what I was doing. She said she was glad, because she worried all the time that I was dead. I said there was something really wrong about that, and I was sorry for what I had put her through. And then I didn’t hear from her again. Until the text.
It’s been hard not texting her—I know she still sometimes talks to Gray—but I wanted it to be her decision to reach out . . . Well, more like my therapists wanted it to be her decision, if I’m being honest. But they helped me see that I really didn’t want to force my way back into her life; I wanted her to want me there. And if she didn’t, that was fair and fine and valid, and I would work through it in my counseling sessions.
“Ridley?” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder, and I jump, because I was expecting her to come from the path in front of me and she snuck up from behind.
God, she looks so beautiful. Her hair is longer, and she’s got a bit of a tan. I notice a small scar on her wrist and forearm from the surgery and frown, but only for a second before it moves out of sight as she pulls me into a hug. And maybe I breathe in a little too deep, trying to memorize the scent of her shampoo. I had forgotten what it smelled like until right now, and I don’t want to forget again.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says, stepping back and tucking some of her hair behind her ear.
“You too.”
We both sort of laugh a little awkwardly, and she looks down, toeing designs in the sand with her white tennis shoe.
“I missed you,” I say, and then clap my hand to my forehead, because I didn’t mean to be this obvious.
“I missed you too,” she says with a little laugh.
“Yeah?”
She raises her eyebrows and nods, like I’m ridiculous for even asking that.
“Do you want to . . . ?” I trail off, not sure how to finish. Start again? Get lunch? Be my girlfriend? And shit, I wasn’t going to be this eager; I wasn’t supposed to push.
“Ridley,” she says sadly.
“Right.” I mean, she knows I’ve been working on myself, but she hasn’t seen it, and that’s fair. “I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s really good to see you. I want you to know I get that we can’t pick up where we left off. I’ve done a lot of work around understanding that.”
“That’s good to hear. I’ve actually been working on that too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath and unzips her messenger bag. “And I decided that I don’t want to pick up where we left off. That was . . . bad.”
“Right, no,” I say, jumping down off the table, and I hope my voice doesn’t sound like she just drop-kicked my heart into next week, even though it feels like she kind of did. “I talked about this in my session this morning. We made a list of outcomes, and you meeting me for closure was one that we put in the positive-outcome column. Although, I don’t remember why. I did at the time, it made sense, but right now I—” I look down and shake my head. “I took notes, and I can email them to you if you want. They’re actually right in the car. I could go grab them now. You know what? I’m rambling. Sorry.”
“Wow.”
“I’m really nervous,” I say, because Dr. Gabriella says labeling my feelings is an important tool to help control my anxiety. If I address what’s at the root of it, too, sometimes I can stop it from spiraling out. I suck at figuring that part out, but I’m working on it.
“Let me finish.” She pulls the Batman mask out of her messenger bag and slides it onto my head. She stops short of pulling it over my face, and okay, I was not expecting this. “I don’t want to pick up where we left off. I’d rather rewind farther than that.”
“You want to—”
“Have a redo maybe and see where it goes,” she says. “Slowly. Extremely slowly. Like glacial.”
“I can do glacial.”
“Like occasional cups of coffee as friends with several days in between.”
“I love coffee,” I say, a little too eager. “Are you sure, though?”
“No, but I want to try. I miss you a lot, and if you think—if you’re in a good place, I thought maybe we could start talking again. Just talking.”
“I would like that.” I grin; I can’t help it. “Hang on.” I grab my phone off the table and pull the tattered feather out from the case, twirling it in my fingers.
“You’ve carried it the whole time?”
“Whole time.”
She smiles so big it’s blinding, and maybe my eyes water a little, but who’s really checking, anyway.
* * *
? ? ?
Later, when she’s back at her dorm and I’m cooking dinner with Gray, I text her a picture of a baby bat, and she texts me a picture of a ridiculous peacock, and . . .
I don’t know where this is going. Maybe nowhere. Maybe somewhere. Life is an unpredictable and strange thing like that, but.
But.
It’s also kind of amazing.
And I’m so glad I’m here.