O N E : Letters
Picture this:
You’re lazing around in your bed, with an episode of The Big Bang Theory waiting to be watched while a whole canister of your Aunt Mabel’s famous double chocolate chip cookies are sitting at arm’s reach on top of your bedside drawer, and you have no other plans for the rest of the evening.
Just as you begin to relax and ease into your usual weekend routine, however, your best friend suddenly decides to ruin your Zen (for lack of a better term).
Of course I’m not happy.
I, for one, believe that my presence at a social gathering that does not directly involve me isn’t exactly a matter of significance.
My best friend, it turns out, seems to think otherwise.
I haven’t even watched past the theme song of The Big Bang Theory when my cell phone starts vibrating on my bedside drawer. I take it, almost unconsciously singing along the catchy tune blasting from my laptop. I have to suppress the urge to roll my eyes at the sight of Charlie’s name flashing across the screen.
I have half a mind to ignore the call, wishing I can just switch my phone off altogether so I can watch without further disturbances, but Charlie hardly ever calls. Only when it’s about something vaguely important does he prefer calling over texting, so I reluctantly hit pause. The screen catches Sheldon and Leonard in their room.
“This better be important,” I say to Charlie in lieu of a hello.
“I’m picking you up in twenty minutes,” he says back, hardly affected by the venomous tone in my voice.
I am slightly disappointed by his lack of reaction. Over the years, he must have developed an immunity to my murderous threats and verbal insults. Most people would have gone running to the other direction after a particularly bad encounter with me—and I’m not exactly fond of getting pulled out of my weekend routine, so I suspect this counts as one.
“I don’t remember making plans with you,” I tell him, leaning over to grab my planner from under the bed. I had always been quite forgetful. Without Regina (the name Charlie had given my planner a week after he’d seen me bring it everywhere with me), I would hardly remember any of my appointments or project deadlines.
When I see that I am, indeed, free (according to Regina) today, I can’t help but frown and wonder if I’d somehow forgotten to write down my plans with Charlie, if we did make them.
He answers my unspoken question. “We didn’t.”
In the background, I can hear the distant sound of videogame gunshots and grenade explosions, accompanied by someone (his brother Finn, I’m guessing) occasionally yelling out a curse in the most creative way possible.
“We didn’t,” I echo flatly, puzzled.
“But now we are and that means I’ll—hah! Suck it, loser!”
My eyes narrow slightly. I wonder if “suck it” was just another of those nonsensical things boys say to demean each other, or if Finn the “loser” really is meant to suck something, whatever it may be that needs sucking.
I decide it’s best not to ask. With Charlie and Finn, there are something you don’t want to know. (I learned this the hard way.)
“Where are we going?” I say instead.
“We won the soccer game. There’s this victory party and I am not going alone.”
“The soccer team won the game,” I say, “we didn’t.”
“Technicalities,” he replies in a dismissive tone. I can imagine him staring at the TV as he and Finn continue to virtually shoot each other through whatever game they’re playing. I believe he had mastered the art of multitasking when it came to playing games, so it’s not hard to imagine him kicking Finn’s figurative ass while talking to me over the phone.
I know this because whenever I come over, he’s always busy doing something while playing. The guy does his Calculus homework while navigating a curvy female character through zombie-infested towns—and manages to get an A and win the game as well.
I could hardly even play that game without getting devoured by the undead after five minutes.
“So,” he says, “I’m picking you up in twenty.”
“I’m not going,” I say, feeling as if I should be offended because he, of all people, should know this.
“Yes, Ellie, you are. I’m not—Finn, stop cheating.” Without missing a beat, he adds, “I’m not going there alone.”
I roll my eyes. “Then don’t go. Case closed. It was nice talking to you.”
“Ellie.”
“Charlie.” I mimic his tone.
“Please?”
His plea would have seemed more convincing if it wasn’t followed by a string of curses directed at his younger brother.
“No,” I reply.
There’s a pause, in which I couldn’t tell if he was too busy trying to kill his brother (either in game or not, I’m not sure) or if he was trying to come up with something that could convince me to go. I hear him sigh. “Elle, are you okay?”
My heart drops to my stomach. His tone is different. I realize he knows something. For a second, it seems like a good idea to hang up, but I force myself to reply. “How much did my dad tell you?”
There’s a change in the mood. I know he had thought this out before calling. He sounds almost hesitant when he answers. “Enough to know you’re probably holed up in your room watching an old season of TBBT. Again.”
I purse my lips. “Charlie, I’m all right. I’m great.”
“You haven’t even come over once the past week. And you always come over at least twice. Finn misses you. Finn, tell her you miss her.”
There’s a rustle. “Hi, Ellie. Charlie’s miserable without you and he thinks—ow. And I miss you too.”
I laugh.
Charlie’s voice is back after a few more rustling. “See?”
“Did you just kick Finn?”
“No,” he replies. “Okay. Yes. Whatever. I’m telling you, you haven’t gone out of your house in ages.”
“That doesn’t really have anything to do with whether or not I’m depressed.”
“So you are depressed?” he asks.
“No,” I reply quickly. “I just don’t want to go to the party, okay? Crowds suck the life out of me.”
It isn’t something that I am embarrassed to admit. I just hate being around people in general. A lot of people think it has something to do with shyness, but I knew for a fact that it didn’t. To be honest, it’s a wonder I’d managed to befriend Charlie, and, inherently, Finn as well. I love Charlie and Finn; and I have no problem regularly coming over to their house to hang out with them.
A party with the rest of the student body, however, is a different story.
Charlie considers this with a long pause and I let him. After a few moments, he clicks his tongue. “How about we grab some ice cream, then?” he suggests.
I stare longingly at Sheldon and Leonard frozen on the screen, and I feel slightly like the way Sheldon probably does as he tries to decide whether he should get the Xbox 1 or the PS4. I take a deep breath. “Your treat?”
“You suck,” he replies.
It’s a typical Charlie response. The familiarity of it makes me smile. “I’ll see you in twenty.”
“I hate you.”
“I love you too.”
---
Charlie once did a research about introverts in the fall of our freshman year, insisting I was one.
After reading the few paragraphs he had most likely copy-pasted word for word from a web page explaining introversion, I realized he was right.
I hadn’t known it at first, but during the first few months of high school (and even during middle school), I did try to socialize with other people. Pauline, this girl I shared a class with, had a bunch of other friends and they invited me to their lunch table.
I should have known it even back then—I listened to the conversations, every so often laughing at some jokes, but I hardly participated in them. When one of Pauline’s friends prompt me with a question, I always find it hard to join in on the discussions. I would always leave the cafeteria feeling heavily drained after having lunch with all of them.
They must have felt the strain too. There were only half-hearted protests when I eventually began to have lunch in one of the school’s gardens a few weeks later. I was more comfortable alone than I am sitting with a bunch of acquaintances.
Evidently, that was how I met Charlie. One lunch period, I wandered off outside, and found Charlie in my usual spot, holding a guitar with him. He looked up just as I was about to leave to find a different place to sit in. He beckoned me to come closer, and for some reason, I found myself obliging.
It turns out he had been composing a song and he wanted me, a random stranger who happened to hate human interaction, to tell him what I thought about it.
“And I want you to be honest,” he added.
After hearing it, all I said was, “It sucks.”
He laughed.
And that was that.
He still writes shitty songs to this date. While he’s a good guitar player and a decent singer, I find no appeal in a song whose lyrics involve a talking goldfish. And it’s a love song.
Sure enough, the moment Charlie and I find us a table at Frost, he sits and says, “I’m writing a new song.”
“Of course you are.”
He gives me a flat stare. “Your enthusiasm astounds me.”
I crack a small smile. “I can’t help it. I’m such a big fan of your work.”
“When my first single is released, I won’t even remember your name.”
“When your first single is released,” I say, “I’ll pretend I never even knew you. God knows I’ll be embarrassed by your poorly written song lyrics.”
“I hate you,” he grumbles. The sight of his sulky face only makes me smile wider. “I did not take you out for you to insult me.”
“Charlie,” I say, “you love me. Now go get me some ice cream.”
To be fair, his songs had improved over the two years I’d known him. On one occasion, Finn insisted that he should switch to rap. Charlie only gave his brother a particularly blank look before literally locking him in the basement for approximately an hour.
Since then, Finn has not given his opinion regarding Charlie’s musical preferences again.
Charlie stands up to order. I watch him walk to the counter, feeling a slight sense of gratefulness. Despite his weird songs and questionable judgment, I have always known I’m lucky to have him as a friend.
It will take more than a call for me to admit that I am, just as he had told me, feeling just the slightest bit off. I have yet to know how Charlie managed to find out about it—I will have to interrogate my dad later—but I’m thankful for this distraction.
Sheldon can only offer so much.
I will never freely admit it to Charlie, but I’d pick him over Sheldon any day.
When Charlie comes back with an ice cream cone in each hand, I flash him a wide smile. He hands me one. I know it’s green tea, because after having visited Frost so many times, he knows it’s somewhat my favorite.
“Double scoop?” Impressed, I arch an eyebrow. “You’re being oddly generous.”
He slides into the seat across mine. “I’m always generous.”
“Who was it?” I ask, kicking his foot under the table.
He avoids my stare. “What?”
“Obviously, you got laid.” My smirk only widens when I see his reaction. “Who was it?”
“Jesus,” he mutters, looking around for anyone eavesdropping. A man on the next table looks away from his newspaper to eye both of us. Charlie looks at me warningly. “I don’t have to discuss my sexual life with you.”
“Charlie.”
Finally, he grunts and looks up at the ceiling with a defeated sigh. When he looks at me, though, a ghost of a smile is on his face. “Francine Walker.”
“Ah.” I lick my ice cream. “Thank you, Francine Walker, for this ice cream.”
He shakes his head. “You suck.”
“You blow,” I say.
---
Only when he’s pulling into our driveway did Charlie finally bring it up. I didn’t think he would, since he mentioned not one word about it ever since he came to pick me up.
“Your dad told me about the call,” he says, for some reason wincing afterwards. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so… not subtle.”
I lift a hand and run my fingers through my tangled hair.
I can barely remember the last time I touched a brush. Charlie says it looks better when I don’t comb it, and while I didn’t take his word for it (it’s really difficult to believe in the opinion of a guy whose songwriting skills are next to nonexistent), I made no effort to find a brush in the house.
Being raised by a single father didn’t exactly help. I’m positive Dad doesn’t even know what hair conditioner was, let alone know that we don’t have a brush at home.
Dad likes Charlie. I suspect it’s because he sees my brother Ethan in him. Or maybe it’s a male-male kind of thing. Either way, I’m not fully surprised that he had somehow told Charlie about last week.
“What about it?” I finally ask him.
“He told me you’ve been shutting yourself in your room since then.” He doesn’t push it by asking me about it outright. It’s one of the things I’d always liked about him.
“I always shut myself in my room.”
“Not as much as you have the past week.”
This is true, but there’s something about it that makes it hard to admit. I know it’s because I don’t want anyone to know that I’m still bothered by it; that it still affects me—because I know it shouldn’t. “I’m all right,” I tell him, looking down at my knees. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“Elle.” His hand twitches, as if he wants to move it but abruptly decides not to. When I look at him, his dark eyes are focused on me. “You’ll tell me if something’s up, right?”
I look down at my hands. “Charlie, everything’s fine.”
He studies me for a long time. It takes me a lot not to rush out of the car as he scrutinizes me. I wait for him to speak, but when he does, all he says is, “See you at school?”
I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Okay.”
“You owe me for the ice cream.”
Reaching for the door handle, I send him a sideways grin. The door opens with a muffled click. “I owe you nothing.”
We exchanged good nights, though he always texts me good night anyway. Just as he was about to leave, he gives me a serious look. “Are you absolutely one-hundred percent positive that you’re all right?”
It’s not difficult to summon a reassuring smile. “Yes, I am.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know he sees through the lie.
---
My dad comes home around a few minutes past eleven.
I slip out of my room when I notice the telltale signs that say he’s back. Dad has always been a clumsy person, something that makes it insanely mind-boggling to wonder how he manages not to poke his eye out whenever he’s meddling with his tools in the garage (he loves working on his car, even if it’s not broken).
When he comes home, there are always a series of thumps and bangs and an occasional cuss word for when he stubs his toe against the shelf—it’s always the shelf—and I’ve been a light sleeper my whole life.
I find him in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water. We’ve lived in this house for years now and both of us can safely navigate our way through the rooms without having to switch the lights on. When I step into the kitchen, I say, “Hey.”
He jumps, spluttering his water. “Jesus.” He sets his glass down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
This was also one of my dad’s quirks. He easily gets startled, something I didn’t quite pick up from him. “Sorry,” I apologize. My hand reaches out for the light switch on the wall and the lights flicker to life. It fills the room so abruptly I have to squint. “Did you have dinner yet?”
I don’t wait for his answer, because I already know it, and I make my way to the fridge. He moves to put his glass on the sink. “I’m not hungry.”
“I’ll just heat some soup up,” I tell him. “Don’t sleep yet.”
He gives me a grateful smile.
“Ethan called me at work,” he says. “He wants you to call him first thing in the morning.”
I freeze just as I’m reaching for the plastic container in the fridge. I close my eyes and force myself to take a deep breath before straightening up, shutting the fridge and heading for the stove. “I already told you. I’m not going.”
He’s silent for a while. I pretend I don’t know what he’s thinking or what he’s dying to say. I reach for a pot and pour the contents of the plastic container in it.
“Ellie,” he says after a while. I make it a point not to look at him. “I’m all right spending Thanksgiving alone. This might be your chance to actually have a real Thanksgiving dinner.”
“We do have real Thanksgiving dinner.” I turn sharply to face him. “Every year.”
“We don’t even have turkey.”
“Then I’ll cook dinner tomorrow,” I tell him. “I will.”
He gives me a long look. I can see his age in the crinkles on the corner of his eyes. “Ellie. Your mother means well.”
I can almost feel my eyes hardening into cold metal slits. “I’m preparing dinner for us, with or without Ethan.”
It’s almost hard to say his name. Our argument over the phone is still fresh in my mind. Ethan and I had always been close. Our arguments were, at most, about petty things and were quickly resolved by one of us offering pizza to the other.
Even when he left for college, he and I continued to correspond with each other through calls and slightly cryptic e-mails. I don’t think we’d ever gone as long as two days without the acknowledging each other, even if it’s a simple text message that contains nothing but “busy, talk tomorrow.”
I wonder how much of our argument did Ethan tell Dad, who’s still looking at me with an almost sad frown on his face.
I don’t look away.
He shifts. “All right.”
----
The next day, I wake up to a note on the fridge from Dad, telling me he had to settle something with Chris (a good friend of his), but he assured me that he was going to be back in time for dinner. I do a quick research on recipes.
I may not be an awful cook, but I’m not exactly an expert, so I’m glad to have Google on my side. I quickly scribble down a grocery list. I try not to think of Ethan’s absence. I try not to think of the fact that his plane landed elsewhere and that he wasn’t spending Thanksgiving with us this year.
No matter how much I try, though, it’s difficult not to feel it. It’s like a gaping hole, one that makes it difficult to pull myself together enough to head to the grocery store.
But I do anyway.
My dad has taken the car, so I had to take the bus. My dad left a wad of bills on the counter for buying ingredients. I’m not planning to cook anything fancy—there were a number of very, very fancy recipes on the internet—but I’m not sure whether or not the money’s enough or too much.
It takes two buses for me to get to the closest supermarket, and it’s only when I’m lugging my half-filled pushcart do I realize that going home will be more than just tricky. There are a lot of people doing some last minute shopping, so I had to leave my cart for a short while to get past the narrow condiment aisle.
I try to be as quick as possible when I grab some processed herbs, darting in and out of the crowd of mothers buzzing around. When I get back to my pushcart, I eye the things I’d put in there, nibbling on my bottom lip as I try to think of a plan to go home.
I’m thinking of calling Charlie to enlist his help. Maybe if I bribe him with free fries, he’d agree to pick me up and be my ride.
It’s when I pause and examine a bag of potatoes when my dull morning takes a sudden turn.
There’s a loud clash of metal banging against metal. The impact almost makes me lose my balance and I have to take a steadying step back to keep my butt from landing on the tiled floor.
“Shit, sorry,” a voice says.
I look up, about to tell him it’s all right, but when I meet his eyes, the words are lost in my throat.
A moment passes. My eyebrows scrunch up in confusion as I try to place where I’d seen the guy.
There’s a puzzled look on his face, one that probably mirrors my own, but then his lips tug into an easy grin. “Hey, it’s you.”
I blink.
It takes me a moment to realize who it is.
Wes Coleman.