One Day Soon (33 page)

I smiled so much that my face ached as I shuffled along in my throw away skates.

Some days were dark and bleak. Cold and hungry I felt as if I were barely existing.

Then there were days like this.

When all I felt was love for the boy who kept me safe. The boy who tried to make me happy in the most miserable circumstances. Who held my hand and kissed me softly and made me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Even when I had nothing, he was
everything
.

It was the best birthday I had ever had.

Present

Y
oss didn’t say anything on the entire drive to my house.

It wasn’t exactly awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

He tapped his knee in a jarring rhythm. I pulled up along the curb and cut the engine. Yoss didn’t move to get out of the car.

“This is a bad idea,” he muttered, looking towards my dark house. “I shouldn’t be here.”

I turned in my seat so that I was facing him. I felt apprehensive as well. I understood his trepidation. My suggestion had been impulsive. Something I hadn’t afforded myself in many, many years. But it had felt right.

But did it still feel right?

I looked at Yoss and I saw a troubled, sick, lonely man.

My eyes followed the line of his jaw, finding the familiar, but my stomach clenched at the
different.

I was pushing him. I was pushing me. I was forcing something I felt we both needed. Both deserved.

A second chance.

His. Mine.

Ours.

Was Yoss right? Was I only in love with a memory?

“I’ll take you somewhere else,” I said suddenly, my voice too loud in the quiet car.

Yoss frowned, narrowing his eyes as he looked at me. “So you agree with me. That this is a bad idea.”

I picked at the skin around my thumb, a nervous habit. “I don’t know what to think.” I blew out a noisy breath and pushed my hair back away from my face with slightly shaky hands.

“When I saw you in that hospital bed, the world stood still. I’ve thought about you every single day for the past fifteen years,” I told him.

Yoss didn’t say anything. He stared past me towards my house. His eyes a little lost. A little sad.

“So here we are and I feel like I’m pushing you. I don’t want to push you. I don’t want to ever make you do something you don’t want to do.” I touched his arm. Briefly. Hesitantly. “As much as I want you here, I don’t want this to be about me. Or not
just
about me. I want this to be about
us.
About getting to know each other again.”

Yoss ran a hand over his face. “Yeah. I want that too,” he grudgingly admitted.

“You do?” I asked, my voice slightly high pitched.

“I’d like to see your house. If that’s okay,” he said. I took the keys out of the ignition, relieved that he seemed to want to be there.

“Of course it’s okay,” I replied, getting out of the car. Yoss followed me up the path towards the front door.

“You live on a nice street. Lots of trees. And it’s quiet,” he went on. He seemed to be taking note of everything.

“Yeah, it is nice. I like it here,” I said, opening the front door and turning on the light in the foyer.

Yoss followed me into the house, his hands shoved into his pockets. “It smells like lemons,” he observed, sniffing the air.

I chuckled. “Yeah, it’s the air freshener.” I dropped the keys on the table and pointed to the oil diffuser plugged into the wall.

I walked into the living room, turning on lights as I went. I realized how messy my house was. How much stuff I had crammed into every corner and on every available surface. I stepped over piles of books and wished I had taken the time to straighten up before leaving the house that morning. But, to be fair, I hadn’t realized I’d be coming home with a new houseguest.

“Sorry about the mess. I…uh…well, I need to sort through a lot of stuff. Throw some things out.” I flushed in mortification as Yoss looked around.

“I have a problem getting rid of things. I’m a bit of a collector, I guess. I see something I like and I get it. I’ve been told that I need to learn to let go of things. I suppose that’s always been a problem of mine. Letting go.”

What the hell was I saying? I was rambling. It was ridiculous.

Yoss picked up a snow globe that said New York on the base that I had picked up from the flea market. I had never even been to New York. I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to buy it.

“You have a lot of nice things, Imi,” he said after a while, putting the snow globe back down.

“I have too many things,” I argued, feeling defensive. Embarrassed.

“You want to remind yourself that you can buy the things you want. I get that. Hell, I’m the same way. Don’t you remember all the random shit I had? There wasn’t a piece of junk I didn’t have to have,” Yoss commented and I relaxed, relieved that he understood.

“I suppose that’s part of it.” Yoss picked up a framed photograph of my mom and me on the windowsill.

It was taken at my college graduation. It had been a good day. One of the better times we had spent together. We had celebrated at the Italian restaurant where I had worked all through school. My co-workers had bought me a few rounds of shots and my mother had held my hair when I puked in the bathroom later. I had woken up the next morning with a horrible hangover and Mom had made me a fried breakfast. Not your typical mother/daughter bonding, but it was good for us.

“You look happy. I’m glad you have a good relationship with your mom now,” he said, staring at the picture.

I frowned. How did he know that was my mother? Did he just assume because we resembled each other?

“It’s not perfect, but I don’t hate her anymore. I feel very differently about her now than I did when I was sixteen,” I told him.

“That’s great,” was all he said.

“Have you ever spoken to your dad?” I felt compelled to ask.

He shrugged. “I tried to see him once. Not long after you—” He stopped himself, glancing at me. “Yeah, I did. Many years ago. I went to my old house. His car was in the driveway. I don’t really know what possessed me to bother. I guess I was feeling..…I don’t even know.” He looked down at the picture of my mom and me again. “I knocked on the door. And while I waited I remember thinking that maybe he had gotten help over the years. That he wouldn’t be the same alcoholic, abusive bully he used to be. That maybe we’d be able to have a relationship.”

He put the picture down roughly. “It didn’t work out that way,” he concluded.

My stomach twisted and my heart ached. “What happened?” I pressed.

Yoss laughed humorlessly. “He opened the door. He must have just gotten home from work. Somehow he was still living his normal life. Wearing a suit to the office. Getting his haircut. Polishing his shoes. He was just as I remembered him. A little older, but still the same. I said, ‘Hi Dad.’ He didn’t say anything. I knew he recognized me. Of course he did. I was his son, he knew who I was, but the asshole didn’t say anything. Then I heard a woman calling his name from somewhere in the house. Then without a single word to me he closed the door in my face.”

“Oh, Yoss, I’m sor—”

“Fuck him. Whatever. I went on with my life and that was that.” He looked at me and his face softened. Just marginally. “I learned a long time ago that I don’t need him in my life. He’s never contributed anything to the person I’ve become. I knew better than to expect anything from him.”

“You hungry? I was going to make spaghetti for dinner,” I said, changing the subject. We had time to dwell on the bad stuff. We had spent more than enough time focusing on the ways our lives went wrong.

Tonight, both of us needed something else.

“Spaghetti sounds great,” Yoss said, smiling.

“Okay, well come help me then.” I led the way into the kitchen, Yoss following me. I got out a pot and set water to boil. Yoss stood in the middle of the room, seeming unsure.

“Do you think you could get the pasta out of the pantry? It’s just over there. On the third shelf,” I directed him.

Yoss did as I asked and brought me the box of pasta. He watched me gather up the ingredients for a homemade—tomatoes, white wine, and basil.

“I don’t know how to cook. Though I have a feeling I’d be the sort to burn water,” he chuckled.

I handed him a knife and he looked at me as though I were giving him a snake. “What do you want me to do with that?” he asked, smirking.

“Go murder someone,” I deadpanned and then rolled my eyes. “I want you to cut up the tomatoes with it. Because this handy item is used for cutting things,” I teased.

“Smartass,” Yoss muttered, taking the knife and standing beside me at the counter. He hesitated, the knife poised over the tomato. “Don’t laugh, but how am I supposed to do this?”

I moved a little closer and put my hand on top of his. We both gripped the knife as I slowly pushed down into the juicy tomato. It exploded all over his shirt and we both started laughing.

“Way to ruin my one decent shirt,” Yoss moaned good-naturedly. I handed him a towel and he rubbed at the tomato, which had already stained his clothes.

He quickly handed me the towel and turned back to the cutting board. “Let me see if I can finish chopping the tomato without looking like I spent the evening dismembering someone.”

“Well that’s an image to stimulate my appetite,” I quipped. I watched him surreptitiously as he carefully chopped the rest of the tomato without further carnage.

When the sauce and pasta were finished cooking, I filled our plates and told him to have a seat at the kitchen table. Yoss sat down with a hesitant look on his face and

I knew what it cost him to be here, with me, like this.

He was putting his trust in a woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Trusting that I would help him. Trusting that I had his best interests at heart.

And despite our intense, tumultuous history, trusting was the hardest thing the adult Yoss could do. He had been conditioned to not trust anyone or anything.

I hated the guarded chill in his eyes. The way he constantly seemed to second-guess everything I said and did. I could tell he wanted to believe, but he struggled to.

Finally after what seemed to be inordinately long period of time, he picked up the fork I had laid out. He ate a mouthful of pasta and closed his eyes briefly.

“Damn, this is good.”

I laughed. “It’s only pasta and tomato sauce. Hardly Michelin five stars.”

Yoss ate another mouthful. Then another. He continued to eat, not saying a word until his plate was clean. He ate as though he’d never have the opportunity again. As if, at any moment, the food would be snatched from him.

I remembered after returning to my mother’s house all those years ago, devouring a sandwich in much the same way.

“You’re going to choke, Imogen,” Mom had scolded, her eyes wide as I cleaned my plate in a matter of minutes.

It took months, maybe years, to not eat as though my life depended on it. It was hard to explain to people who had never experienced hunger, how hard it was to break the habit of fear. Fear that tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to find food. That I’d wake up in the morning with the hollow feeling in my gut that signaled another day without anything to eat.

Watching Yoss eat the food that I could now take for granted, I remembered that feeling. That
emptiness.

And I wanted to cry. Because while I had left that feeling behind me, Yoss still experienced it every single day.

“You can have seconds. There’s more than enough,” I told him, breaking the silence.

Yoss nodded, not quite looking at me, getting to his feet and walking to the stove where he scooped more pasta onto his plate.

“Thank you,” Yoss said softly after he finished his second plate. He carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin, balling it in his fist.

“You don’t need to thank me. Seriously, it’s just pasta—”

“Not just the pasta,” he interrupted. “Never
just
for the pasta.”

I picked up our empty plates and carried them to the sink, dropping them with a clang. I braced myself against the counter, my knuckles clenched so tightly they turned white.