It’ll be the fact that I left the letter with Fitz.
I mark my life by the moments that ruined it.
The panic attack in front of my classmates when I was fourteen.
The “snowstorm” when I was fifteen.
That night I bailed on Fitz, ruining any chance we might have had.
And today. The day I wrecked the best relationship of my life with a piece of notebook paper and a hasty decision that I can’t take back.
I have these moments cataloged for easy recall thanks to SIM—shorthand for “secretary in my mind.” He’s nerdy-buff, wears tragically uncool round glasses, and makes my life a living nightmare, what with his never-ending lists of all the ways my life could implode in a giant trash fire of suck.
This doesn’t make me weird. (I’m pretty sure.) I figure we all have voices in our heads that whisper or shout certain things, telling us what to do and why. It just so happens that the loudest voice in my head never stops yakking about all the ways my life is poised to go wrong. I know SIM is really me, but I hate that it’s me, so I gave that part of myself a different name.
Sweat prickles the back of my neck as I tear through the car. I check under the seats and rummage through old gas receipts and bobby pins in the center console. I search my pockets half a dozen times, open the glove compartment twice, and even lift up all the floor mats. But it’s useless, and I knew it would be. I left the letter on the water tower with Fitz.
I can still see it lying on the wet platform, his name scrawled across the front as if it was an afterthought, as if the contents of the letter don’t include words that will change everything. Words like I and love and you. And I was too distracted by his hand on my waist to pick it up.
I turn the key in the ignition, ready to drive to the water tower or to Fitz’s house or to the cabin or to the ends of the earth to get it back. My hands are sweaty and slick on the steering wheel as my heart thumps painfully in my chest. The rising tide of panic is quick, and if I don’t fix this immediately, it’ll overwhelm me.
I send Fitz a text. Did you find the envelope I left on the water tower?
I wait one minute, and I’m okay. I wait two minutes, and I’m holding it together. I wait three minutes, and I’m falling apart.
He opened the letter and he’s never going to talk to me again.
The raw ache in my chest is worse than panic, deeper than regret. It’s so bad I don’t even have a word for it.
He’s probably driving to Williams right now, thinking about how— Oh. He’s driving to Williams. Right now. Fitz never texts and drives, and that’s why he’s not answering. I’m shaky with relief as I pull up his number and press call. He doesn’t text and drive, but he’s not against answering a call.
“Hey! Did you get the okay to come to the cabin?” His voice is friendly, and warm relief spreads through me like honey.
“Not yet. But listen. Did you find the letter I left on the water tower?”
“Yeah. I’ve got it.”
“Don’t open it, okay?”
“I didn’t. But why not?”
“It’s part of your Christmas present.” The part where I tell you why I love you and why I hate you and ask you to leave me alone for the rest of my life.
If he reads it … I shudder at the implications as SIM sharpens his pencil and starts a new list.
All the ways my life will fall apart if Fitz reads that letter:
My invitation to the cabin will be rescinded.
I’ll lose my best friend.
Life as I know it will end.
Fitz clears his throat. “I willed a blizzard into existence for you, and you got me … an envelope?”
“I know! That’s why I didn’t give it to you before. It’s not … ready. I need more time.”
“Can I open it on Christmas?”
“No. Wait until I get there. Please?”
He pauses for longer than I’m comfortable with. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah! Why wouldn’t it be?” My voice goes all high and screechy. A dead giveaway. “Promise you’ll wait.”
“Fine, Collins. See you in a few days.”
We hang up, and I sag with relief. Crisis averted. For now. I’m going to have a permanent stomachache until that letter is back in my hands. Not even Christmas will be able to take my mind off this disaster. That’s the thing about my brain. It latches onto the bad, digs its fingernails in, and refuses to let up even for a second.
I’m still shaky with nerves and regret as I walk in the front door. Mom is sitting on the couch in the small family room, her legs tucked under her and her ear pressed to the phone. She waves and then holds a finger to her lips, her eyes bright with excitement. She’s in her navy scrubs from her shift at the hospital, her hair piled on her head in a messy bun.
I give an obligatory nod hello and retreat to my room, flopping onto my bed and pulling a pillow over my face. Once I’m sure I’m not going to explode from embarrassment and shame, I slide the pillow off and look around.
My bedroom is a tribute to the places I’ve never been and the things I’ve never done. It’s a shrine to the lives I’m scared I’ll never have.
The western wall is covered in photos of Seattle and Chicago and New York and Boston and Atlanta. Maybe it’s a cliché, but I romanticize tall buildings and bright lights the way Fitz romanticizes, well … romance. But I also dream of ranches in Wyoming and farms in Nebraska and mountains in Colorado. And that’s just the United States. Moving along the wall, you’ll run into a collage of Western Europe. Picture after picture of castles and cobblestone roads. Gondolas on the canals of Venice, crumbling colosseums in Rome, waterfalls in Iceland. Each wall is a portion of the world. Japan and Thailand and the Philippines. Argentina and Brazil and Peru. My bedroom is my world, but it’s also the world.
Above my bed is a picture of Aomori, Japan, that I printed from a HuffPost article about the snowiest places on Earth. The photo is a winding mountain road surrounded by walls of blinding white snow. It looms over a group of travelers, easily three times their height. The snow won’t be like that in Williams, obviously, but it’ll be new to me. An adventure in an otherwise tame life. Maybe I’ll even write about it. Figure out a way to turn it into the start of my imagined travel-writing career. The way I see it, travel writing is the one way I can be paid to live all the lives I’ve imagined.
Later, I’m almost finished packing when Mom knocks lightly on my door and leans her head in. “Can I come in?” In addition to working as a CNA, she’s also a full-time student in nursing school, a ridiculous schedule that has given her permanent shadows under her eyes and a weariness to her posture that I worry nothing can fix. Today, though, she looks happy. Finishing school for the semester has that effect.
I nod. “How was work?”
“Busy. You know how people get around the holidays.” She moves into the room and leans against the wall.
“Drunk and sad and stupid?”
“Exactly. A recipe for injuries and accidents. Plus, the flu virus is nasty this year, so the ER was extra packed. But tomorrow’s my last shift for more than a week and I’m in the mood to celebrate. So—” She pauses dramatically, her whole face lit up. “Do you want to see your present?”