He leaves for six weeks. His therapist suggested a trip abroad. They had researched destinations and one night she suggested Colombia and a spark seemed to breathe into fire as he took in the thought.
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On his last night, they lie together on his bed. The Black Keys is playing on his CD player; the somber notes filtering through the air. She's lies on top of him, his strong torso rising evenly and steadily. She goes through the motions of wishing him well; be careful; learn lots. There's the elephant in the room that needs to be addressed. If this was a year ago, she would never mention it; it would make things too messy, too confusing. But she had to know. This time round she would be the adult and have things be understood – she would not pine for someone who won't pine for her back. And she knew that he would never pine for her.
They agree to break things off until he comes back. The elephant leaves a giant hole in the wall where it stampeded through. She thought she would feel better, but there simply is the chilly draft that wafts through the gaping hole of resolution. She quietly clings to the sinews of hope because he was the one who asked what they were going to do when he gets back; as if that means something.
He falls asleep on the bed and she slips out from underneath his arm. She spent the last few minutes memorizing his face; the stubble, his nose; and his jaw line. It wasn't enough; she knew she'd forget it the minute she got home…which was probably why he always seemed to shock her into submission every time she saw him.
She gets dressed, trying to make as little noise as possible. There wasn't really a set plan in her head, it was more of her hoping that she'd be gone before any goodbyes were uttered, or maybe she had internalized too many romantic comedies in her childhood. But as she pulls the thin covers up to his chin, he stirs and smiles his thank you. She can't help but unfold her clenched palm against his cheek and smile in return.
He walks her to her car even though she insists he needn't. All he does is smile and say he knows, but he wants to anyway. Her grin is lost as she ducks her head to zip up her boots. Outside, the air is laced with the remnants of summer and the signs of fall. She doesn't really know if she's warm or cold, but when he slips his arms around her and tells her to take care, goose bumps erupt along her forearms and neck and she knows it's not from the weather.
When she closes the door of her car and he's strolling leisurely back in his house, her breath struggles to come out and she doesn't know whether to cry or…no, all she wants to do is cry.
He leaves the next morning. She checks her phone, hoping there would be a goodbye but she knows there wouldn't be.
The next six weeks are uneventful. Sometimes she finds herself feeling relieved in his absence. School is easier to enjoy and she found she breathed better whenever she fished her cell phone out of her pocket or went online. But a week goes by and she's finishing up her book report when her cell phone buzzed and she looked at it hoping to see his name. Later, when she logged onto her account, she would make sure to check her messages in case his name popped up in her inbox. He never contacted her. She never expected him to. Had he been any other guy she would have wrapped her arms around his neck and made him promise to email her and pick her up a souvenir and print her off his flight details. But he wasn't like that. They weren't dancing the routine dance. They were working off pure intuition and improvisation.
As much as she denies it, she was in way over her head.
Fall drifts in, and as the temperature cools to a freezing degree, she imagines him waking up to piercing sunshine and dressed in shorts for a mid day hike on rocky terrains. The days are winding down for his return and panic sets in; he would be coming back with a new mindset, enlightened knowledge. Maybe their old world would suddenly be too passé, too materialistic – he would no longer be who she once knew.
It was around one in the morning and she was wandering around her various websites she frequented when his name appeared on her online list; the green bubble shining so cheerfully beside his picture. Without thinking twice, she closes the window and shuts off her laptop. As she crawls beneath her heavy sheets, she hopes he hadn't noticed her…and hopes she'll hear from him.
She doesn't.
A week passes by and no contact came from his end. Anger rages through her veins and takes control over her daily psyche; there wasn't much room for other, more important priorities as he hovered above her like a pesky insect. One night she couldn't stand it any longer and messaged him asking a rhetorical question about his home coming – just to show him her capabilities in passive aggression. He replies the next day…and it was just as curt as hers. It sends her reeling back into self doubt and frustration and she decides not to contact him until he wants to reach out to her. She didn't quite know what good that did or what it proved exactly, but anger tends to court irrationality.
The night of the school dance came. He might be there, she thought, knowing him who loved being around their friends as much as she did, he wouldn't miss the opportunity. As she agonized over different outfits, wondering whether to go dressy or casual or hipster chic. She finally decided on the skirt he had complimented her in before. She carefully chose her earrings and as she put them on, her mind drifted to the moments where his eyes had roamed appreciatively over her appearance.
The time where she emerged from the restroom corridor on the night of last year's Christmas dance. He was leaning against the bar and he had smiled the moment he saw her. It was a smile that made his eyes crinkle and almost disappear; the smile that elicited no conversation because there was nothing more to be understood.
The time when they had gone to Pierce's cabin for Labor Day weekend. She was walking down to them on the dock after a quick shower to get the sea salt out of her hair. Her chestnut mane flowed down her shoulders and back; the two days worth of sunshine had baked her skin to a golden brown. He had looked up from their cards table and watched her approach, the same smile playing at his lips.
When she arrived, her classmates and their partners were milling about the punch bowl. Smoothing down her skirt and running a hand through her hair, she made her way around the gymnasium, looking for the ones she was closest with. With much relief, she found her friends sitting at the bleachers where the night city view was blinking hospitably through the windows. As she digs into her salmon and salad Abed had got for her at the buffet line, a classmate comes by and chats with Britta two seats down and she hears his name come up; she had asked the Britta if he was coming and she replied yes, he was, in fact, on his way.
She set her fork down and took a needlessly large sip of her punch. Not quite knowing what she should be feeling, she only knew she wanted to be indifferent, maybe angry. But she willed it out of her conscience and decided she'll deal with it when the occasion arose.
A fellow Biology classmate came by to catch up. She stood up from her seat and had her back to the front door as she chatted with the older woman about her newborn grandson and her weekly exercise regime. She was only really half listening but as her companion went on, she realized she was now talking about him and how he had acquired a tan, and some people have all the luck. Her mind became numb and she couldn't formulate an answer. As she stood there trying to regain her natural breathing rhythm, she felt a cool, strong hand glide over her bare shoulder and on to the nape her neck. And she knew.
He was standing behind her in a blue collared shirt. His skin was slightly darker and he still towered over her. He had lost weight but his eyes, his eyes were still the same, and now they shone.
He smiled and she wanted to cry; she should have known how weak her resolve is around him – her frustration toward him was already forgiven and forgotten.
There was a soft hello exchanged and there was that smile again. Slowly, his arms wound their way around her waist and she stepped into him and there it was– the goose bumps from the irresolution of emotion.
They didn't have another private moment to talk further. And she wasn't quite sure if she was prepared for one. She distracted herself with other people's company and didn't resist when Troy pressed a fresh frosty bottle of beer into her hands with a finger held against his mischievous grin. The night wore on with loud antics and frantic picture sessions. As the festivities wound down, she was sitting in a circle with her closest colleagues and their conversation veered from mindless issues to nostalgic anecdotes of previous dances. She knew he was behind her the whole time but it took her whole self control not to crane her neck and simply stare. Maybe she laughed a bit too loudly, and maybe her hand hovered above Lance from English class' knee a bit too long. Passive aggression is quite scary.
The night wore on and the teachers declared they were shutting down; the students were slowly exiting the building. Loud goodbyes and clumsy hugs were distributed. He was leaving too but he sought her out as he bundled himself up in his winter jacket and toque.
There were no words, and she wondered how they could just function with touch and sight. But her queries were aborted when his hands slid around her waist again and for the second time that night he drew her to him. Her hands were awkward at first but she quickly found their place again; tightly clasped behind his neck. It was much too intimate, much too personal. Later on she would feel embarrassed that it took place amongst dozens of other people. But in that moment all she could feel was the somersault in her stomach as his hand reached up to softly press against the back of her head to hold her tighter to him. When they broke apart, they merely smiled at one another and said matter of fact that they'll see each other and talk; as if they had both planned it for to happen.