In two days, he’ll board a plane. He’ll fly halfway around the world. He’ll land in Afghanistan and reunite with his siblings. It’s so simple, and yet… I can’t wrap my head around the idea of him not here—not with me.
“I bet you’re looking forward to getting home,” I say, cringing even as the words leave my mouth. This conversation is forced, falsely polite.If I’d known I wouldn’t have the guts to say what I want to say, I wouldn’t have bothered him with my call.
“Elise.” His voice, his beautiful storm cloud voice, sounds pained, like he’s stretching for something infinitely valuable, yet just out of reach. “I’m happy you called,” he says again, as if he’s trying to cement the notion in his head, “butwhydid you call?”
Stop wishing. Start doing.
I take a deep breath. It doesn’t keep my hands from shaking, but it does make me feel less like I’m going to throw up. “I called because I miss you,” I say. It’s the truth, but only a fraction of it. “I called because the other day in your yard, things went unsaid. I was shocked, and hurt, and so,somad, and I didn’t listen when you tried to explain. I’m sorry for that.”
“You should not be the one apologizing.”
“It’s okay. I needed to get that out.”
“Do you feel better?”
“No. I feel terrible.”
“I’m sorry, too,” he says after a moment’s pause.
“Because I found out?”
“No. Because I didn’t tell you myself. My reasons for keeping Panra secret were wrong. What you said was true: I knew you’d think differently of me if I told you what waited at home. You, not a part of this summer… I couldn’t let it happen.”
“You were selfish,” I say.
He’s quiet, and I worry I’ve pulled the plug on his honesty. Then, softly, he says, “I was.”
I fold over to rest my head against Bambi’s, comforted by her presence, by Mati’s voice. Since he’s being so forthcoming, I whisper one of my truths. “I wish I could hate you. Life would be so much easier. I keep wondering… Why do I still care?”
“Have you arrived at an answer?”
I breathe through the ache behind my ribs. “Because I know now how it feels to lose you.”
“Gutted,” he says. “Like a snared fish.”
“I was going to go with hollow, like a tree left to rot on the forest floor.”
“And you think you’re not good with words.”
I laugh, tinny and stuttered. “You’re better. Have you been writing?”
“Page after page. Lines wrought with angst. I don’t think you’d be impressed.”
“Oh, I bet I would.” It feels good, this lightness after days of dark, but I can’t forget what’s next: the detailed reality of his future, and the terrifying blankness of mine. “So. Two days?”
“Two days. I’d give anything to spend them with you.”
“Two days with your secret girlfriend before you take off to woo your fiancé?”
“Elise.” There’s conflict in the strained way he says my name, and that old ember of hope sparks to life. “I can’t promise she won’t be a part of my life, but now, after the last week, I can’t tell you that shewill. If I were thinking only of myself, the decision to return to America one day, to start a new life as a student and a writer, a life withyou, would be simple. But my choices impact others, and I cannot be careless when so much is at stake.”
“Mati, if you come back to America, do it for you. Or, go somewhere else—France or Brazil or, God, Japan. Somewhere that’ll make you happy. Be with someone you choose—someone you love. Live the life you want to live.”
“Someday, maybe I could.”
I want him to say more; I want him to sayI will. I want to fall asleep knowing his future holds pleasure and contentment, even if I can’t be a part of it.
“If I promise to think about it,” he says, “can I see you before I go?”
