He’s coming back today.
The new condo I bought still smells like wet paint. And despite all the furniture deliveries, it still feels empty. Too clean. Too quiet. The only room that’s ready is the second bedroom, and only because I hired a decorator for it. It’s done up in shades of grey and blue, Ari’s favorite color, with a mural of a vibrant sunset spanning one wall opposite a view of the Raleigh skyline.
Beneath the large picture window is a writing desk, the notebook I found left behind lying on top. The pages are so worn that it’s obvious I’ve read every page probably a million times. I’m not sure a day has gone by that I haven’t run my fingers over the lines, desperate to see his handwriting despite having committed every word to memory.
You don’t love me, you love the scars
The parts of me that never ask for more
You pull me close just to push me back
I’m everything you want—except that
Of all the pain in his notebook, those words gutted me the most. He’s wrong, but he’s also not. He is what I want, but it’s not something I can let myself have. It would only hurt him in the end. I love him both for and despite his scars, but I can admit to myself now that I benefitted from the pieces of him that came from trauma. I thrived on him needing me. I basked in his attention, and let him put me on a pedestal.
Ari was the one person who always chose me, every single time. In the end, it was choosing himself that really opened my eyes to just how much I took him for granted. Life isn’t the same without the effervescent lightness that surrounds him.
I straighten the bed pillows one more time and run my hand over the soft throw folded at the foot of the bed. It was probably stupid of me to buy a place with him in mind, to expect that this is ultimately where he’ll land. I told myself it was practical rather than hopeful. Hope would be presumptuous. Like if I’d gotten a one-bedroom and imagined him coming back to my bed where he belongs.
Where hebelonged.
I keep telling myself it’s just being prepared. Naz is in the same building, so we can go to and from rehearsals together.
The truth is, I still don’t know how to exist without Ari orbiting my life. Without his presence softening the edges.
He’s coming back today.
Not to me. But he’s coming back.
Jesse’s mom swats me away from the kitchen island.
“Go sit down and stop hovering, or finish setting the table,” she says playfully. “You’re going to wear a hole in my kitchen floor.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, taking a stack of silverware and setting them around the plates. At least it’s something to do with my hands other than wring them together and fidget.
She gives me an understanding look. We’ve had our fair share of discussions about my falling out with Ari, and while every conversation has been specifically about our brotherly relationship, I’ve always felt like she could see through me. She’s far too perceptive for someone who doesn’t typically meddle.
“He’ll still love you, you know.”
I freeze.
“No matter what happens, you’ll always be each other’s person. You’ll always have the past you’ve shared together and the future you’ve built with each other as a foundation.”
She smiles, gentle and knowing, then turns back to the stove as though she didn’t just drop a bomb on every one of my secret hopes and obvious fears.
Sounds erupt from the front of the condo. Voices and laughter accompany a noticeable shift in the energy that is specific to Ari entering a room.
My body reacts before my brain does. I straighten. My pulse kicks. I walk around to the other side of the island and attempt to lean casually against it. Then walk around to the other side and perch on the end of a barstool. My hands curl and uncurl at my sides as if they won’t be able to keep from grabbing for him.
When he steps inside, everything else goes a little quiet. My eyes drink him in after so many weeks of being starved of the sight of him.
He looks good.
He looks healthy. Thinner, maybe, but his skin is glowing. His eyes are bright, smiling, and awake. He looks happy, I think. It’s a far cry from the man who walked away from me six weeks ago, that’s for sure.
His hair is longer. He’s wearing a baggy band shirt with the sleeves cut deep enough to show a good bit of his milky soft skin, and faded black jeans that hang low on his hips like they always have.
He looks like himself, and also like someone new.
