Drew.
You do not have permission. Do not use these photos for this award. Withdraw from the competition. And never contact me again.
Evie.
82
Evie
I get settled on the grass overlooking the lake, turn my face to the sun, and take a deep breath in a fruitless attempt to ground myself. Then I open my messages. More spam has entered my inbox in the five minutes since I left the gym, and I scroll through, looking for Drew’s email.
I think of him often.
Even when things were amazing with Oliver in the early days, I never really felt like myself with him. I was always trying to be the person he wanted. Scared to eat in front of him. Worried about my body. Questioning every step, wishing I was different, or more, or better.
With Drew, I cared only about being alive in the world. I was present in the simplicity of our existence. Of course, at the time my immature teenage perspective interpreted this as comfortable. It couldn’t be romantic because it was so stress-free and simple.
Oliver scared me, in a way I thought was all part of falling in love. The intensity of it was so exhilarating I convinced myself it was real because it felt dangerous. But Oliver’s increasing vigilance over my life only pinched me further. He constantly chiseled pieces off me. Sculpted me into the woman he wanted.But he carved out everything inside me at the same time, and now there’s nothing left but the brittle shell I’ve become.
Where is Drew’s message? I’m sure I’ve seen these emails from Amazon already, reminding me of books left in my cart. Yes, I’m now back at messages that came in overnight.
I type his name into the search bar and it filters the inbox. No results. That can’t be right. The message from earlier should be there, along with others he’s sent me over the years. One telling me he’d had the tests done after we told him about Harriet. Further back, something about the arrangements for his mum’s funeral. They’re not there, though. None of them are. Including today’s with my photos.
I panic. I can’t even remember his address. He’s not coming up in contacts at all in my email app, so I switch to my texts.
There he is. I’m ridiculously relieved to see his name. Sad that the last messages we exchanged were four years ago, and only terse little snippets—me thanking him for doing the testing for Oliver. Him telling me he wasn’t doing it for him, he was doing it for his niece.
“He’s not seeing her,” Oliver had said, once she was home again. “Family only.”
“Drewisfamily,” I’d argued.
“Immediate family, I mean.” Oliver has always been intent on reducing everything to the smallest common denominator. Him and me. He’d been gruff and annoyed and all kinds of impatient. My pressing the issue about Drew had cost me days of silent treatment.
Drew hung around anyway. He never gave up on his niece. Then there were all the gifts he sent her, which she was never given.We don’t want to spoil her, Evie, just because Drew wants to buy her affections.
It makes me shudder.
Could you resend your email? I’ve lost it, I type to Drew now.
Message failed. Tap to retry.
I tap.
Message failed.
How could it have failed? I open the internet browser and type:What does it mean when a message won’t go through?
Result:You may have the wrong number. You may not have sufficient cellular service. The person you are messaging may have blocked you.
Blocked me? And recalled the email, perhaps? You can do that these days, can’t you? I wish I’d replied at the gym the second I received it. I’m not prepared for how lost I feel without access to him, even though it’s been years of struggling through on my own. Big tears well in my eyes and I choke down a rising sob. I just can’t understand how my life went so far off the rails. I should have left Oliveryearsago—when he first started closing in my life, needing to know where I was, shutting out all the people who matter most.
I shouldn’t be almost thirty and crying in a park, wishing I was sixteen again and could go back and do everything differently.
I’m still having the existential crisis over my life choices when Oliver finds me. The car screeches into the lot, he slams the door, pulls Harriet out of the back seat, and tosses her onto his shoulders. I’d recognize his determined strides from a mile away. Determined, angry strides, in this case, even with his daughter in tow—though he has a knack for making everything feel fun with her, so she mistakes his mood for horseplay.Harriet squeals at his blistering approach. I wish he’d put her down, and I wonder what I’ve done now.
The fear dries my tears. I sense my body tensing. Preparing. Gathering what little strength I have left in my muscles and mind and soul. The adrenaline starts its well-worn course through tired veins, sick of the fight or flight. Craving peace, I put on my “everything is okay” Harriet face.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Oliver says when he reaches me, pulling Harriet down off his shoulders and scooping her through the air like she’s coming in to land. He did not. I’ve never been in this park in my life. He tracked me here.
