Days Like This (5 page)

I watched her
stance from the rearview mirror until she was only the speck of red from the
glow of her cigarette. I slammed on the breaks so some drunk girls coming back
from a party could cross in front of me. Normal college freshmen did not go
home to take care of their mothers, or to face the fiancé they left behind.
Normal nineteen-year-olds didn’t have an ex-fiancé, but Graham and I weren’t
normal. We were in love. We’d always been in love.

Before I
turned away from my dorm, I glanced out the mirror for June. But I was too far
away, and she was already nothing but darkness and a memory.

It wasn’t as
sad as I imagined; I was leaving her behind, but I was also going home. To Mom
and to Graham. Even though I left him once, there was still the chance that he
would understand why I left. I needed that so I could move on. Whatever that
meant.

I HATED THE psych wing. The
first time I ever came here was four years ago, after Mrs. H was officially
diagnosed and Cass missed school for a week. I would bring homework and burgers
from Chevy’s and we would sit in the kids’ bright blue waiting room and pretend
all of this was normal. It still smelled the same, like nothing and lemon. I’d
never been into a place that smelled so bland before.

Mrs. H looked
the same as ever, and that was what I always found strange with this. She
seemed so unscathed by all of it. We never knew when it was coming; I could
tell she’d had a bad day after it’d happened; Cass was usually more on edge,
more cautious, careful, and tired, she would be so tired. When I thought back
to childhood, there were little signs I could see in Mrs. H that I didn’t know
to look for. A strange sparkle in her eye, an adventure with Cass, a day or two
or three where Cass didn’t go to school.

But for me,
Mrs. H was always the same. Joyce Harlen was eccentric. With her music, her records,
and her clothes from the seventies. She was the fun mom who gave all the teens
in the neighborhood alcohol when they came over. She had the stories about
bands, had traveled, and had a way of doing things that was all her own. She
was “eccentric” the way Cassie was contagious.

Cass was full
of energy and passion and everyone else had to run to catch up to her walk.
Even my mom would say, “That girl is contagious.” I didn’t know what she meant
back then, but when Cassie laughed, the whole room laughed. When Cassie was
sad, everyone felt it. When she got an idea in her head, no one doubted her
ability to do it. Everyone believed her. Believed her stories, her smile,
believed that she had a chance to do something different.

Different.
Eccentric. Contagious. Maybe they were the same thing, the normal thing, and I
was the stable one who never made sense in her life. Why would she want
dependable when she could have adventure?

“I can’t wait
for Cassie,” Mrs. H said. “Can you get her some snacks? You remember her
favorites?”

I nodded.
Snacks. Cheetos, Oreos, peanut butter. “Sure thing.” I had no intention of
buying Cassie snacks.

She patted my
hand. “You’re a good boy, Graham. Good for my girl. You’ll be together forever.
I know it.”

I swallowed back
the emotions, fought off the words tangled in my throat. None of them could
come out, not here and not now. Mrs. H wouldn’t be able to handle the things I
had to say. “I should go,” I said, and bolted out of the room as quick as I
could.

Nurse Sheila
called my name while I waited for the elevator. “Here again, Mr. Tucker?”
Sheila asked, putting a hand on her hip. She was a nice woman. I met her that
first time when she came in and started harping on Cassie to eat food that
wasn’t from a vending machine. She was a staple around here. Weird to say, but
her grey-streaked hair was always something familiar and comforting.

“Any word on
when our girl will be here?” she asked.

I braced
myself. “Tomorrow, if all goes well.”

Our girl.

“You best
get our girl to school before she forgets what it looks like.”

“Our girl
needs to get home.”

“All our
girl needs is someone to hold her hand through this.”

Those are all
things Sheila used to tell me about Cass.
Our girl.
As
if we were the ones holding her up. I never told her either that “our girl”
felt we were only holding her back.

I stared at
Sheila as the radiator kicked on. It sounded like a car backfiring, so loud and
unexpected when it rattled through all the halls and rooms. “Sorry, what?”

Sheila shook
her head and waved me off. “I said I bet you and Mrs. Harlen are thrilled.”

“Yeah,” I
said. “Thrilled.” The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and I left without
another thought.

I parked outside
my house and expected it to be different, but it wasn’t. It was just my home,
one that I didn’t know how much I missed. My eyes drifted to Graham’s house. The
white flowers his mom loved lined the front yard. I helped her plant those the
first month they moved in, and she explained what they were and the best way to
make them grow.

Removing my
notebook in my glove box, I wrote down some lyrics as they popped into my head.

The first
time I saw you // in that old Beatles shirt // you were smiling at me // like
you knew the secrets of the world // I was nine, sitting on my fence // in some
old red boots // that didn’t really fit // I said, why you here? // You said it
was all new // I said it was boring // you said, that’s cause you don’t know
you // And I-I-I knew it would be me and you // we would take on the world
together // make it something new // and I-I-I saw my whole future laid out //
and it was you

I’ve been home
three minutes and Graham Tucker was already a song. I guess he always had been.
Maybe he’d been the chorus in every song.

I threw the
notebook back in the glove box and stepped out of my car. Home. Or whatever was
left of it. Why would Mom try to burn it down? Something burrowed in my throat—nerves
maybe?—and it felt like a moment before. Before I learned Mom was sick, there
was always a moment at the end of a pretty day when I realized tomorrow would
be different. I recognized it immediately. Fear was an old friend and it waited
in the shadows, ready to grab me.

I pushed away
the feeling and walked toward the door. My key fit in the door, as if nothing
had changed in the last eleven months. I could smell the lingering charred
scent in the breeze of the doorway. Four days later it still smelled like
disaster. I had a feeling it would be a reoccurring theme.

Inside, the foyer
was covered in coats and half-empty boxes of junk. Dining room with a card table
and wilted flowers. Two foldout metal chairs. We only used this table to eat
on, and if there were more people over other than the two of us, we’d gather
chairs from all over the house or sit on the floor like Mom said they did in
other cultures. There was plenty of space in the room, but the rest of the
dining room was for music.

Three walls of
bookcases, ceiling to floor, held our records and two record players. One was
my grandma’s, and her mom’s before that. The other was one of the newer ones they
released in high school, when the world decided vinyl was “in” again. Records filled
the room, all these powerful music and lyrics from generations were crammed
here together. Knowing that some things could live on had been the only thing
to comfort me as a kid.

I had to put
one on. I knew right where to go since we kept them all in alphabetical order.
We’d spent a whole week organizing them the summer I left. Sometimes, Mom and I
would get into moods and change them around by best song title, or album title,
or year, or genre. But usually, knowing where to go was always the best
decision. The record scratched as I turned on Billie Holiday and let “
Moaning Low”
play through the house. I waited until
she started singing before going to face the living room.

The fireplace
wasn’t white brick anymore. Now, it was black. The wall around it was charred,
beams and insulation showing through the burnt drywall. I stepped closer to
examine it. What was she doing? This would cost a fortune to fix.

“It’s probably
not safe for you to touch that,” a voice said behind me. I jumped, but I knew
it was Graham. My heart was already pounding, and I willed it to calm down. It
was early morning, but there he was. I felt him behind me, attached to me, and
that was terrifying. I stepped away from the wall, but couldn’t turn around. I
was frozen. Hearing his voice reminded me how much I missed it, missed him, and
I couldn’t see him. If I did, that would be it. I would be face-to-face with
the boy I loved for years, the boy I walked away from.

Graham groaned
behind me, like he was stretching. He never could stand still.

“You just get
here?” he asked.

 “Yeah, long
day,” I said. It came out a whisper.

I didn’t move
my gaze from the wall while all the words pierced through my head.
I’m sorry. I still love you. I hope you
can forgive me. I want to be friends.
I pressed my eyes shut, quickly, and inhaled.

“It’s not as
bad as it looks,” he said. The wall, he meant. “No structural damage since they
caught it in time. It’s all surface level.” His voice was oddly calm. Maybe
that was because I didn’t know I would be able to catch mine.

 “Cass,” he
said. It felt right hearing my name from his mouth. Then his hand was on my
arm. It was a gentle touch, but it set me on fire. My whole body responded to
it, chills covered me and my heart jumped around in my chest. After all this
time I still felt this way with him, he could still, with a touch, make my body
want him. I turned around, our eyes locked, and he stopped moving. I barely
breathed.

I knew he sensed
our connection, too. He felt everything more than me. I always thought it was
because he wanted it more, wanted me and us more than I had. I thought it was
why he proposed, and it was definitely part of why I said yes. I knew at
seventeen that I wanted to be with him—but some of that was influenced by how
much he’d wanted me.

Graham moved
his hand from my arm, but the chills didn’t go away as I took him in. He was
the same in all the ways that mattered. Same deep hazel eyes, but they looked
at me differently. Like I was a stranger. Short light brown hair tussled, as if
he’d just woken up, and this scruffy beard that made him look older, rougher,
and hotter. He was in grey sweats, white t-shirt, black flip-flops. The shirt
fit him a little tight around the arms; he was buffer now, like he’d been
working out. He’d always wanted muscles like that, and I’m glad he did it.

He looked
better without me. He looked damn good, in fact.

Graham cleared
his throat, pulling his gaze from mine. “If you want it, my mom made up the
guest room for you. She thought you might be more comfortable.”

“She did?
Why?” It came out sharper than I meant for it to. The walls were closing in
around me. It was all him. Him being here, him touching me, me staying at his
house. I didn’t know where to put it all. It didn’t fit into a category, just
as we hadn’t.

“I didn’t tell
her anything. She knows you went to school and that’s all,” he said. His voice
was a low grumble.

“Why would you
do that?”

Graham shifted
on his feet and scrubbed a hand down his neck. He was nervous. I was nervous
too, because I wanted to be here as much as I didn’t. I wanted to stand closer
to him and have him touch me again. Even something as simple as his hand on my
arm, or my hand in his, or our hips pressed against each other. I wanted to
feel him next to me, close as skin, and kiss him like I’d never left. I wanted
to touch him.

But I
couldn’t. He didn’t want that, or he’d be doing it now. He was over me, and that
was what I told him to do. I couldn’t touch him, even if I wanted to. He
deserved more than that. More than a half-life with me, and a happiness I’d
never give him, even if I wanted to.

“It’s not
something I like to advertise, Cassie,” Graham said. “I told her you moved on
without me and that was the end.”

I shifted my
gaze to my feet. That was what I told him, almost exactly that way. I said I wasn’t
good for him and he should move on.
“Let’s both just move on.”
But
I didn’t think I ever knew how. Not really.

“You coming
over, then?” he asked.

“You still
live in the back?”

He nodded. “I
won’t even see you. I go to work in a couple hours anyway.”

I inhaled when
he said that. He definitely didn’t want me around. It felt like he poured cold
water down my back. Reality sucked.

“Sure,” I
said. I’d stay there. If he didn’t care then I shouldn’t either. He turned back
toward the front door and I took one last look around the living room. The
music stopped around me, the floor creaked in that one spot between the dining
room and the foyer.

“Don’t worry—I
put it back in the sleeve and in the right order. I know how it works,” he
said, opening the door.

“You
remembered,” I said. If he remembered that, maybe he remembered us. The good
us. Before. Memories were frozen and all I had to do to repair us was unfreeze
them.

“I was never
the one who forgot,” he said. I stepped aside in the doorway to let him exit
first.