yell back as I grip the wheel tightly and jam my foot on the gas. The car lurches forward. Startled, the phone slips from my hand as my fingers grasp the wheel.
I can hear him freaking out, but I need to get off the road without causing an accident.
When I’m safely parked on the side of the street, I retrieve the phone and press it to my ear.
“I’m here.” I wipe my cheeks, then pull my feet onto the seat.
“Where is here, Grace?” he repeats in a tight voice.
“I-I don’t know.” I squint out the window, taking in the buildings flanking my car, then glance at the little screen on my navigation in front of me. “Buswell Street.”
There’s a long pause, then he says, “In Boston?”
“Yes.”
“Why? I mean, what are you doing here?” He sounds so shocked.
I don’t know how to answer that. My reason sounds really stupid and selfish in my head. So I say, “It was a mistake.”
“What are you talking about?” He sounds exasperated, and I can picture him pacing and harassing his hair with his fingers.
“Um . . . I just wanted . . .” Ugh. Just say it and be done with it. “I needed closure.”
This time, he doesn’t say anything for so long I fear he’s disconnected the call.