The Real Thing (30 page)

I’m sorry if I led you on. That was not my intention. I spend a lot of time talking to people through a screen, and because I did that, I lost the person who was actually around me.

I hope you find your Mia. And if not her, then someone else. I’m going to say what I should have said when you first emailed me. I’m sorry I’m not the person you’re looking for. Good luck finding her.

—Mia2

It took me three hours to pack up all my stuff. I’m pretty sure I’m still missing some things, but I hear Eric’s key in the door and I think, “Oh, well” about whatever I happened to miss.

He’s wearing a dress shirt and slacks, and I bet he’s sweating his ass off. His yellow tie is slung over his shoulder and his top button’s undone. His brow furrows when he sees me struggle with the zipper on my duffel. Must be snagged on one of the socks I stuffed in at the last minute.

“How’d it go?” I ask, keeping my voice light and breezy, like I’m totally not just about to leave, and who the hell knows if I’ll see him again.

“Okay, I guess. I’ll find out in few days.” He sets his key and tie down and nods to my luggage. “What’s this?”

I yank on the zipper that still won’t budge. “Eve had her baby.”
Ugh, this damn thing
. “So I’m going to stay with her the rest of the summer. Help her out.”

Eric crouches down and unhooks my sock. He still hasn’t really looked at me.

“Guess you quit your job, then.”

I shrug. “It was only temporary.” I set my hands on my knees and stand up. Eric follows, avoiding eye contact. He’s actually still looking at my suitcase.

“So, this is it, I guess,” he says in a raspy voice. My heart falls into my stomach.

“Do you want it to be it?”

He blinks. Sniffs. Scratches his ear. I wait with bated breath for any sort of hope. Just ask me to stay. Tell me to text you when I get there. Say we’re still friends. Say you still love me. Anything.

His hand reaches down for the handle on my suitcase, and the last shred of hope flees my body. I push back the tears that rush to my eyes. Like he did when I moved in, he doesn’t let me carry anything but my laptop bag. He even puts it in the Camaro for me. I set my computer on top and move back for him to shut the trunk. I swipe at a tear.

He looks like he might hug me … for a second. Then he stuffs his hands in his pockets. I bite my lip and nod.

“Okay, then,” I croak. I take my keys out and shake and fumble as I stick them in the car door. It still feels like there are so many things left to say. I know there’s no chance now for redemption on my part, but he still has to know it’s always been him.

“Eric,” I say, turning to him, but stare at the keys in my hands. “For the record, when you asked me about that email, I really didn’t know what you were talking about. I didn’t read it till … after I emailed you that night. So I get it. I would’ve done the same thing if I saw that on your computer.” I swallow and look up at him. He finally meets my gaze. A flutter rises up my throat. “But you should know that even if I had seen it before you did, I would’ve told him the same thing I told him today.”

His eyebrows pinch, and he lets out an exasperated breath. “And what’s that, Em?”

I make sure he’s still looking at me.

“That I love you.”

And when he doesn’t respond, I get in the car and drive away, leaving my heart with him, my chest strangely hollow.

Eric Matua is listening to LUKE BRYAN via Pandora about a minute ago

I click on my email tab for the millionth time tonight. It’s been three weeks. Em’s last Facebook status was yesterday and it was a picture of Eve’s baby with a “Bye Baby Dylan! Aunt Mia will miss you when she goes back to school. *groans*”

I liked it, just so she knew I was looking.

She left some stuff here, including that damn frog sponge. It bothers me every time I see her things, but I don’t seem to have it in me to mail them to her, even though most of
my
stuff is packed up.

I didn’t get that job in Tampa. I had to go crawling to my brother and ask for a place to stay till I find work. There’s a nursing program at Keiser I’ve looked into, so I can get my degree, and I told myself that was the only reason I was looking there, but I know it’s not.

All I do is think about her. I stalk her Facebook page and her Twitter feed and curse at them, because of course
now
is the time she chooses to ignore the Internet.

What she said keeps running through my brain. How she never saw that email. How she wrote him off, even though we were over. How I’m not sure if I believe her, but my gut tells me she’s telling the truth. I keep thinking about how she found me attractive when I know I’m not. How she wanted to beat the shit out of Ali when I told her about that. How she blushed when I complimented her. How she kissed me. How she was careful and understanding and protective and beautiful. How strong she was even when I ended it. I could see her breaking, but she took it. She took all the blame, even though part of it was mine.

I want to rewind and ask her about the emails instead of reading them. But I can’t think about that too hard because it makes me angry, and I end up hating her all over again.

Thing is, I don’t hate her. I still love her.

I pull out the email that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. I highlight it all and hit delete, and start a new one.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Re: Missing Him

Hey Em,

I wanted to let you know that you have some stuff here, and I’m moving out on Monday, so if you have the chance to come and grab it, that’d be cool. Or if you’d rather I mail it to you, I can do that.

—Eric

I pause over the send, then click my cursor back to the main text and keep typing.

“You will come to a place where the streets are not marked …”

I close my eyes and type, not knowing if it will mean anything to her or if she’ll think I’ve lost my mind, but the words of my favorite book, my anchor, pour out in the email. I feel like Seuss wrote this book with people like me in mind—unsure, lost, insecure.

My fingers pause for a small second over the keyboard, and I open my eyes and type the last line of the verse.

“How much can you lose? How much can you win?”

Then I take a breath, hit send, and start packing up the rest of my shit.

Emilia Johnson finished a book on Goodreads about an hour ago via Goodreads

Oh the Places You’ll Go!

34 people like this

I have $28.37. Crap. That’s not going to cut it. But I need to get back to Daytona, so I send a text to Dad and pace the floor by the front door while I wait for his reply.

No problem, bug.

A relieved sigh floats from my mouth and I tap back.

I’m sorry. I hate to ask, but I just spent the last of my summer money.

It’s okay. It’s going into your account right now.

Just 50, right? And I’m paying you back as soon as I can.

Don’t worry about it.

Thank you, Dad.

Drive safe.

Sail safe.

I jam my phone into my pocket and grab my keys off the hook at Eve and Paul’s apartment.

I have three and a half hours to figure out what I’ll say to the man I love … and hopefully get him back.

My hand automatically wraps around the door handle at the condo, then I jerk it back. I don’t live here anymore. I sigh and knock a few times, taking a step back.

There’s no answer.

I knock again.

Nada.

Maybe he’s asleep. I’m pushing back massive nerves as I pull my phone out and call Eric. I doubt he’ll answer, but I have to—

“Hey, Em.”

I freeze, his voice striking so many different chords in my hollowed out chest. It’s the first time he’s chosen to speak to me, minus that email. I want to go straight into a speech about how much I miss him and love him, and how he’s still my best friend and I’m sorry about every single thing I did to make him upset, but none of that comes out.

“Um, hi. I’m at the condo to pick up my stuff.” Damn the tremors in my voice.

“It’s open. Everything should be on the kitchen table.”

“You’re not here?” It’s nearly midnight.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m at the beach.”

“Oh.” Piece by piece, my splintered heart drops into my stomach. “Okay.”

He hangs up, and I keep the phone pressed to my ear longer than I should, wishing he’d magically come back on the line.

But he doesn’t. I try to be okay with that, but I’m not.

I bring the phone down and open the door. There are only a few things I left behind. Stuff he easily could’ve mailed, but for some stupid reason, I thought that email meant maybe I had a chance if I came to see him.

Putting the phone into my back pocket, I step toward all my crap. There’s a pink cami—the one he stained with fish oil, and then pickle juice. I don’t know why I kept it, because I’m never going to wear it again, but I snuggle it to my chest, and dig around. Apparently I had some clothes in the wash when I left, including a pair of dangle panties and pajama shorts. And when I pick those up, I uncover a worn copy of
Green Eggs and Ham.
It’s not mine, so I open the binding to a note from Eric.

My
tin’a
said to make sure you take this with you when you go back to school. I may have mentioned it’s your favorite one.

His mom … right. Eric always listens to his mom. I let go of that moment of hope, and tuck it in with my clothes.

I get the table clear, but there’s one thing I’m missing, and I know I left it here. Setting my bag near the hall closet, I make my way into the bathroom. I switch on the light, heart aching as I take in its emptiness. How can so many romantic things happen in a bathroom? In tomato juice? Fully clothed in a shower? But they did, and I pull back the curtain to an empty shower caddy.

No yellow froggy loofah.

My arm drops to my side. He probably cut it into pieces or chucked it in the ocean. I blink back tears and turn the light off on my way out. I snatch my bag and don’t look at the LoveSac, don’t gaze at the balcony, don’t take in any of the memories I have of this place, and I shut the door behind me.

What a waste. Fifty bucks of my dad’s money for a stained shirt, five-dollar panties, and a used book … okay, I like the book. Actually, I love the book. Except I’ll hear it in Eric’s voice and get pissed at myself all over again for being such an idiot.

Ugh! I can’t win.

I stuff the bag in the backseat and yank my phone out. I press that button on the side that I think I’ve only pressed once … and that was when I bought it. It flashes my provider’s name across the screen, then goes black.

Off.

I am offline completely now. If I didn’t feel like shit, it’d probably feel incredible.

Leaning over the seat, I click open my glove box and shove my phone inside.

Then I bend over the steering wheel and handle this alone.

Alone.

And that’s okay. It’s okay to cry alone. To find comfort in yourself. Not in an instant message or text or email or even a sad-faced emoticon.

There’s a little flame of hope I grasp onto, that maybe he didn’t throw that stupid sponge away. Maybe he packed it in his bag. Maybe he kept it. Maybe … just maybe.

I swipe under my eyes, check them in the mirror, and get out of the car. I came here to see him, not grab my things. So that’s what I’m going to do.

My stomach feels like I ate a bunch of lead for dinner as I make my way around the condos, over the boardwalk, and down the beach. I scan the shoreline and see him sitting with his feet in the waves, leaning on his knees. I take cautious steps toward him, toes digging into the sand, and every time the tide comes up, I freeze till it retreats. Eric hasn’t stopped looking at the water, even when I get within hearing distance.

“You can head back in there,” I call out over the sound of the ocean. Eric doesn’t turn, but I see his back tense. I take another cautious step, ignoring the twisting in my gut as the tide comes up against the shore. “I—I got it all.”

He looks over his shoulder and nods. And that’s it for my hope that he meant something by that email. I curl in on myself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear when the warm summer breeze blows it across my face. I close my eyes for courage and take another step toward that deep water.

“You know, I hadn’t read that one,” I say, and his eyebrows pull in. “
Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
I can see why it’s your favorite.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and that small movement causes a spark to ignite in my core, licking up my sides. I rub my arms and he nods again, eyes dropping to the sand.

“It’s no
Green Eggs and Ham.
”

That spark grows, sliding up to my neck.

“You’re right.” I dare a grin. “It’s probably better.”

His mouth turns up farther and I can’t stop that spark from zapping all around my body. I take another step forward.

“You know, I’m not out here because you were in there,” he says, eyes going back to the water. “I—I needed to calm down, and the water helps.”

He’s opening up to me. Talking to me. Once that registers, what he’s actually saying makes its way into my brain.

“Calm down?”

“Yeah. With moving and not knowing exactly what I’m going to do … it’s all new and I’m … I’m not good with new.”

I bite down on my lip and scratch my arm. “I thought you were pretty good with us.”

His eyes flick to mine and he cocks his head a little to the side. “You weren’t new, Em.”

I snort, because everything about us was new. We may have known each other for five years, but we hadn’t fallen in love till just recently. We hadn’t kissed or touched like we did.

Eric shifts in the water, letting one of his knees fall to the sand. “You weren’t,” he counters my obvious disagreement. “Everything about you was familiar. Your laugh, your blush, your weird faces, the way you eat, how you wear your hair … the way you look at me. It wasn’t new.”