Some memories are burned into my mind

May 6, 2013

I hunt Tim down on Monday. He doesn’t get to just get off this frikkin easily.

We sit under one of the big oak trees near the gym, a common spot for us to go during lunch. I know I will never be able to come here again without thinking of this. Just like I can't sit on the planter boxes between the two gyms or linger by the brick wall in front of the library because of you.

I let him read a snippet of a rant I wrote about all of this crap. I can’t communicate amazingly verbally and he knows that. But oh, on paper? He is speechless when he finishes.

A moment passes. He hands my notebook back.

 “Jess, I.. it just wouldn’t.. if I had chosen you, if we started dating..” He says this the way you tell people their great aunt who smelled like old couch has died. Delicately, but with little emotion. He doesn’t care, I realize. He doesn’t care.

“People would talk about us so much. They would all talk behind our backs and it just wouldn’t be worth it.”

I blink back the tears but they come through my words, making my voice thick and syrupy.

“I wouldn’t be worth it?”

And now he just looks uncomfortable and still not any sorrier. His silence cuts more than any words he could ever say.

The tears spill over and run down my cheeks and I’m still holding his eyes.

“Take it back. You don’t mean it.”

He holds my eyes with his and I’m shocked at the lack of regret there.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

It’s a slap in the face but I know if I don’t hear it straight out, I will never be able to let him go.

“Don’t what?”

“I don’t love you.”

The tears are the silent, aching kind, drops of regret and sorrow and hurt. The quiet hangs between us, pressing down, suffocating, separating us. I feel something inside of me break, something that I’m not sure can ever be fixed.

“Jess, I—”

“Just go.” My voice is cold and detached and I’m strangely pleased that I can still manage that.

“Ok.” He rises to leave, turning around a couple of feet away and catching my eyes again. “You will always be my best friend.”

I feel the anger and disbelief rising to conquer the hurt and I’m relieved that he leaves before any of the bitter comebacks explode.

I watch him walk away and he doesn’t look back.

I don't stay for sixth block. Mr. Mack must be used to me ditching his guitar class by now anyway. I pause to chat with the supervisor guarding the school gate and then I grab my keys and just go.

I drive my usual route along the back farm roads, music blaring. The flash of sun in my rearview mirror echoes the pain flashing across my mind. My hands are aching from holding the steering wheel so tightly, but at this speed it's like I can't let go. I've taken this road fast before, that's pretty much the only way I drive it, and I know it like the back of my hand. But now my speedometer is edging towards ninety mph, and everything is just unfamiliar blurs, and I'm not sure I've ever felt this out of control.