“Look Xavier, we were both different people back then. And I’m sorry that I broke your trust.” Of all the thoughts that held my mind captive in the weeks and months after I moved out of the house, it’s the ones where he emphasized the importance of us being able to trust that stuck with me the longest. “I know now that it was an immature decision and that I could have told you what I was feeling.”
My hope is that if I tell him these things, he won’t need to reopen the wounds that have healed. “And please don’t regret anything. If we hadn’t gone our separate ways, you wouldn’t have Jacob in your life today. And even when you’re uncertain of your parenting skills, I see how much you love him. You wouldn’t trade him for the world.”
The pain on his face softens as he takes in my words. The corner of his mouth quirks up as he subtly nods his agreement. “True, but that doesn’t change the fact that I overreacted that night.”
There’s the understatement of the century. It’s the one fact that allowed me to turn my grief to anger for so long. While I fully own the fact that I lied to him, I’ve never understood why telling him I was going to stay home and then going out for the night was enough for him to abandon me.
No, you will not go there again.
“Xavier…” This time, I’m not sure I have anything to say to him. Agreeing won’t make him feel any better. And I can’t dispute what he said because he’s right. “What’s done is done. While I appreciate the apology, you can’t beat yourself up for what you did or didn’t do.”
“You’re right,” he agrees, taking a sip of his coffee. The waiter delivers sandwiches that I’m almost certain are going to remain untouched. Well, he might be able to eat, but I’ve lost my appetite at this point. “But there is one thing I need to know.”
I cock my head to the side, unsure why he sounds nervous now. As I study him, he straightens the silverware in front of him over and over, sometimes only moving the knife or fork a millimeter. “What’s that?” I ask uncertainly. The awkwardness between us seems to be slithering its way back into the room.
“Why did you disappear?” he asks, his face once again pained. But this time, the sadness is because of something he thinks I did. Which is ludicrous because I became a hermit, never leaving home unless I was at class because I didn’t want to miss his call.
“What are you talking about? You knew where to find me and you never bothered calling,” I say bitterly. I curl my toes tightly in my sandals, praying I will be able to keep him from seeing how agitated his accusation has me. Of all the places I anticipated this conversation heading, him telling me that I disappeared on him didn’t even hit my radar.
“That night, I told you that I needed time to think,” he reminds me. The tick in his jaw indicates that we’re dangerously close to this discussion escalating to an argument. “What did you think I meant by that? When I realized what I had done, I tried calling you, but every time, Stacey told me you didn’t want to talk to me.”
This makes no sense. I never told her that. In fact, I cried every single day because he hadn’t called. She knew how badly I wanted to have one last chance to talk to him. To find out how he could throw what we had away so easily.
“If she said that, I’m sorry. Xavier, you have to know how hard it was for me after you said goodbye. I thought we were going to be together forever. That’s what you said the day you handed me the keys to the house. That it was our forever home.” I swallow the lump in my throat that’s making it hard to breathe, much less continue speaking. “And then there was the letter--”
“What letter?” he asks, completely sailing past upset to utterly pissed off. Until this very moment, I have never doubted the authenticity of the letter I found sitting on my kitchen table about a month after he left me. I read it so many times that the paper was soft from my gripping it tightly, the ink blurred by my tears.
“I came home from school one day and there was a letter from you at the apartment,” I say, carefully watching his reaction. He shakes his head, his mouth hanging slightly open as blinks rapidly, trying to figure out what I’m talking about. It’s this reaction, combined with the knowledge that my so-called best friend was intercepting his calls that causes me to bury my head in my hands. “You didn’t write that letter, did you?”
I ask the question more for confirmation than anything else. It was common knowledge that Stacey didn’t care for him, but I never would have thought that she would have stooped so low as to actively work to keep us from reconciling. Anything I felt when we started talking has been replaced by the sinking feeling of betrayal. I wish I was back home so I could call her and ask her why she felt the need to do this to me.