Halfway to You(82)

I ran cold hands over my hot cheeks. When I opened my eyes again, my attention sank to the letters.

Todd’s letters.

Todd.

I knew his number by heart, and though my hands shook, my fingers flew over the buttons on the phone base. As the phone rang, my shakes grew worse. I hit the speaker button and sat back, waiting. The phone seemed to ring forever.

“Hello?”

His voice took me back to that moment four years before, when he had said it was over. He sounded the same. I felt the same. With Todd, time wasn’t linear. Time didn’t heal. Time was inconsequential—it could slow down to a moment, or speed through years, but he was constant.

You travel to forget. Buried under the rubble of my anger: a kernel of truth in Keith’s words.

“Hello?” Todd asked again. “Helloooo?” His line whooshed and creaked as if he were about to hang up.

“Wait,” I finally managed.

“Ann?”

I gripped the bedside table at the sound of my name on his lips. How could he disarm me with only my own name? It was an unfair superpower.

“Are you there?”

“Yeah, sorry, I—I didn’t expect you to answer.”

I hoped I heard a smile in his voice when he said, “Well, I did.”

Such a simple statement, as if we hadn’t just gone years without speaking.

“Keith’s being a real shithead,” I blurted.

He huffed a laugh, and I heard what I thought were sheets crinkling.

“I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“No, no. I was reading.” The echo of his voice changed, perhaps from walking into another room. “So Keith’s being a shithead.”

“He thinks I should return to Italy.”

“Where are you now?”

“Lima.”

“Ah. And you don’t want to leave?”

“I . . .” I trailed off. I didn’t know what I wanted. My argument with Keith had unearthed all my uncertainty. “I’ve been volunteer teaching, and it’s so rewarding. You wouldn’t believe the kids, Todd. They’re amazing. Smart and warm and eager to learn.”

“But Keith wants another book,” Todd said.

“We got into a huge argument. Just now. I tried to call back, but he’s not picking up.”

“So you want me to try him?”

“No, I . . .”

He waited.

“I just wanted someone to talk to, I guess.”

“Oh.” A bright, buttery vowel.

“Is that okay?”

“Of course that’s okay,” Todd said. “That’s always okay.”

The inside of my nose stung, and I blinked, trying to keep the emotion from my voice when I said, “He accused me of running. From my problems.”

“Are you?”

I tucked my knees up close to my body and rested my chin on them, my back pressed into the headboard. Teaching was a crutch—a way to feel needed without commitment. You’re a tourist, Todd had once told me. Maybe it was time to listen to what he and Keith were saying.

“I guess so,” I admitted.

“I hate it when Keith’s right.”

That made me chuckle. “It’s the worst, isn’t it?”

“The absolute worst,” Todd said emphatically.

We both paused—an amiable silence. I noticed the hum of the city outside my window again, but with Todd on the other end of the phone, the sounds didn’t seem so empty or foreign. I didn’t feel so alone.

“You sent letters,” I said.

“Indeed.”

“I had Carmella forward my mail to this hotel. I only just received them. I’ve been teaching in a pretty remote area.”

“Regardless of what Keith says, I bet you’re great at teaching.”

“It’s been amazing, but . . .” I considered Keith’s words with an open mind, facing the truth of them. “It’s not what I’m meant to do, I don’t think.”

“You miss Rome.”

“I do.”

“I bet the stoop cats miss you,” Todd said. “Carmella skimps on all her portions.”

A dismissive pah escaped my lips. “Gluttonous American sensibilities.”

“You know I’m right. Remember that pumpkin pasta she made?”

“I could’ve bathed in that.”

“Right, but how big was the portion?”

“That’s one example.”

“What about the melon soup, or that pesto—”

“Fine, you have a point.” I stretched my legs out, crossing them at my ankles. It might as well have been the old days, talking to Todd like this. My heart swelled like a book in the rain, my feelings pulpy and delicate.

“So . . . ,” Todd drawled, “did you see Machu Picchu?”

“I did.”

“Was it—”

“Why did you write to me, Todd?” I interrupted. “I’m sorry, I just—I’m surprised.”

“You haven’t read them.” Not a question.

I retrieved one of the letters from the stack, smoothing its bent corners. “Not yet.”

“Right.” He paused a beat. “Well, I read ‘Ashes.’”