Hold My Breath(11)

Idle time is my worst enemy today, though. Maybe it was seeing Will, talking with him. Or maybe this is just one of those things I’ve needed to do for a long time. Closure comes from a lot of acts. That’s what my therapist drilled into my head before I quit going. No amount of therapy is going to heal the wound left behind when the love of your life gets ripped from your heart, but maybe I can get some relief from it for just a little while. Perhaps closure is a thing.

My mom’s step ladder is barely tall enough, so I end up stepping on the lower shelves of my old bedroom closet to steady myself enough to reach the dusty box, still taped shut, pushed high near the ceiling. A layer of dust cascades down on my eyelids when I finally reach it, and I wipe my face with my shirt as I cough my way back to my mattress bed.

Mom wouldn’t let me throw these things away. I hated her for it, but I’m sort of glad right now. I might change my mind when I rip the tape away and look inside, though.

I dig my dull nail into the taut tape along the edge, near the lid, sawing for almost a minute and finally making a tear that rips completely. I flip the lid without giving myself a chance to back out, and I’m hit with the worst immediately. The photo on top is from Christmas Eve. It’s one of those small Polaroid ones. Evan is cradling me, and my head is slung back with laughter. His handwriting spells out TRUE LOVE ALWAYS on the bottom. He liked to tease me with things like that, like our love was out of some high-school yearbook or some teen-movie special. He ran out of room for the ALWAYS, so there’s an arrow pointing to the back of the image where he finished writing the word. I laugh as I turn it in my hand and read it. I also wipe away my tear.

I breathe in deep and hold my lungs full, my eyes focused on the layers of photos, notes, and memories in the small shoebox in front of me.

“Closure, huh?” I whisper to myself, lifting the next few photos and spreading them out on the sheets in front of me. The feeling that rushes over me is not what I expected. I don’t cry, other than that initial tear, and I don’t feel a shock or surprise or pang at seeing these photos. I feel the same dull ache that’s always there, constantly there, and with every new photo or note or memento I pull from the box, nothing changes. I think it’s because I see every single one of these memories in my sleep. They’re with me always. And seeing them laid out before me in the flesh, it’s just more of the same.

As I pile the photos back into the box, a thought occurs to me. My smile—it’s so bright. Every single photo of us as a couple, my teeth practically glow. I hold the one of me laughing in my hands, close to my face, and I can almost hear the sound I made. Before I realize it, I’m smiling at the image. The ache is there, but the visual—it’s made me happy. I am glad I didn’t throw them away.

I slide my fingers along the mattress and pick up the last few pictures left out. One image catches my eye, so I leave it to the side, putting the rest away. I don’t recognize this one, but I remember the day it was taken. I don’t know that I ever really saw the photo, and I’m not sure how it got into this bunch, but my chest starts to thump rapidly looking at it, almost like I’m…nervous.

I’m pretty sure I was fourteen, and Will…he’s sixteen. I know it because this was the summer he grew. The Hollister boys blindfolded me and took me down to Peterson Lake to see their surprise, and they didn’t pull the cloth away until my hands were wrapped around the scratchy rope and my feet were balanced on the small piece of wood fused to the bottom. They’d always talked about making a rope swing, and they finally made it.

I was nervous on it, unsteady on my feet, maybe a little untrusting of the wood that had been singed into the rope. The fall wasn’t far, but it was enough to leave me frozen. Will promised to take my first swing with me. Seeing the way his arms wrapped around me, his hands dwarfing mine on the rope while his body cradled mine a breath before we both kicked off and swung our way into the icy, crystal-blue water, brings back the rush of feelings I had that day—that moment.

Will always felt older, even older than he was. Maybe it was the way his body had changed. Or perhaps it was the fact that I was fourteen and growing more curious about my body, feeling things. Puberty is a twisted bitch, and I’m sure it was at work then, too. When Will held me, he didn’t let go—not even in the water. And I remember it as if it was just minutes ago, because at the time, I didn’t want him to let go. I didn’t want him to let go at all. And when he did, I got scared because feeling something like that, for Will Hollister, wasn’t how my story was supposed to go. He was older, and my crush had always been on Evan.

None of that explains the beating in my chest right now, though. My hand trembles holding the photo, so I grab my wrist with my free hand.

“Stop,” I tell myself.

I pull the lid onto the box and climb the ladder, leaning to put one foot on the shelving system as I slide the box back into the darkness and dust. I leave the photo of me and Will out, though. I’m not done looking at it, and that isn’t okay.





Will




My stomach is so tight I don’t think I could even convince my muscles to help me throw up if I wanted to. My left knee has been bouncing for the entire drive back to the club; I race into the driveway with enough force that my wheels spin out a little on the rocks.

I’m not sure why I’m in such a hurry. There’s no deadline for anything, and having to look Curtis in the eye before I take off isn’t going to be a pleasure. Hell, I should have driven slower and maybe he’d have been gone for the day.