My mother, of course, blames herself: I softened too many blows. We always came in for the rescue.
Okay, yeah, I see that. But how can you fault your parents for wanting to airbag the big, ugly, hard-edged world? Especially when they’d already lost a child. I am responsible for my life. I am doing the work I need to do on myself. It’s a mantra my shrink gave me.
There she is, tucked in at a corner table, facing out across the restaurant. I nod to the hostess and make my way over.
Today is a new day, I remind myself. And I’m a new man. That dark night of the soul, when I thought the world wasn’t worth living in without Anisa, it has passed. And I see clearly the mistakes I made—in my relationship with her, in my life before that. I’m in therapy, on medication. I have nearly finished my novel and have some interest from agents. I’m on my way to being that best version of myself. The one Anisa and I always talked about.
I’ve written to her, to tell her about it.
But she won’t respond to my emails. Or return my calls. Not even a text.
Okay. Yeah. I get that. She’s moved on. We both have. It’s probably for the best.
She might not forgive you in the way that you want, my doctor said sagely. And you don’t need to hear the words to have closure. Sometimes silence is the only answer we get, and we have to accept that.
That’s hard, though, isn’t it?
Emily is the sweetest of Anisa’s friends, my ally against the others, who quickly turned against me. Truth be told, I think she might have had a little bit of a crush on me. Emily’s a poet who works in children’s publishing—bookish with round specs, flowy clothes, leather satchels. She moonlights as a social-media maven for authors, helping her clients create their online presence. I hear she’s pretty great at it.
This coffee date is about, ostensibly, my novel. Emily has an agent friend, someone she thinks will like my work.
I stand beside her table for a second while she frowns down at the blank page before her. Her face brightens when she finally looks up and sees me.
“Will,” she says, rising. “You look great.”
“So do you.”
She does. She’s lovely with her strawberry-blonde curls and constellation of freckles, her icy-blue eyes. She wears a rose-colored peasant blouse that highlights her coloring. The neckline gapes a bit, offering a tantalizing glimpse of flesh.
I take her into my arms, and we hug mightily, like people who have almost lost each other. And I guess that’s the truth of it.
I hear my dad’s voice: Anisa was not the last Coca-Cola in the desert, buddy. Move on. My dad is a practical guy, not one to cling to the past. The fact that I’m noticing how pretty Emily is—the first time in a while I’ve looked at anyone that way—makes me think he might be right.
“How’s everything?” she asks, pulling away, sitting. “How are you feeling?”
I hate that question.
It has such an inherent heaviness to it, almost an implied judgment, don’t you think? Like: Here I sit on my pedestal, looking down at you drowning. From this distance, I can offer only a sympathetic wince.
Who’s kidding whom? We’re all drowning, aren’t we?
I don’t want to be peevish. People mean well. Most of them.
“Better,” I say, sitting across from her. It’s warm inside, a lovely contrast to the cool fall weather. “Getting there.”
This answer seems to make people happy. Because, really, there’s nothing anyone can do for you in this life. They can’t haul you out of the mire of your own dark thoughts or circumstances or ease your suffering. Only you can do that.
Emily watches me with a poet’s eyes, kind and seeking truth. Her smile is bright and sincere. A friend. Truly.
“I’m so glad, Will,” she says, puts her hand on top of mine. It’s warm and soft. The noise around us—hushed voices, spoons against saucers, low ambient music—swells a bit in the warm silence between us.
“So,” she says.
We chat a little about my novel, about her poetry. She slides a business card across the table, the agent she told me about. A guy she knows from college who’s looking for “literary thrillers” like the one I’m writing. Though she hasn’t read my novel yet, Emily’s a fan of my short fiction, reads my blog. I enjoy her poetry—it’s smart and dark. She has a keen eye, an unexpectedly sharp wit.
Emily has had a smattering of publications in small but notable journals. Her poetry echoes back to me sometimes when I least expect it. Like this one:
dismay sits
at my breakfast table
a noxious guest
spilling the coffee and getting jam in places
i’ll have a hard time cleaning.
i hope she doesn’t invite herself to lunch.
and dinner too.
She’s saying something about my blog now. How moving she found my entry on clawing my way back to some kind of normal after my—what are we calling it? My break. That’s how Dr. Black likes to refer to it.
As if I decided to take a hiatus, a sabbatical—from being alive.
“Speaking of blogs,” I say. “Have you seen Anisa’s?”
Emily raises her eyebrows.
“Who hasn’t?” she answers after a beat. “She’s on fire. I think she’s on the verge of a big book deal. That’s the rumor, anyway.”
“Oh?”
There’s a lash of something dark, which I quickly quash. It’s that thing inside. When it rears its head, that’s when I make my worst mistakes. Dr. Black and I talk about it endlessly, this part of me that becomes activated when I’m angry. I breathe through it now. I’m getting better at that. In fact, since Anisa and I broke up—or she broke up with me—I haven’t felt it much at all until now. That spin. That feeling of not being in control of myself. She wasn’t good for you, my mother has said more than once. It’s true that she brought out the worst in me at the end. But that’s not the whole truth.
“I love her post from this morning,” Emily says, her voice an octave higher than normal. “She just looks so . . . happy.”
But the word darkens her a bit, makes her go internal. She holds out her phone.
There’s Anisa’s face. Angelic. Thick russet waves of hair frame the valentine of rosy cheeks and dimpled chin. Big, thickly lashed eyes, full lips. And yes, that smile. Radiant with happiness. I know that look very well, better than most, I’d venture. For a while, I was the one to put it on her face.
Just a year ago, pretty Anisa writes, I was in a dark place—a rat in a maze. Today, the day dawned clear and crisp, and I greeted the rising sun on my yoga mat. Then, for two uninterrupted hours, I wrote. This is the dream. You can have it too. #yogaatsunrise #lovethesimplelife #amwriting
“Yeah,” I say. The word catches in my throat a little. “Amazing.”
Emily turns the phone back and stares at the screen for a minute. Seems to rethink her actions. That dark place—Anisa doesn’t just mean the finance job she hated or the writing dreams that lay fallow. She means me. Our relationship. She called it toxic. I was poison, she said. Of course, she was right. I see that now.
“I’m sorry,” Emily says.
I lift a hand and shake my head.
“I’m happy for her,” I say. “Really.”