“Okay. Night, Em. Hey, you know what this reminds me of?” he said.
“When I was in foster care and we used to talk late at night?”
“Yeah, exactly . . . I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Night, Jase.”
He didn’t ask if I had made a decision about Trevor. When I thought about it, Jase hadn’t even said anything about a relationship between him and me. It seemed obvious, but was I really going to throw away seven years with Trevor to see if Jase could even handle a real, adult relationship?
IN THE MORNING, Cara was sitting at the breakfast bar, eating cereal and reading a magazine. “I can’t believe you’re home,” she said. “I haven’t see you in forever.”
“I know. I was helping Trevor.”
She stopped eating. “Kinda sad that he went from, like, superstar to super addicted.”
“He’s not a bad person. He’s a little lost, but he’s not a loser.”
She gave me a sympathetic look. “I know, Emi. So, have you thought more about what you’re going to do?”
“Yeah.” I sat down next to her. “I’m torn.”
“You’ll figure it out.” She continued eating.
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“Did you write the piece for Professor James yet?” she asked through a mouthful of Cap’n Crunch.
“No, but I will.” I hadn’t asked Cara anything about her life lately, and I realized I wasn’t being a good friend. “What’s new with you?”
She stopped chewing and swallowed. Her eyes darted around the room. “Don’t hate me, okay?”
“What?” My stomach started turning.
“I got an agent, and one of my stories is being published in the New Yorker next month.” She made a face like she had eaten a sour grape.
“That’s fantastic! Cara, you are so talented. You deserve every bit of it.” I hugged her.
“You seem different, Em.” Cara had never called me “Em” before she read the book. “You just seem more confident or something.”
“Maybe you see me differently now that you know me.”
She scowled. “I thought I already knew you.”
“No, now that you really know me.”
“Hmm.” She nodded. “Do you think Trevor knows the real you?”
“Probably not. If you really think about it, Trevor and I really don’t know each other at all.” I walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. “We’ve kept a lot from one another. He’s a good guy, he really is, but I think we’ve just never gotten to know what makes the other person tick.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to stand by him. I’m doing the right thing. We’ll figure it out.”
THE NEXT DAY, I tried to visit Trevor in rehab, but they told me it wasn’t family and friends day and that he was in that crucial period of detoxing.
Later in the afternoon, he was able to call me.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi, hello, how are you?”
I barely recognized his voice. “You okay, Trevor?”
“Not really. My shoulder is fucking killing me. The food here is disgusting, and the people are assholes.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said genuinely.
“No, you’re not. If you were sorry you would have helped before calling my parents, but you just wanted to get rid of me so you could go back to your precious Jase, even though I’ve been the one by your side listening to you whine about your terrible writing all these years.”
Be strong, Em.
“Okay, Trevor, that’s enough.” I knew he was sick and being irrational.
“I can’t believe I wasted all these years with you.” He was getting progressively meaner. Growing up around my dad had taught me how to react to addicts, but the words still hurt, even if I didn’t show it.
“I love you and you love me.”
“No, Emi, you’re wrong. I nothing you.”
I hung up and reminded myself once again that it was the drugs talking.
My second conversation with him wasn’t any better. But by the third time we talked, almost ten days after he started rehab, his tone had changed. He seemed tired, but I could tell he was coming around.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hi.” His voice was low, soft, and distant.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“I’m tired. I’ve had a hard time sleeping, and my arm hurts pretty bad.” He took a deep breath. “They’re bringing in a physical therapy specialist to try to help me get it straightened out without drugs.”
“Oh, Trevor, I’m so glad to hear that. I want nothing more than for you to feel strong again.”
“Thanks, Emi. Can I call you in a couple of days when I have more energy?”
“Sure. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
By the end of Trevor’s third week in rehab, I had written twenty thousand words basically chronicling my discovery of All the Roads Between, and how I’d found Jase at the bookstore. I had turned in ten thousand words to Professor James earlier in the month, and I was finally walking to his office to meet with him.
“Hello, sir.”
He grinned. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our resident memoirist.”
I swallowed. “That’s not what I had planned.”