The End of the World (32 page)

And with that, he pulls the gearshift in reverse.

All the fight in me is gone along with the oxygen in this vehicle.

All of that last-minute, last-chance courage? It’s gone too.

Gone.

This conversation is over.

I climb out of his Ford Explorer on shaky legs, wishing with everything in me that I’d kept my stupid mouth shut. Because all the missing in the world can’t help us now. Not missed opportunities. Not missed chances. Not missing parts of another person’s soul. That’s the thing about missing something; some things are meant to remain that way: longed for and wondered about and thought of fondly.

But missed all the same.

Though
missed
barely touches the hollow space inside me that Cameron once filled. I don’t know how I’m going to live with a hole this size.

I nod, command myself not to cry.

“I’ll miss you.”

It’s all I can manage, but I mean those three words more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life.

His lips open, a tiny gesture that causes my pulse to race, because for the smallest second I think he might reconsider.

The car begins to roll backwards. “I’ll see you around, Shaye.”

In the neighborhood.

At the trial.

At the police station.

On television.

The End.

Those are the words he doesn’t say. That’s what our relationship has come to.

“Okay.” But it’s not. Nothing is.

He drives away.

I watch him go, both eyes stinging with rising tears.

Because this time, I’m not the one choosing to leave.

This time, Cameron Tate chose to leave me.

Cameron

I
hate myself.

And hate is a kind word.

More like loathe. Want to kill. Can barely stomach the sight of me, especially if I happen to be looking in the bathroom mirror at the same moment I recall my awful parting words to Shaye.

I’m moving. I’m leaving. Seeing you will never be enough.

In the five days since I ruled our relationship over and done, I’ve replayed those last moments about a million times in my head. And each time, I come up with the same verdict.

I am a horrible person.

And I’m mad at myself for still living in this apartment, where visions of what could’ve been dance through my head like a bad music video—complete with taunts and shakes and painful off-key lyrics meant specifically to make fun of my solitary, forlorn existence.

I should have asked her to leave Mike.

I should have told her we could start our own family.

I should have asked her if we could at least be friends.

I should have asked her to stay…told her I would take any part of her I could get.

But I didn’t, and now I can’t wait to get out of this place.

I set a stack of notebooks in a box, throw in a few random pens and pencils, toss in a bunch of post-it notes, reach for the packing tape, then heave the box on top of all the others lining the kitchen wall—all evidence of a rapidly shrinking life confined into a series of one-by-one cubes. The walls are bare. The curtains are down. Everything is stripped of its former place except for my double mattress that now sits directly on the floor and the work desk that still holds everything necessary to function in my day-to-day life.

All of it will find its way onto a moving truck exactly one week from today. It’s good. It’s the right thing to do. It’s what I’ve always wanted. An opportunity of a lifetime.

So why does my life feel like a novel that’s rapidly spiraling toward a horrible, horrible ending?

*

Shaye

There’s been a
black cloud hovering over me all week.

And as for joy…I’m fresh out.

Worse, I think Zachary is starting to notice.

“Momma, will you swing with me now?”

I’ve said no every time he’s asked—which is roughly a thousand times since we showed up an hour ago—but I just don’t care. I don’t have the energy. All around me families are swinging with their own kids: fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters, because that’s what you see when you do something as stupid as come to a park on a beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon. The whole place is filled with laughter. The smell of fried chicken keeps wafting in my direction. A pick-up football game is happening right behind me. And the lady to my left keeps rolling around with her dog. It’s a literal picnic in the park. Americana at its best. A freaking Norman Rockwell painting come to life.

I hate it.

Every.

Single.

Second.

“Sure, buddy. I’m coming.”

All I can think is that Cameron said he can’t risk giving me another chance, and it’s no one’s fault but my own.

Giving myself a mental pep talk, I lower myself onto the seat next to Zachary and halfheartedly pump my legs. Before long, we’re swinging side by side. I don’t feel better yet, but at least I’m not bleeding.

Sometimes, life happens in the little victories.

And today, swinging next to my laughing son is victory enough.

Cameron

M
y feet hit
the pavement and pick up speed. If I’m going to run, I’m going to run hard and get some benefit from the effort. The sun is just beginning to set on the horizon, the dinnertime hour growing darker and darker with the approaching fall. September in Tulsa changes from day to day—some nights growing so cool that one could mistake the season for early winter, other nights still so humid and thick that a swimsuit and towel wouldn’t be unreasonable items to reach for.

Tonight is a mix of the two. I’ve already started to sweat, but a north breeze is picking up and beginning to blast cold air in my face. It’s a gross sensation when sweat turns icy on its way out of your pores, but one I’m currently dealing with as I cross Utica Avenue and head north on 21st. Normally this area of town is well-trafficked by upscale sedans and mega SUV’s; tonight, it has an almost abandoned feel except for the lone biker and beat-up red and white striped pickup that just passed by, its muffler barely attached.

I like the loud sound. I love the abandoned feel.

I relate, which is pathetic.

And I can’t get that newspaper headline out of my mind.

Or the desire to look for Shaye on the other side of every turn I make.

One mile in, I tell myself to ditch the foul mood and enjoy the run. Two miles later, I’m seriously questioning my decision to push myself three more. My face is covered with sticky wetness. My lungs are desperate for air. My heart is pounding inside my chest. My bad mood is escalating. Nothing is fading, nothing is emptying, nothing is slowing, and I’m severely ticked off.

I haven’t seen Shaye anywhere.

And I’m thirsty.

The first thing I notice about the gas station when I walk inside is that it’s sprinkled with customers, most of them wearing dark suits with partially loosened ties, businessmen fresh off work and looking forward to a nice night at home. For some reason this feels like a punch to the face, mainly because I suspect that most men probably have gorgeous wives or girlfriends to go along with their prestigious jobs. Unlike me—the work-at-home writer who makes his own schedule and keeps to himself with the exception of a lone funny friend who has a wife and new baby because even
he
manages to find happiness outside the confines of a computer screen.

The second thing I notice is that the men’s restroom has an Out of Order sign hanging from the doorknob, and I know this place is relatively new. So why the heck is the bathroom broken, especially when I need to use it right now? I briefly think about kicking the door just to prove some kind of ridiculous point, though even I’m not sure what the point would be except to make a loud sound and possibly break my foot. So never mind.

The third thing I notice is that they’re out of blue Gatorade. Of course they’re out of blue Gatorade. Why in the heck would they have blue Gatorade?

I slam the refrigerator door. This day could not possibly suck more.

And that’s when I realize it’s useless. There’s no hope for my mood tonight. So I fall into it, hoping the adrenaline rush will spur me on to an exhaustive run. I exit the building, cringing slightly when the tiny bell above the door clangs much louder than it should, announcing my departure.
I’m leaving, people! Cameron Tate is—!

Unable to move.

My feet turn to lead and my breaths turn nonexistent and I just stare.

I stare and stare until all of a sudden it hits me that I shouldn’t be staring. So I walk to the side of the building and stand in the shadows feeling like a stalker and knowing I’m a stalker and suddenly wanting to be a stalker, because I’m staying put. I’m gonna stalk this situation. I’m gonna stalk it and observe and study it until I know exactly how to handle it.

Shaye is pumping gas across from me.

I found her after all.

Her hair is pulled back at the nape of her neck, and she looks so, so pretty.

She drives a white Honda Accord. Not old, not new. But surprising.

Even though I have no idea why I find this surprising.

But I do.

But not nearly as surprising as what I see next. Shaye opens the back door at the same time I press myself against the concrete wall to make sure I’m good and hidden. She reaches her hand out for something…something I can’t see. And then I see it.

I see it.

Except it’s a
him
.

And I can’t breathe.

And slowly the air I hoped would escape my lungs earlier does and I slide down the wall, not even caring that the sharp corners of the concrete scrape my neck and shoulders and back when the hem of my tank rides up because of friction and pressure. And I sit there, knowing I’m bleeding into the bricks but doing nothing to stop it because right now it’s the only thing that assures me I haven’t died.

For the first time since she left me over four years ago, my eyes begin to burn.

Because Shaye has a kid. A kid I assumed she didn’t keep. A kid who’s laughing up at her as she smiles down at him. A kid who just might be the cutest and most innocent and happiest kid I’ve ever seen. A kid who’s being led by the hand as both of them walk my direction and disappear inside the store.

I stare after them, trying to remember the vision of them through the blurriness that makes up my eyesight.

*

Shaye

If tears could
be collected in buckets, I think mine could line a garage floor—and that’s only from the last two weeks. Over the span of my lifetime, they could possibly replenish a partially evaporated Dead Sea. Assuming such a large body of water ever evaporates. In all of my online research as a teenager, I don’t recall learning anything along those lines. Then again, I’ve tried for years to block out most of the memories from that time, which makes it that much more discouraging that every single one is firing at me with such rapid speed and intensity now.

“You don’t hafta give me a peanut butter sammich, Momma. I can have grapes.”

Zachary has been like this all day; making requests for all things peanut butter and backtracking when my stupid tears start flowing. I’ve scooped him up repeatedly and assured him that everything is fine, but it’s hard to convince a three-year-old he isn’t at fault when every word he utters brings on a fresh wave of emotion.

But what he doesn’t know is I will gladly make him sandwiches. I will make them and hand them to him and make him more because I will do better by my son than I did by Pete. Nothing can save him now, but it’s one small way I can honor Pete’s memory.

Maybe I need counseling. Maybe I need medication. Maybe I need to stop remembering the image of Cameron standing outside that gas station front door two nights ago, staring at me, looking hard at me just before he moved to the side of the building. Out of the open. Out of my sight. Thinking he’d been clever. Succeeding in making me aware that he will go to every length—even crouching next to a smelly dumpster filled with an entire week’s trash—to avoid seeing me.

I guess when he said he was done, he meant every word.