A/N: So as most of you know, I have been in the process of rewriting all of my stories, and even starting a few new ones. I really see a potential in this story, but I didn't like how I started it out entirely, so I hope you enjoy the new and the old I have worked in. I am hoping to start chapter 2 very soon!
Chapter 1 – Tobias's POV
Chicago really hasn't changed all that much in the last four years since I left. As I stand outside the O'Hare International Airport, waiting for a taxi cab, I take in the city I know too well. I know it's streets like I know the lines in my palms. Most notably, the Hancock building, which still towers over most of its neighbors.
But I didn't think that I would be returning on such a bad note.
My mother is very sick, unfortunately, and that is why I've come back. My life in Boston is at a standstill; for how long though, I'm not sure. My apartment still houses a lot of my belongings, however, I bought a plane ticket here, and found myself on the next plane to Chicago; most of my smaller belongings, like clothes and such, reside in the large duffle bag on my shoulder and the suitcase trailing behind me through the terminal exit.
One of the wheels is broken and it wobbles terribly.
I was used to traveling some distance, because of my parents' divorce. Not a very long distance, but it felt bigger at the time. I was only six when they finally split. I remember being so confused and angry at the time, but now I understand it. My parents are quite the opposite of one another; my mother is reserved, she can keep a level head most times whereas my father can be a hothead. He believes raising a voice or a fist is the equivalent of power; it is a weapon at best. I'm glad my mother found her way out.
Though in some cases, perhaps opposites really do attract; but my parents are two magnets that refuse to connect, and because of that I have begun to believe that opposites rarely do. After all, how can two people get along with nothing in common?
Sometimes I believe it is a curse they have passed on to me. I wouldn't say a history of failed relationships follows my name, but it certainly carries a small list and one particularly heavy relationship. Although, more often than not I either offend girls, or I don't find them suitable. I guess I just prefer a woman equal to me. I don't believe that that is too much to ask for, but maybe I am looking at it all wrong. Perhaps a relationship that is too equal allows no balance. I think I crossed the line of admitting I know nothing about romance a long time ago.
A yellow cab pulls up to the curb, in front of me. "Where are you headed?" The man driving asks.
"Chicago Hospice Center," I tell him quietly, "on West Congress Parkway."
The drive to the hospital is a bit far. We pass the Franklin and Elmwood Parks in the midst of the drive, I remember my father dropping me off at the Franklin park when I would stay with him and my mother would take me to the Elmwood park when I stayed with her. I always liked the Elmwood park better.
I find out the driver's name is Amar. He is friendly. He talks primarily positive of his ex-wife and practically gushes about his little girl. He tells me he and his ex-wife fell out of love, and then the question turns to me and he asks, "Is there anybody special in your life? Valentine's day will be here soon enough," he jokes. It's only October.
I make a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh, shaking my head. His eyes flicker to the backseat in the rearview mirror, a smirk on his face. I can't tell if he's nosey, or if his charm just makes it too easy to speak to him.
"Not at the moment," I finally decide on. He chuckles.
"No?" Amar pries.
"No," I say, "I've experienced a few attempts, but that's about as deep as they run."
"That's quite sad, I have to say," he replies. I almost roll my eyes, but instead I nod. He would be, in fact right, if I were telling the whole truth.
"Well there was one really good one..." I start, "One good relationship. But it's been years. I doubt she's even in this state anymore."
"You never know," Amar shrugs. "Some people never leave the place they've always known. And if she has family here, there's a possibility she returns quite often. Who knows, I could have driven her home before," he chuckles, "Tell me about her."
What have I got to lose?
"...I met her when I was in college," I say. "She was still a senior in high school at the time."
"Did you show up to the homecoming with her?" Amar jokes. This time I do roll my eyes.
"Definitely not. In fact, I'm positive her parents didn't even know about me at the time," I shake my head. I wonder if she ever did tell them about me. Probably not. "I'm sure I broke her heart..." I admit, the weight on my chest feels heavy. It certainly broke mine, being so far away from her day after day. We barely had the same free times, and because of my parents, I felt as though I never had a good reason to come back on the holidays.
The holidays were rough for my family. I used to switch off over the years; I'd spend Thanksgiving with my father and Christmas with my mother one year, then the opposite the next. The older I got, the more annoying it became and eventually the holidays meant nothing but bitter resentment to me. My father was never in a good mood, and it was always just me and him—he never did anything special for me. My mother loved the holidays, and always went overboard. I never caught her almost infectious cheer for them, but I preferred to spend the holidays with her, regardless. When I turned sixteen, I decided to stop visiting my father all together—I don't think he even cared.
Amar makes a motion to shut the glass window between us, "I don't talk to boys who hurt little girls." I only know he is joking when he doesn't shut the window and asks, "What did you do?"
"Well it wasn't so much just what I did, I guess... it was everything that came with it. I met her when she was graduating high school—I was graduating from a two year program, and transferring out to Boston College was a definite before her. She knew that. We had the whole summer together, and then I moved out to Boston—it was my escape from my parents," I see Amar smirk, "We kept in touch almost every day, and I would even visit her on the holiday breaks. Then fast forward to our second year, long distance, keeping in touch got harder and harder. She worked in the mornings and took night classes, while I took morning classes and worked nights—and when I did come to visit, we rarely saw each other then. We started fighting a lot, mostly about stupid stuff, and I figured maybe she had started a new life for herself in college. So I decided not to tell her I was going to stay in Boston, out of her way. I thought if I had disappeared in the shadows, it would have been easier to forget it all. I didn't expect to start a real life outside of Chicago, and she eventually gave up trying to get in touch with me. It killed me to ignore her messages and her calls, but I wanted her to forget about me. But I know me not telling her was the worst thing I could have done... it didn't solve anything between us."
"That's rough," Amar sighs, nodding to himself.
"I mean I could have talked to her, but I didn't," I reply.
"When was the last time you saw her?"
"About four years ago now." Amar pulls up to the curb at the hospital.
"Well," he turns to face me, a card between his fingers, "keep this number, if you ever need a ride when you come back. And I expect to hear more about this girl," he says, kindly. I take the card and thank him. I get out of the taxi, and go to pay him, but Amar waves it off.
"You've kept me company today, that is payment enough," he says firmly, "I don't need your money. Save it—buy her some flowers, make things right!" I roll my eyes, but thank him again, and then he is off.
XxXxX
I have always hated hospitals, but hospice feels worse, it scares me more. The smell of alcohol wipes and clean metal makes me want to gag. Most hospitals revolve around the newly born and the nearly dying—with the usually mild cases in between. The clinic I walk through looks cold and clean, with snow white tiles and the bright, unforgiving fluorescent lights. The elevator is no better, with its marble walls closing in on me as I stand in my respectful corner across from a strawberry blonde woman dressed in blue scrubs. She taps her foot on the dark linoleum, looking through the stack of papers attached to the clipboard in her hands. She yawns, trying her best to stop herself. I wonder how long she's been here today.
The badge attached to her pocket says her name is Marlene. She looks young, younger than me at least. "Visiting someone?" She asks quietly. I meet her eyes, a vibrant blue despite her line of work. I nod once.
"I bet you're used to visitors walking around lost." I say, my voice shaking some. She smiles a little.
"Yes," she nods, "I still get lost from time to time if it's not my usual route."
"What is your usual route?" The conversation only works so well, but I have not forgotten about the walls around us.
"Fourth floor," she replies, "Making sure my CNAs are feeding and washing the patients, giving medications, assisting doctors, typical RN procedures."
"You look like you've been here all day," I say lightly.
"Just since five last night," She says it calm, but the small smile tells me she is making light of the fact. I don't realize she has moved closer until the elevator stops on the second floor, letting on a mother with two children and a toddler in her arms. She takes a step back to her corner.
The thought of young children here makes my stomach turn, and suddenly it is not the space that bothers me... I try to focus on anything but the walls or the children. I should have taken the stairs. There is quiet music playing above my head, the really old music only that "nearly dying" percentage seems to know.
The pit in my stomach grows when the elevator dings and we arrive on the fourth floor.
The nurse gives me a quiet "see you around," before heading off in the opposite direction.
The hallways are long and confusing, only seeming to grow more complicated the farther I walk. There are reception desks around every corner practically, for every new set of rooms harboring patients. Eventually I have to ask where I should be going to get to my mother's room. Turns out, I am supposed to be on the other side of the fourth floor.
When I finally get where I need to be, I see my mother's room. Room 406.
My mother looks frail against the white pillows. Her skin, like an ivory cream, missing it's warm, golden tan. Her brown curls are gone, thanks to all of the chemotherapy. She raises a shaky hand at me, the IV keeping her from reaching anymore, and I move like she is pulling me toward her bedside.
"Tobias," she wheezes, her smile looks pained.
"Mom," I smile, but it nearly kills me to act like she looks the same as ever. My step-father makes his way down the hall, a woman behind him, that I assume is one of the nurses, given she carries a stethoscope around her neck. I realize then that it is the same strawberry blonde in blue scrubs from the elevator, and she must notice it too because she gives me a small sympathetic smile.
My mother sits up in bed while the nurse checks her heartbeat and her blood pressure one last time. She was diagnosed with leukemia about three and a half years ago; she wanted to see me before they had the plugs pulled for good. Her cancer was too far beyond the point of treatment; she had been in this hospital day after day, for every holiday. This was her decision, she was getting tired of fighting. She'd done it all her adult life, but not just with the cancer.
I hold her hand, and suddenly it becomes the heaviest thing I have ever held. I didn't spend as much time with my mother as I should have these last few years. Especially being in Boston. I think of all the birthdays she gave me, all of the football games, soccer games, and hockey games she attended throughout my twelve years in school. All of the times she made sure I ate dinner, and that I had looked presentable for all of my job interviews. I kiss her forehead and look at the photos of us on her bedside table.
Camping trips, holidays, birthdays, game days, dinners, and her second wedding. I was fourteen when she remarried. In a few of the photos I'm not smiling. I kept a straight face because at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen it wasn't the thing for teenage boys to smile in photos. Especially not with their mothers, or a parent for that matter. The next one I look at, I am standing next to my step-father in his military uniform, my mother to his right. She is smiling but she looks sad that he will be gone for six months, maybe more depending on the situation. The next one, I am standing next to my friends Zeke and Shauna at the senior prom; my black tux and gray tie. Zeke's gray blazer and gold undershirt and his arm around Shauna's waist in her gold, beaded dress. It's been a while since I have seen them, too. I wonder if they have come to visit her at all since I've been gone. My mother used to love when Zeke would come visit with new riddles, or jokes.
I don't want to hear anything anyone says in the room, because I don't want to hear when they unplug my mother's machine. My step-father and my mother share one last kiss, before the doctor asks if she's ready to begin. He explains to her that she will feel uncomfortable for a few moments but that the pain will not last long. She says goodbye to the nurses she has befriended over the years, and she thanks the doctor for all of his help.
The machine she is hooked up to hums for a few more minutes, before I hear the flat line. My mother's grip tightens for a few moments, and then her fingers releases mine like a breath of air. And that is it. My mother's pain is over, she is in a better place just like that. No more pain, and I know that is all she really needed after all this time. So many years of putting up a fight, and she finally got some peace.
For a while, I refuse to move from my spot. My mother looks as if she's sleeping, but there is no rise and fall of her chest. No sign of life, and I know that she is not just sleeping. I feel nothing and everything all at once. Numb and cold and too warm and sad. I feel my heart, slamming in my chest a few moments ago, finally quiets down.
I have lost my mother.
XxXxX
I'm sitting in a crowded café the next morning, the noise sounding more peaceful than a quiet hospital room. I haven't even sipped the black coffee sitting in front of me.
I'm waiting for Zeke and Shauna, I told them I would be back in town. I wait another couple of minutes, checking my watch often, until I see Zeke holding the door open and Shauna saunter in ahead of him. I stand up, hugging Shauna back the moment she pulls me in and I think to myself I have never needed this more than right now. Even though hugs used to feel unnatural to me from anyone but my mother, after all this time it feels more natural than ever.
"It's good seeing you again, T," Shauna smiles, unwrapping her arms from around my neck. As she takes the seat next to me I notice the ring on her finger.
"It's been a while. Nice rock," I comment. She blushes and then straightens the ring, "when did that happen?"
"May," she answers. I think to myself, May, June, July, August, September, Octob—
"So you've been engaged for five months and never even told me?"
Shauna scoffs, "I told you. Maybe you should check your voicemails every once in a while. Decided Boston wasn't all it seems to be? We thought you moved out there for good."
"Not for good, not really," I say, "but you knew about my mother being sick..." A lump in my throat forms as I remember yesterday morning.
"Yeah," Shauna nods, "how is she doing?"
"She's... better," is all I say. I told them I was back visiting her, I didn't tell them I wasn't sure how long we had.
"That doesn't sound convincing," she says lightly. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright," I tell them, "she's not in any more pain." I clear my throat, and take a sip of my coffee. It's room temperature. "I don't really want to talk about her right now, I can't..." I shift in my seat uncomfortably, then change the subject, "So when's the big day?"
"March 12," Zeke answers.
"You will be here in town for that day, right?" Shauna asks.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I say. They smile.
"Good," she replies, "You better be here. Will you be at the engagement party? I know it's super late, but late is better than not having one—it's October 25, and will you be bringing a plus one?" She fires off questions one after the other.
"No, and no," I shake my head, "It'll likely be me, myself, and I."
"Really?" She asks, "nobody else?"
"I haven't been with anyone else," I sigh. I never told them about Tris that much. They knew of her, but they didn't really know her. Shauna frowns.
"Really?" She asks again.
"Look," I start sheepishly, "I'm not some twenty-six-year-old virgin, okay? I'm not that pathetic... I just don't really need anybody else right now."
"You can't be lonely forever," Shauna says, "I want your future Mrs. and I to be great friends and have our kids be best friends—,"
"—How long have you been planning this out?" I ask her, shaking my head.
"That is none of your concern," she retorts, wrinkling her nose at me, "...Okay, maybe since senior year when Zeke and I were official, and I thought about how we've all been so close for so long now."
"You're crazy," I laugh.
"I'm a girl," she shrugs. "And whatever happened you and Tris...?"
"I don't really want to talk about her, either." I say, giving Shauna a warning look.
"T, come on," she whines, "What happened to you guys?"
"We broke up, Shauna," I sigh, "There's not much else to say, I don't know what you want from me. I'm fine alone, I always have been."
"You say that now," Shauna rolls her eyes at me, "but you'll regret it someday. Nobody wants to be alone forever—no matter who you think you are."
"I'll think about it, okay?" I say, and immediately she smiles again. She's not hard to please, as long as she hears what she wants to hear. "But I'm not promising anything."
"Okay, fair enough." She grabs my coffee and tosses it into a nearby trash can, "I'm buying more coffee—just black, right?"
"Please," I nod.
"You know how I take mine," Zeke tells her, watching as she leaves the table. Zeke turns to me, "Can you believe it, man?"
"No," I laugh, "It's a bit surreal—but somehow, I always knew. My mother did, too." Zeke grins.
"I met her in fifth grade. That's a long time ago."
"It is," I say.
"I'm gonna be twenty-seven this year," Zeke beams, and the smile lights up his entire face, "Shauna wants to make a big deal out of it, you know? Like a party and whatnot."
"You should let her," I tell him, "You'll never be twenty-seven again."
"I know, but there are bigger milestones like forty, or fifty. Eighty even."
"Don't worry, you're even close to eighty yet," I say, shaking my head. "You've got plenty of time with her."
"Well, I wanted to ask you how you've been..." Zeke says, checking to see if Shauna is still preoccupied at the counter. "You know, Uri goes to school with Tris."
"Where?"
"The university," he answers with a shrug, "She and him are actually good friends."
"Really?" I ask. I almost don't believe him—the idea of Tris still being so close. I want to see her, but I doubt she would want to see me.
"Well, Uriah told me there's a possibility she'll be attending the engagement party. And the wedding. I couldn't tell him no, she's his best friend."
"No, I get it," I say, "She should be able to go."
"I just don't want that to waver your attendance," Zeke says, shrugging, "I don't think you'd let Shauna down and not show up, I just wanted you to know."
"I appreciate it," I say. Shauna returns with our coffees then, and Zeke smiles innocently, like we just talked about nothing in particular. I zone out most of their conversation as I think about what Zeke has just told me. I can't not go now—I told Shauna I would go, and I don't want to miss my best friends' engagement party just because of a silly girl.
It does make me wonder about her more, however. Will she look different, or the same? Will she be bringing anybody? A date, maybe? I don't know how I would feel about that—not that my thoughts matter, it's none of my business now.
I guess I will have to wait and see.
XxXxX
My mother's house is cleared out by the end of the week. My step-father takes his stuff and I help him move into an apartment. He feels their house is too big and too empty without her.
I can't say that I blame him. If it were just me and my mother again, I don't think I would choose to stay either.
I stand in my old bedroom, now that it's empty I almost don't recognize it. However, the paint chips, almost unnoticeable because of the light blue walls, and cracks from settling I could never forget. I used to kick a worn out soccer ball against these walls, one I stole from the neighbors' kids because they called me 'weird' that one time.
My mother used to kick it, too, though much softer than I tended to. When she was having a bad day, or she felt upset, she'd come into my room and we'd play soccer for a little bit until she felt better.
She always did the same for me, until I turned seventeen and thought I was too old for mother and son bonding. That was right around the time she met Edgar. He came off too strong at first, for a good while I hated him. But as the years went on he lost his edge and I actually thought he was good company for my mother.
I left for Boston, and they left to travel. Until she got sick, that is.
I pick up my box of belongings, all of the things I kept behind when I left. I didn't want to leave my mother with no trace of me.
I sit down on the floor and start rummaging through the boxes, pushing wrestling and martial arts trophies and medals to the sides. I had begged her for years to put me in lessons, and when she finally did they were all I thought about, dreamed about even. I have barely used a moved since I was thirteen.
Beneath my accolades, there are photographs. More from my high school football games, the homecoming dances I was forced to attend by cheerleaders that wanted a football player as their date... One of the photographs stands out to me in particular: a familiar blonde-head and grey-blue eyes.
This is the Tris I remember. The girl I left behind.
She's just turned towards the camera, laughing over something. My arm is around her shoulders; I have a beer in my hand and I remember I was six months short of twenty-two. Legally, I could drink at the time—she, however, couldn't. I can't say her age really stopped her from doing so anyway.
I don't remember where it was taken, but I see my college roommate, Eric, in the background. Others standing around a keg, a girl in the far right reaching to take her top of. It was definitely a college-party...
I wasn't one for parties, even then. I don't think she was either, but I'm glad it looked like we were having fun. I barely remember the party, or why we even went. I think I had already had too much to drink before this was taken.
All I remember from that night was thinking how beautiful and happy she looked. And maybe stealing her away from conversations to kiss her every once in a while; I don't think I was inappropriate with her, it wasn't like I was all of the frat boys trying to bed her.
I already had her.
I stared at the picture for a few more moments then tuck it into my jacket pocket and stand up, taking my box out to my truck. It sat, covered by a tarp in the driveway. My mother must have done it after I left. She must have found the photograph too, because I remember tacking it to the wall face-down so that only I would selfishly know about Tris this way.
I picture my mother taking it down, and flipping it over to see it. I picture her smile as she realizes it's a rare photo of me with a smile on my face and my arm around a girl. I know for a fact she didn't care about the beer in my hand because I looked at least twenty-one at the time and the photo isn't dated. But she always hated alcohol being in the house, because of my father. I shake the thought from my head.
I wonder if my mother ever asked herself how old Tris was. And if she planned on asking me before she passed.
The picture feels as heavy as rocks in my pocket. The last glimpse I have of her—unless I do see her next Sunday at the party. I don't know if I'm ready to see her again. Being back here in Chicago, I realize she is consuming my thoughts again. It was easy out in Boston; I worked all of the time, so it was easy to forget. But there are so many memories I have here, of her—with her. As I drive past areas I remember too well, I just picture her face in stranger's passing by.
I feel like I am going crazy, and I will keep going crazy until I see her again.
XxXxX
I meet Zeke and Shauna the next morning at an old breakfast joint we used to go to on mornings we decided we were gonna be late to school. Shauna has already ordered for me, there is a plate in front of my seat as I sit down across from them.
I grab the photo from my jacket and slide it across the table. Shauna picks it up carefully, as though it is the most fragile thing she's ever held. Zeke peers over at it beside her.
"Wow, where did you find this?" Shauna asks, "that's Tris, alright."
I bite the inside of my cheek, "I didn't realize Uriah knew her that well."
"I think they graduated together," Zeke says, nodding to himself, "maybe one or two classes together in high school. But now they schedule their classes together."
"They sound like a couple," Shauna remarks. I know she is joking, but I can't help the uneasiness I feel at the thought. I know Uriah is a good kid—he would be good to her, I don't doubt that at all. But I can't help feeling just a little jealous.
"I didn't expect you to have an actual photo with her," Shauna smirks, "since when do you smile for photos?"
"I was a little drunk," I answer. And she was worth smiling about. Shauna snorts.
"Clearly," she hands me back the photo and I tuck it safely into my pocket once again.
"I'm sure Zeke already told you then," she says. I sigh, and nod. "You're still coming, right?"
"Of course," I tell her, "I told you Shauna, I wouldn't miss it. I'm not gonna go back on my word." Shauna smiles, relieved.
"Okay... so what exactly happened? You never really told us."
I feel my face heat up—it's hard to admit my mistake, but I know they won't judge me for it, "Well, I transferred to Boston to finish schooling—you already knew why I left. Before all of that I met Tris while I was here, working in the library to pay for my classes at the university. She was always at the library, so it was easy enough to see her. We started talking more and I realized I really did like her..." I feel my skin heat up more as I think to myself, I loved her, "I wanted to take her with me to Boston while I finished school out there. She graduated that summer I met her, and enrolled at the university. She knew I was leaving at some point, I had everything all set before her... I wanted to bring her with me while I finished school out there, but I knew she had her friends and family here. Her parents never knew about me, if I had just whisked her away to Boston with me that would have been bad. I figured she didn't need me and that she'd be fine on her own when our communication became sparse over the next two years after that. I got the job opportunity while I was there and it pays really well. I worked nights originally. At the time, I was taking classes in the morning and she had just finished her first two years but she was working longer hours to pay for school. Before all of that, you both knew I had been thinking of leaving Chicago for so long after my parents' divorce, because of my father mostly... Everything seemed to fall into place, all while we basically fell out of touch. It seemed we never had a moment to talk, and when we did we would argue. I planned to come back for her... but I was selfish, I needed that job. I couldn't turn down a living, a chance to finally leave my old self behind. I was hoping to come back some day and talk to her about it and tell her we could have a life together in Boston but I was afraid to. I was afraid of ending things in an argument if she wanted to stay and I wanted to leave. We were only together about eight months before I left for school on the East Coast... I thought it was too fast, and too crazy. It was an amazing job opportunity, and it still is. They respect me there, and I'm one of their best employees... You know the rest, my mother got really sick and so here I am again. Four years later..."
"I'm sure she would have loved to have moved out there with you, or she would have told you to stay out there and take the opportunity too, T." Shauna says, "if she really cared about you. If she cared as much as you still do, she would have said one or the other. It looks to me like you were both just very invested in school and your jobs at the time..." I never really saw it like that—I always saw it as just neither one of us ever making the time for each other anymore. Maybe Shauna's thoughts hold some truth.
"I just wish now, looking back on it, that I had at least told her."
"Nobody's perfect," Zeke says.
"It was a mistake," Shauna reassures me, "and you learned from it, right?"
"Absolutely," I sigh, feeling a headache forming in my skull.
"I'm not saying you have to kiss and make up right away, but if she wants a conclusion—at the very least, you can give her that. If she's willing to listen, she might come to her senses. You're a great guy—you suck at relationships," Shauna laughs lightheartedly, "but you're a great guy, T."
"Thank you, Shauna," I roll my eyes at her joke.
XxXxX
I try to tell myself, I'm only here until after the engagement party and the funeral. But that is not true, because now I don't think I can leave again until I mend things with Tris. Shauna knocks on the door twice, breaking me from my thoughts, she asks, "is this okay? I know it's a little small but..."
"It's perfect, thank you," I say with a nod, "I don't need that much space, I swear."
"You're a guest."
"That you've known for how many years?" I ask with a small smile, and then repeat, "I don't need that much space, I promise." Staying in my truck for the last two nights was awful, but I refuse to stay, let alone visit, my father. I doubt he even knew my mother was sick, but I'm sure he knows now about the funeral.
I'm thankful that Shauna and Zeke took me in for the time being. Though they are my friends, I feel terrible intruding on their space. However, another reason I have to thank them for is that Chicago can be unbearably cold this time of year, especially at night.
She hesitates at the door, about to leave, but turns back to me and says, "I meant to ask yesterday... when is your mother's funeral?"
"I'm not sure yet..." I say lightly, "Edgar is putting the pieces together." He's paying for it all too...
"You'll let us know, right?"
"Yes," I say quietly. I thank her once more before she shuts the door behind her. For a few minutes, I sit on the bed and I think about my mother; I think about Edgar. He's distraught, but he insisted on the funeral service. My mother never liked to think of how it would be planned out, I imagine she and Edgar have talked about it during her final days though. I was always thankful for how thoughtful he was to my mother—I never cared to know him well, but I knew he was better for her than my own father.
My phone goes off on the night stand, a part of me hoping by some stupid fate that it could be Tris, or even my mother. I miss them both, but in two very different ways.
I turn the screen on, finding it to be neither of the two. It is my coworker, Nita. We haven't spoken in weeks, mostly because I have been so preoccupied with my mother's illness and rearranging plans to see her before she went. And partially because I believe she has the wrong idea with me.
Hey Tobias
I wonder what she could possibly be messaging me right now for. I reply much quicker than I mean to, hoping it is only a message about work. Though it usually isn't...
Hey Nita, how have you been? She is quick to respond, my phone goes off with another message.
I've been well, but Matthew told me you were out of town? For how long? The office won't be the same without you.
I'm not sure how long I will be gone for. Might be a few weeks. Family emergency.
Okay :( I just wanted to make sure you weren't running away or anything ;) if you need anything, let me know.
Of course, thank you. I don't really care to keep talking to her—but it's not her fault, she doesn't know anything about the situation. I can't bring myself to tell her that much, that would be opening up a whole mess she doesn't need to know of.
Good! See you in a few weeks then. Have a good night.
Goodnight Nita.
I haven't even been gone a week. It's been three days at most. But I can't be mean to her—she is my coworker after all, and I know she means well. She is attractive, but there is nothing interesting about her—to me, at least. I have always gotten a sense that Nita relies on my company a little too much. Perhaps I have accidentally planted that thought into her mind. She is a nice enough woman, but I can only be around her for so long. Long nights at the office can be suffocating.
Speaking of nights, they are routinely the worst time for me when I am by myself, because my brain works faster in the time I get alone. I think more, usually about the bad stuff. For once, however, I think of something good. I think about Tris. I think about the first time we met.
February, it's even colder in Chicago than it is in January. It's raining outside, and the sky is a mix of ivory and rust. I'm up on one of the ladders, placing books from the return bins back into their rightful spots. Because of the weather, the library is full of adults looking for books to pass the time and students looking to pass their classes.
I am almost finished with this bin. I jump down from the ladder and go to push the bin down the aisle. As I take the turn for the next one, I don't see the girl coming down the aisle in time and the front of my cart nearly takes her out.
"Shit—!" Her books hit the ground in various thuds, some landing in my bin. I hear a loud "Shhhh!" from a few aisles over. I react quickly, reaching down to help her recollect her items, "I didn't even see you, I'm sorry—!" She picks up her books one by one, and I grab the two that fell into the bin. "I'm sorry," I say again.
Her eyes finally meet mine. They take me by surprise for a moment; despite having nearly run this poor girl over, she still looks at me with an apology of her own. Her eyes are a shade of blue I've never seen before, with tints of grey and silver. The corner of her lips curl up and her face flushes a light pink, "maybe I should have made some noise," she teases awkwardly. And it works. I chuckle.
"Considering we're in a library, I might have had to throw you out for that," I joke back. "Perhaps we'll call this even." She smiles more, and it causes a stir in my stomach. At least she's alright enough to joke about it, I think to myself. I swallow the slight fear rising in my chest as I say, "I'm Tobias."
"Well, Tobias, you have quite a method to meeting people," she says, "is this how you tend to meet girls? Nearly running them over?"
I smirk. "Not exactly," I say, "It would seem I have a knack for being quite offensive actually..." I mentally slap myself. Why did I just tell her that? She doesn't look even the slightest bit phased by what I've just admitted.
Instead she laughs, "Fair enough. I guess this is sort of better...?" she jokes, "I'm Tris."
"I swear, running you over wasn't my intention," I tell her. I swallow again, "Even, if we had met differently, I wouldn't have used some cheesy accidental-run-in to pick you up."
"So you're trying to pick me up now?" She asks. I shake my head quickly.
"Well not really pick-you-up," I stutter, "I didn't mean it like that—,"
"—You're not being offensive," she smiles. I feel some of the tension leave my muscles, "I promise."
I breathe a sigh of relief and laugh a little, "thank God."
"I should really be going, though," she says after a moment, looking around, "I have to find my brother. That was my whole purpose for scaling these aisles, actually."
"Okay," I say awkwardly.
"It was nice meeting you, Tobias," Tris says, about to walk away. I work up the courage I have left.
"Wait—,"I call, earning another loud "shhh!". I lower my voice, "wait, Tris?" She turns back to me, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It's now or never, "Could I see you again?"
She blushes, "I'll be here again." She leaves it at that, and I feel the smile on my face grow. I don't know when 'again' is, but I look forward to it. And I think I will be taking on more shifts just to make my chances greater...
I pull the picture out one last time, memorizing her face. One thing I'm absolutely sure of: I will see Tris at the engagement party. Though I don't know what to expect, I hope we will get the chance to talk. But with that thought I get into bed and leave the picture on the nightstand, and sleep finds me much quicker now that I am not trying to get comfortable in a cramped front seat.