More Than Him (10 page)

I had to laugh. "I'm gone for a year, and that's the question you ask?"

She squared her shoulders. "Fine then—why did you leave me?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but she stopped me. "Actually. You know what? I don't want to know."

She started to stand, but I pulled her back down and turned my body to face her. She kept looking straight ahead, refusing to meet my eyes. "When I was adopted, I thought that if I wasn't good enough, my dad would send me back, so I kept my room clean and hoped that it was enough, you know? That he might keep me if I was a good kid. That was my way of showing him that I was. I guess it kind of stuck."

I felt her warm hand cover mine. "I'm sorry," she said, turning to face me. She looked down where our bodies joined. "I didn't know that it had to do with that."

I flipped my hand over. She brushed her palm softly across mine, and then started tracing my fingers with hers. I watched as she focused on what she was doing. "Amanda?" I croaked out. "You don't ever have to apologize, for anything, ever."

"Why did you come back?" she whispered. Her eyes lifted and I could see it—her pain. "I thought I was getting over it, over you . . . why did you have to come back and ruin everything?"

She stood up quickly, and started to walk away. I followed, pulling on her arm to stop her. "Baby." The word slipped out, like verbal vomit.

"Baby?" she rushed out. "Baby," she repeated, louder this time. Then a rage switched on inside her. She'd gone from upset to pissed, in two-seconds flat. "You don't get to call me baby."

I let go of her arm. "I know, I'm sorry."

"Are you, though?" she hissed. Her words were harsh, punishing. "Because you're acting as if nothing's changed. But it has. Everything's changed."

I reached for her again but she’d stepped back, tripping over herself. Her hands came up, as if protecting herself from me. She had no reason to be afraid. "Stop," she breathed out. "Just stop."

She turned and headed for the door again. Blood rushed to my ears. I blinked, trying to focus. I couldn't let her go. I couldn't lose her. Not again. "Wait!"

Her body stiffened.

"Wait. Please," I said. I was begging, and I didn't give a shit.

She turned quickly, her eyes glazed with tears. "Wait?" she spat out. "Fuck you, Logan, I did wait. I waited for you at the fucking hospital. I waited for you when I got home, and you weren't fucking there. I waited a week before showing up at your house and begging—fucking
begging
—for you to take me back." She pushed against my chest. I fell back a step. "And then I waited for you to come back to me. But you never did, Logan. You never came back." She wiped her tears and sniffed once, straightening her body. Then she looked me square in the eyes, and through gritted teeth, said, "You just fucking left me."

Her words left me shattered.

10

Amanda

My body shook from the anger that overcame me. He had no right.

I watched the emotion on his face. He looked dejected, broken.
Good.
Maybe he understood just a small amount of how he’d made me feel.

His shoulders lifted with each breath, as if struggling to find the air. It felt like an eternity. "Baby," he said again.

And something in me snapped. I lost control. I didn't mean to do what I did next.

My palm stung the instant it made contact with his face. I don't know what was louder, the sound of the slap, or my gasp that followed.

"Shit." I stepped forward. "Logan, I'm so sorry." My hand reached up to cup his face, but his sturdy grip on my forearm stopped me. He pushed my arm away forcefully. I wanted to cry. I'd never want to hurt him, especially not like that.

"It's fine, Amanda," he croaked.

I'd broken him.

I shut my eyes tight and let the tears fall. "Logan." My voice was strained.

He licked his lip, and then wiped it with the back of his hand. That's when I saw it—blood. It didn't effect me the way it used to. We'd studied something similar in my psych class, and I'd learnt to control it. I'd taught myself how to mentally separate the site of blood from Ethan's accident.

I cursed under my breath and stepped forward, but he took a step back, afraid of me. I let out a sob. "Logan," I said again. I didn't know what else to say.

He looked away from me. "I think maybe you should leave. I'll walk you to your car."

I just nodded and followed behind him. We walked to my car in dead silence. He opened the door for me when I unlocked it. He even made sure I was seated properly before he closed it. But he didn't say a word. I wound down my window and opened my mouth to speak.

"It's fine," he said, interrupting me. He placed his hands in his pockets and took a step back. "Take care, okay?"

I held it together long enough to nod and pull away from the curb. It wasn't until I got home and under my sheets that I let it out. Tristan came in after a few minutes and wordlessly joined me. He wrapped his arms around me, and assured me that whatever was happening—it was going to be okay.

I looked into his green eyes, so similar to Logan's. "I don't think it will be this time."

"I'm sorry," he said.

So was I.

Logan

Five flights of stairs later, I was back in my apartment. I triple-checked the four deadbolts on the door before finally throwing myself onto the bed. "Fuck." I rubbed my tender cheek and tried to ignore the metallic taste of blood on my lip. Reaching into the small box next to my bed, I felt around until my fingers skimmed the worn leather of the book. I pulled it out and fanned the pages, looking for the first blank one. The picture fell out. It was beyond faded, but it didn't matter. It could've been completely erased, and the image would still be etched in my memory. I had the same one on my desk back home.
Home.
There was no such place for me. Not unless you counted Amanda as
home.

I flipped to the beginning and read the first sentence I ever wrote.

*

Five weeks post Amanda.

There are no dates here. Only time passing with each moment.

Dear Diary—says the twelve-year-old girl in me.

Manny, one of the guys in the field with me, told me I was depressed. I don't think I am, but whatever. He said 'Loma, go write down your shitty feelings in a journal and you'll feel better.' Loma—that's me. Apparently it stands for LO-gan MA-tthews. It's a thing here. I asked him what his name stood for; he looked at me like I was crazy. 'It doesn't stand for anything, asshole, my name's Manny.'

So that's Manny.

I don't know if he was kidding or not, but here I am, writing my shitty feelings in a journal.

I miss her.

That's the only feelings I have.

I miss the absolute shit out of her.

If I sit around and question the reason I'm here, I get even more depressed. Fuck. Manny was right.

Location: Africa

Am I doing this wrong? Should I be writing where I am at the beginning? Fuck it.

Nightmare count: 16

On the upside, every day I'm here, I feel like I'm doing something good for the world. If I were to die today, people would say, 'Hey, that Loma asshole was saving the world one cholera vaccine at a time. Also, he missed the shit out of his girl.'

Amanda.

Fuck.

Whose stupid idea was it to write a journal? This shit doesn't help. Stupid Manny.

*

Seven weeks post Amanda.

Today, this kid called me Sir. And then he kicked me in the shin. The kid next to him laughed. Their laughs were so contagious I found myself smiling. It kind of hurt. I imagine it's what old leather feels like when it has to form to a different shape.

A new guy started today. Jason Malone. We call him Jamal. Doesn't suit him at all but now it's stuck, and he has to deal with it.

We're still going strong with the vaccines.

I'm still missing the shit out of her.

Last night I dreamt about her. It felt so real, that when I woke up I actually walked around our camp looking for her. I even whispered her name a few times, thinking she might really be here.

Maybe I've gone crazy.

Legit, certifiable-type crazy.

Jamal asked if I had a girl back home.

I told him I didn't want to talk about it.

He said 'Pic or I call bullshit.'

It made me think of the picture back home on my desk. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it. There was no problem seeing it in my mind.

Then Jamal called me out, asked me if I was about to cry.

Fucking Jamal.

Nightmare count: 20

*

Ten weeks post Amanda.

I'm crying.

A woman just brought her baby in. She was crying hysterically. I took one quick look at her child, and knew whatever it was she needed us to do it was too damn late.

I turned away and puked.

Manny told me to go back to our tent.

So that's where I am.

In the tent, crying my ass off, and questioning how the fuck I'm going to be a doctor one day.

Diary, if I ever complain about my life, tell me to buck the fuck up and get over it. Shit could be a hell of a lot worse.

*

Ten and a half weeks post Amanda.

A little girl came in today. She was holding her brother's hand. They could've been twins. She told me her name Amuhda. Definitely the highlight of my day.

Nightmare count: 21

*

Fourteen weeks post Amanda.

I laughed today. You'd think I'd be happy about it, but I feel like shit. I wonder how she's doing. I wonder if she ever laughs. I fucking hope so. Otherwise, all of this would have been for nothing.

We were moved from the field to more admin-type roles for the time being. They do that. Change things up. I'm not complaining. Even though it's still kind of a campsite, this one has actual roofs, walls, and showers.

Last night, Jamal's girlfriend called him. He wasn't around to answer, so Manny did it for him. Manny—being Manny—told his girlfriend that he'd been sick the last three days with the worst case of diarrhea he'd ever seen. Which is pretty bad, considering one of our main goals here is to treat the disease. Apparently, it was so bad he had to wear adult diapers and was in quarantine. He even referred to him as Jamal. I don't know what his girlfriend was thinking.

So, of course Jamal gets up in my shit to help him find a way to pay him back.

We waited until he was in the shower—one of those open shower stalls, like they have at public pools. Anyway, Manny faced the back of the stall where the shower head was, washing his face, shaking his ass and singing ‘Wrecking Ball’ by Miley Cyrus. I had Jamal's cell phone in hand, filming. Jamal was standing behind him with a full bottle of shampoo . . . We waited for him to start washing his hair, then when he was under the spray washing it out, Jamal squirted more shampoo in there. After a couple of minutes, Manny started getting pissed because he couldn't fucking get rid of the suds. In fact, it was getting worse. His eyes were closed the entire time while Jamal and I tried to contain our laughter. Fuck, we're assholes. Manny was cussing and spinning around in circles, blind as shit because the excessive shampoo was getting in his eyes. After a good five minutes of me filming and Manny losing his shit, Jamal finally spoke up, only he yelled, scaring the shit out of the still-blind Manny. Jamal went right up to Manny's ear, who was of course, clueless, and at the top of his lungs, yelled I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BAAAALLLLLL!!!

So fucking funny.

Manny eyes snapped open and he started chasing Jamal around the campsite, barefoot, bare-ass naked. Dick swinging from side to side. He didn't even hear me laughing, or see me filming it all. Once they were out of filming view, I uploaded the video to YouTube and Jamal's Facebook and tagged Manny in it.

Manny had no idea until his mom called him.

Good fucking times.

I wish I could call Amanda and tell her the story. She would've loved it. I could imagine her face as I told her. That slow smile build-up. The low laugh that turns to something so much bigger. I can imagine her head thrown back, her hand on her stomach. She used to do that when I made her laugh too much. Then, when it was over, she'd sigh, almost like she was thankful for that moment.

Fuck, I miss her. So damn bad.

*

September 24
^th
.