Page 58 of All The Ways to Miss You

He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even bother to defend himself. He glances away as though he can see something between us I can’t.

I wish I could see it too, because under the glow of the streetlight, he’s achingly gorgeous, but right now I hate him for making me want him. I hate him more for making me give him up a second time.

My arms flapping in the rain with frustration, I ramble, spilling more secrets than I intend. “You know, you were right from the beginning. Somehow, you know me better than I know myself. The truth is I can’t handle one night with you, because I’ve been dreaming about you nonstop. If we do this again, it’ll wreck me, and that’s exactly why I’m done.”

twenty-five

Wet footsteps trail me as I climb the stairs. Water rolls down my arms, dripping from my fingertips. My shoes squish as forming blisters burn and rub at my heels. All the while my heart’s breaking for the second time after.

At the top landing, Mr. Gusterson stands in his bathrobe watching me. He’s a human pigpen, smelly and unkempt, clawing at a bag of Garrett’s Popcorn before tossing pieces into his open mouth. He chews too loudly, and with each crunch, my shoulder twitches.

“What are you looking at?” I snap as I stomp past.

“Cable’s out. Thank God for you two.” Through his nose, he chuckles in a low, raspy tone.

The sound grates on my nerves, causing my back to straighten. I pause with my hand on my doorknob, considering a comeback worthy of his jab, but I’ve never been good at that. Not to my knowledge, anyway. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child. Or maybe I’m tired of fighting.

Whatever the reason, I compose myself, take a deep breath, and open my door. When I’m inside though, I can’t help slamming it shut. Maybe he’ll get the message. Show’s over!

I kick off my shoes and peel drenched clothing from my skin before dropping it in a soggy pile at my feet. With the sopped stack gathered in my arms, I head down the hall.

In the doorway of the bathroom, I halt at the sight of what’s sitting on top of the vanity. A gift. A new set of fluffy white towels wrapped with a Tiffany-colored ribbon. The key chain Evan stole from Aggie sit on top.

I squeeze my laundry. Cold water releases and dribbles down my bare stomach and naked legs. For now, I toss the clothes in the tub before I turn to face the gift. I circle it, unwilling to touch it right away.

My instinct is to take the stack to the window and launch it out front so Evan finds them scattered across his planter tomorrow. I still may do that, but I can’t help but snatch up the card to read it first.

Replacements for your grandmother’s ugly towels.

—E

Ozzy’s seated in a wheelchair on the sidewalk, waiting for me when I arrive by taxi. The car stops in front of his building near the handicap ramp. I pop open the passenger door, and a medical aide helps him stand and guides Ozzy into the back seat.

“Don’t you look nice,” I say, admiring his porkpie hat.

“It’s not often I have a date.” He adjusts his dapper wool coat, appearing pleased with himself. He grabs my hand, and I squeeze it tight. Today’s a big day. I think he’s nervous too.

The passenger door slams. The taxi zooms off, and ten minutes later we’re parking in front of Ozzy’s home. After some finagling, we stand before it, him leaning against his cane, and me holding on to him. I find myself smiling, but when I look to Ozzy, a sad breath escapes his pursed lips. His weight sinks into me.

“Everything okay? We can do this another day.” I clutch him tighter, giving him more support.

“When Ada and I lived here, ivy crept along that picket fence. Peonies wrapped a wooden trellis that stood over there.” He points his chin to the side yard. “And beneath the windows, she planted the most beautiful cornflower-blue hydrangeas I’d ever seen. The blooms were as big as melons. It might have been the smallest house on the street, but it was always the prettiest and happiest.” He clucks his tongue. “Not much to look at now, is it?”

He taps his cane as he shuffles. At the door, he pulls the keys from his pocket and hands them over. I unlock the door, and when I push it open, it swings wide with a loud whine. The smell of stale air hits me, and I wince. I turn my head away and cough. Ozzy does the same. I help him inside.

“I’ll open some windows to let in some fresh air.” I leave him sitting in a metal folding chair in the living room.

Though I register Ozzy’s disappointment, I can’t help my own excitement. It’s the first time I’ve been inside the house. Yes, the yard’s overgrown, the rooms are dusty, and the kitchen and baths are outdated, but it’s everything I’ve hoped for.

Beneath the years of neglect sleep beautiful thick moldings, art deco tiles, a marble fireplace, chair railings, and beadboard paneling. Everything’s original and begging to be restored. When I imagined it in my mind, it looked exactly like this, down to the old farmhouse sink. It’s as though I was psychic, and it was meant to be.

It takes some work, but I manage to crack open two windows and prop the back door open with a brick I found in the side yard. With the cool breeze blowing through, the house is already airing out. When I return to Ozzy, he’s slumped in the chair, both hands steady on his cane. Slow tears stream down his dark cheeks.

“Ozzy?” I rush to him.

He glances at me and removes a handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe his eyes. “Breaks my heart to see it like this.”

Seeing him like this breaks my heart. What must it feel like for him to return home after all these years and find it so different than he remembered?