“GPS can get us to Venice Beach, but that could be a lot of houses,” says Nick.
“Well, I’ll need your help for that,” I say. “She also said it was a corner lot with a yellow house and a red surfboard on the porch. I don’t think I could pick all that out from a moving car.”
“No problem, we got you,” says Nick.
We weave through the narrow streets of Venice Beach for about three hours. Eventually we find it. The house is such a big bright yellow that even I can see it. And once we are parked out front, I can identify the splotch of red on the porch, too.
“We’ll wait out here,” says Ion. “But if you need anything, we’re here for you.”
“I know you are,” I say.
I’m able to walk without my cane, albeit slowly, across the sidewalk, through the front gate, and up to the porch. I stand there for a moment. What am I going to say? It all comes down to this. We’ve driven halfway across the country, and I’m standing here, and this is my one chance to apologize and win her back. I look over at my friends waiting in the car. I can’t really see them, but the glance is instinctual, like I know it’s what I am supposed to do. It’s where I am supposed to look for support.
I knock and wait.
I hear footsteps behind the door.
Then it opens and she’s standing there.
I wish I was better at reading facial expressions. Is she happy to see me? Angry? Shocked?
Knowing she’s right in front of me makes me feel unsteady. I reach out a hand to grab the porch railing.
“Will?” she says, her voice registering complete confusion.
I’m not sure what I was planning to say, but I blurt out, “Ces, it’s so good to see you.”
I start to raise my arms to hug her but stop myself as she says, “What are you doing here?”
What am I doing here? Isn’t it plainly obvious? I just drove across the country to see you, I think.
“I’m really sorry about your dad,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says. “It was pretty scary, but he’s going to be all right. He’s even promised to start eating better and stuff.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Yeah, really great.”
“But you didn’t answer my question,” she says. “Why are you here? How are you here?”
“We drove, actually,” I say. “Don’t worry, not me personally. Whitford did the driving.”
She doesn’t laugh.
“So…?” she prompts.
Right. She still wants to know why.
Why, indeed? To answer that question could take hours. To completely explain the reason, to tell her what I’ve learned. But in simple terms, she is the reason. But she’s also the one who taught me the reason.
See, I had been kidding myself with this idea that I needed to maintain my independence. In truth, my life has been dependent on others, or at least interdependent with others, since the day I was born. And my story has been woven together with Cecily’s from the moment I transferred to Toano High School. She’s the one who got me to try out to be cohost when I didn’t think I could, who helped me scroll through the announcement script. She’s filled the gaps whenever there were things I couldn’t do for myself. She taught me about art, about beauty, and about sunrises. And she’s filled the emotional gaps, too. Yeah, independence and self-reliance sound nice in theory, but in reality they are just synonyms for loneliness. And before I met Cecily, I was so tired, without even realizing it, so tired of being lonely.
I think through all this, and then blurt out, “Because, Cecily, I was wrong. I always thought I could do life by myself, that I wanted to live independently. But you taught me that if there’s no one to share your experiences with—if there’s no one to look at the painting with, no one to audition with, no one to go to homecoming with—then what’s the point?”
She’s quiet for a while. “Um,” she stammers.
“I love you, Cecily.”
The words just come out automatically, from some truthful part of me that is finally ready to say what’s inside. I don’t think about them; they just happen.
She gasps. “What did you say?”
“I love you,” I repeat, faster and more insistently. “I love you, Cecily.”
“Will…”
But I don’t care whether she loves me back, I just want her to know, right now, for this moment and to remember it always, that this is how I feel about her, and I say, “I’ve loved you for a long time. I loved you before I could see and after I could see. I loved you when I could only imagine your face and after I could look at your face. I love you completely, all of you.”
She’s quiet.
I’m breathing quickly, heavily, like I’m about to cry or start laughing. I feel like something inside my chest—maybe my heart, or my lungs, or something—is expanding and growing, and I need her to speak before it breaks open.
“Well, say something,” I plead.
“You love me?” she asks, pronouncing love like it’s a foreign word.