“I called her, and she told me I could come in,” she corrects me.
“I’m glad you have someone to talk to; it’s important, but I can’t understand why you can’t talk to me? I want to be here for you and support you in any way I can. I’ve tried to make that clear, and I’m sorry if I haven’t done a good enough job at showing you.” I stand up from the couch and walk over to where she’s standing, trying my hardest to make the necessary effort here. Grabbing her hand, I hold it up to my heart. “This is killing me, T. Whatever has been going on with you or us these past couple of months, it’s hurting me a lot. I love you. I want to see you happy again, and I want us to be the way we were.”
Her voice breaks as she begins to talk. “The only ‘us’ you know is from the time we were dating until the time I got knocked up.” I hate that she still refers to the pregnancy as getting knocked up. She’s not eighteen. “I was happy.”
“Well, we can get back to that.” I sound like I’m trying to fix something she might not want fixed. It’s a fear I’ve desperately tried to avoid considering.
“We can’t,” she says.
“Okay, so if we can’t go back to what we were last year, at least treat me like your husband. Talk to me. Use me as a second therapist. Let me in, Tori. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
She pulls her hand out of my grip and takes a step back. “If I tell you what’s wrong, it would mean I’d have to start at the beginning, and that’s not something I can do.”
“You told your therapist everything from the beginning,” I argue.
She clutches her purse against her chest and narrows her eyes at me as if I just said the most degrading thing I’ve ever said to her. “My therapist has known me since I was thirteen years old. I don’t have to tell her everything from the beginning because she was there at the beginning.”
“What does that even mean?” I plead, needing some kind of answer or hint as to what she’s talking about.
“It means; I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But, I want to talk to you.” Isn’t this what I’m supposed to be doing for the woman I love? Fighting for her. Is this what love is? Because if it is, it fucking sucks.
“I know,” she cries. “When I can figure out how to start from the beginning, I promise, you will be the first person I do it with.” And that has been the biggest and most important thing she has said to me since the day I met her.
From the beginning…my mind isn’t going anywhere good, and it’s circling around a thousand thoughts of what she could be referring to. She comes from a good family—wealthy, happy, and put together. It’s not adding up.
“Fine,” I tell her. “I’m here when you want to talk. Even if that’s never.” She presses her lips together, and takes the step back toward me. Her hands press into my shoulders and she rises up on her toes to kiss me, a soft and very quick kiss, yet the most affection she’s shown me in what must be more than a month now.
“I love you for understanding,” she mutters. “Thank you for sticking with me through all of this.”
Through all of what? It’s like I missed some kind of world-changing event that evidently happened right in front of my eyes. That doesn’t just happen.
CHAPTER SIX
TWELVE YEARS AGO
IT’S BEEN EIGHT weeks and three days since Cammy told me that she and her family were leaving Connecticut. She didn’t know when, how quick or slow the process would be, but her parents made her miss the last two months of school, as well as graduation.
I’ve been sitting on the back bleachers, away from the crowd—away from the parents with cameras, and my classmates who are signing each other’s caps and other memorable tokens from our high school days. I’m here and I did my thing, for Mom and Dad. That’s all I’m giving though. It didn’t feel right receiving my diploma the way I know Cammy dreamt about receiving hers. She shouldn’t have been forced to miss this. I took pictures for Cammy and kept her on the phone during the speeches so she could at least listen. She’s a glutton for punishment and wanted to hear the ceremony, so I helped her do that.
When Principal Valler yelled, “Congratulations!” to our class, Cammy disconnected the call. I don’t know how she listened as long as she did. When I’m finally alone, with a moment to breathe air that isn’t being shared with my three hundred classmates, I call her back. The phone rings a number of times but she picks up, hoarse voice and all. “Hi,” she says quietly into the phone. “Sorry—”
“You have nothing to apologize for. This isn’t fair.”
“It’s not just that, AJ,” she says, though my name is hardly audible with the increasing weakness within her voice.