Fractured Love

  “I’m okay.” I smile. His mouth twitches, a half-smile he’s not quite sure about, and it’s so much like old times, it makes my heart squeeze.

  Still kneeling on the floor beside me, he shifts nearer to my head and shoulders. Then he wraps an arm around me, holding me close, my face against his shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him quietly.

  He nods as his lips brush my hair. “Thank you.”

  His words are softly rumbled. With his heavy arm around me and my face against his shoulder, it feels so much like old times, I want to cry—or scream.

  Before I can do either, Landon stands.

  Dear God, he’s beautiful. In the dim light coming from the kitchen, his hard body looks just like a statue: heavy, rounded shoulders; chiseled chest; and long, muscular legs. I can’t help the way my gaze dips down to his most gorgeous part.

  He smirks. I smile. Before I can say something silly, he turns and scoops his shirt up off the coffee table. As I watch him pull it over his head, my stomach clenches.

  “Are you going?”

  He nods, bending for his boxer-briefs, thrown halfway across the rug. “Yeah.”

  I blink at his bare ass as he pulls the underwear on. Then he turns around to me, grabs a blanket we tossed on the floor, and spreads it over me. “You should get some sleep,” he says, before he turns to put his pants and shoes on.

  I can’t move or speak, can only watch him as he buttons up and turns into a surgeon right before my eyes.

  He’s not my foster brother anymore. He’s not my secret lover. I don’t know who he is now.

  Landon comes and stands beside me for a moment, his hand smoothing down the back of my hair.

  “Rest,” he says. And then, without another look at me, he goes.

  Five

  Evie

  I lie there on the couch a while before I get up, lock the front door, and climb up to my loft bedroom.

  It isn’t true I didn’t get his letters.

  I read every one of them. Not in real time. I couldn’t. My parents hid Landon’s letters while we worked out what to do. While they discussed what I wanted and how it meshed with what they would allow. But I read them later. After it was too late, after everything was ruined.

  I reach into the back of my desk’s top drawer and pull out the envelopes I kept. I take them to my bed, turn on my nightstand lamp, and take the first one from its time-worn envelope.

  1-10-07

  Damn it, Evie. What to say?

  I feel like I’m dead without you.

  How did I live this way for sixteen years…without seeing your face and talking to you. Holding you. It’s so hard to sleep without you. But I’m trying.

  The people in charge of this group home are religious, but in a weird, aggressive way. Most of the other kids here just got out of juvie. I probably would have gone there too, given what happened, but your parents didn’t rat me out. They told DHS they changed their minds about me, but not why.

  Fuck. I wish this never happened. I still can’t believe it. I never got to kiss you bye or tell you face to face I love you more than anyone has ever loved anyone. I love you more than that, Evie. I hope you know.

  I don’t know what to do now. I think about you every hour, every minute, every second. The only break I get from that is sleep, and I’m pretty low on that. I don’t even want to. I just want to get to you. I want to walk to you, even though I think it’s about ten miles. I would do anything to see you, Evie.

  I miss seeing your hair band on your wrist. I miss the way you always smack the visor mirror shut after you put that lip gloss on. I miss the way you would tell me to shut up, the way you always pushed the newspaper down when I was at the table just so you could tease me to my face about reading the newspaper.

  Evie. I don’t know how to live without you. It’s the worst kind of irony, because if I ever hope to see you again, I have to do it. I know that. Please don’t worry. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I will. I’ll find a way to see you. I’m going to try to call you sometime soon, on your cell phone.

  I hope you’re okay, Evie.

  All my love, forever,

  Landon

  I bite my lips and set that one aside. Tears are making my eyes blurry, but I won’t let them fall.

  1-29-07

  Oh, Ev. They changed your number. I waited so long to find a time to call, and now the number doesn’t work.

  It’s hard to swallow.

  I hope that you’re okay, Evie. I have this thought of skipping school one day and taking one of the buses to you. Maybe after school, at soccer. I know I’d get in trouble, but I have to see your face…

  I think about you night and day. This place is not a good one. There are twelve of us, and they only let us do our laundry twice a month. They feed us strange foods, the same things almost all the time, and we can’t bathe alone, because they say there’s not enough hot water. This other guy and I always shower together, and we both fucking hate it. I still have all the clothes from your house. I wish I had something of yours with me. How is it possible that I have nothing of you?

  It hurts, Evie. I don’t want to seem like a pussy, but I hate how much it hurts. I’ve never felt like this before. Not even with the hospital stuff. I think I understand now why people use drugs. I need something to numb my brain. Don’t worry, though. I’m still okay. I try to dream of you when I can sleep.

  It’s been almost a month now, Evie. I’m coming to you soon.

  In college, one of my favorite classes was beginners’ astrophysics. I liked learning the different theories about reality and the universe, even if there was a lot of math. Tears fall now, as I blink down at his words. The words my Landon wrote for me.

  In another universe, he took a bus that day. Maybe it was a day when I was home, after I’d withdrawn from the semester for “mono” and before I got sent off to Aunt Raina’s up in Massachusetts. Landon knocked on my door, and I answered in pajamas and a robe.

  He held his arms out, and I fell into them. Then I told him everything.

  2-10-07

  Are you getting my letters? Ev, I almost hope you’re not. I don’t want to worry you.

  I tried to come see you the other day. The man here, Kevin, wife of Marge, a truck driver and waste of air asshole, caught me and he kicked me. I think one of my ribs is broken, but it’s okay. Those things heal. I read about it in the library and got four rolls of tape from a supply closet at school. With it taped, it’s easier to breathe.

  I really hate this fucking place. The other day, one of the other guys puked. No one will change his bed sheets or let him do the laundry. The people here are fucked up. I don’t know that much about the human brain, but I can tell there’s something wrong with them. If I wasn’t focused on you, I can see how someone could get pretty down and out here. Winter doesn’t help. I hate the constantly gray sky. I hate winter. Did I ever tell you that? I’d love to move to fucking Florida. Key West, maybe.

  Ev, I miss you in my bed. I miss the softness of your lips, the heat of your mouth. I miss my name in your voice.

  Please, Evie. I want to see you. I’m so scared you’ll forget me. Please say that you haven’t.

  Landon

  I don’t go back often—really, ever—but for a few moments, here in the cradle of my bedroom, I let myself be her again. The devastated girl. The girl who broke her parents’ heart, who wrecked herself, who failed to reach the boy she loved. The girl who went to the Harvard health services center two weeks after starting freshman year and fell apart so thoroughly that she got escorted to the mental health clinic. The girl who didn’t kiss a single boy in undergrad. Who went on research trips on holidays and interned in the summers. The girl who didn’t have a close friend again until med school, who banned wine until a year ago because drinking made her “too crazy.” Who became Catholic for a full two years just for Confession. I was that girl. I was her. For Landon.

  2-24-07

  I miss you
Evie. I miss you more than anything. I love you. I want to cry but I think it’s because I’m so so tired. I’m going to try to sleep tonight. I’m going to try to come see you again. I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re not getting my letters because if you are and you don’t reply I think that would be worse. Please don’t forget me, Evie. I need you to remember and I think I even need you to hurt the way I hurt so much for you. Please hurt for me, and I will fix you. Don’t really, though. Just feel good. Maybe you should think of other things. I hope you’re not hurting for me. I’m sorry that I even said that. Please sleep and eat for me and enjoy living and please take care of yourself. Please take the best care of yourself. I’m sorry I’m so tired, not making sense.

  I love you.

  I found these letters in the bottom of a dry cleaners bag on Dad’s side of the closet, late at night, the night before I flew to Boston.

  It was early March.

  My parents had told me they’d support me in my choice, on one condition. Before I told Landon, I had to spend at least eight weeks with Aunt Raina. Take some time to myself. Add an extra level of surety to my plan.

  I’d spend some time with Raina—a Harvard-educated psychiatrist and my mother’s lifelong best friend—and then, if I still wanted to, I could come home and reach out to Landon. In the meantime, they’d told me, they were keeping watch on him, and he was okay. They had told him that they wanted us to take a break. If he respected their wishes, and he still wanted to, he could see me again in a few months.

  When I found his letters in my parents’ closet, I knew that wasn’t true. I wailed and raged. My parents held me while I cried, while I lashed out and threatened them and lost my mind. Then they put me on the plane—because they felt they had to.

  “We will get him back, Evie. While you’re away. We’re not lying, we just haven’t done it yet. Let us handle this. I know it doesn’t seem good now, but we will handle this. We want to talk to Landon. Really know what’s going on in his head. Try to trust us. If he wants what you want, we can help.”

  His letters crushed me. I felt as if I was deserting him, but I trusted my parents. I trusted DHS, that they would want the best for Landon. If my parents wanted to foster him again, I thought that they could get him out of a group home. They’d told me that they would adopt him if that was what we really wanted. My mother looked me in the eyes and promised that she’d find a way.

  So I went to Cambridge, with our baby. I let him go on not knowing the truth.

  I didn’t see his other letters until my junior year of college. After all the chips had fallen. After it was broken—our love story.

  3-22-07

  Things here have gotten worse. The trucker lost his job and he’s been home more. There are twelve kids here, the two women (the wife and her sister Lindy), plus the man. There’s something wrong with this guy. I’m hanging in here because some of the kids are younger. They need someone here who isn’t fucking nuts. But I don’t know how much longer I can do it, Evie. I got some blankets on my bed again. At night I get under them and try to remember you. Sometimes it helps me sleep. I found your school’s calendar on the computer lab computer, and I printed it. At least I can try to picture what you’re doing. Evie, I love you so much. I miss everything about you. You’re so good, Evie. Don’t forget how good you are, and don’t feel bad about not writing me. I’ll find you down the road, okay? I hope your friends are being good to you, and concert band is fun, and Emmaline is giving you the hugs I wish I could. I wanted so much more than this, Evie. One day I’ll come and find you. One day soon.

  March 24, my parents’ request to foster Landon again was turned down, basically because of how they’d shipped him out at Christmas. On March 25, they filed the first of many papers to adopt him. They had planned to wait, but his March 22nd letter spurred them on.

  4-3-07

  I sent the newspaper a letter. Tipped them off. I didn’t trust DHS to get the other kids out of here.

  Ev, I’m leaving this place. I can get my GED if I don’t finish. If you find out I left, don’t worry, okay? I know I said skipping town is dangerous for people in my position, but I’m more bulletproof than average. I took the SAT in January and I got a 1600. Colleges will take me.

  I want to see you, Evie. I want to touch you. God, I want to talk to you. Ev, I need you.

  I love you. It hurts so bad that I haven’t heard from you, but I feel better when I think that probably means you’re doing well. I hope you still remember me. I hope you know I’m getting out of here for you. One day, I’m going to come find you. Until then, I remain yours. Every part of me. Forever.

  Landon left that day. We didn’t know it at the time—I didn’t know it until tonight—but apparently, he ended up in Knoxville. My family didn’t hear from him again until the day he showed up at our door, that next Christmas. Emmaline answered. By the time she told my dad, Landon had gone.

  It didn’t matter. It was too late. September had come, and it had gone, and with it, any chance we might have had to have a life together.

  So I thought.

  Six

  Landon

  I knew she was here when I applied for the program. I’ve kept track of Evie since the day I left her parents’ house. Not because I thought she wanted that. Because I had to. Some things aren’t choices, and over time, we come to terms with that. Evie is one of my life’s facts.

  What did I think would happen when I accepted the position as an intern here? I try to answer that as I lie in my bed. I have my window open. I can see the city spread before me, glowing in the dark that soon will turn to gray, then blue, then orange.

  Evie.

  Even running her name through my mind gives me an element of peace. Peace where there should be none.

  I can’t sleep, of course, and by now, I know what to do. I go into the living area and look at my tea pot, but I can’t stand to wait for it. With so much in the air, waiting feels like claws around my neck. It feels like hands around my neck at that old group home, right before I split.

  So I walk.

  Down the hall and to the elevator, through the lobby, out the doors, into the cool night, which is gray with morning, having lightened slightly while I walked downstairs.

  Around the corner, there’s a coffee shop that’s open all night. It serves tea, too. Chamomile, with milk and honey. I don’t realize till I get there what my plan is. I buy two insulated cup infusers, a box of my favorite brand of chamomile, plus a little quilt-looking thing the girl behind the counter calls a “mug rug.” It’s pink and green paisley, and it looks a little like her bedspread print, which I remember so well from the couch.

  I walk slowly home while the day brightens and the mountains wink through summer haze. At home, I steep some tea in one of the cup-sized diffusers, then add milk and honey and go straight to bed. I sleep for nine hours. When I wake up, I go by the bank and withdraw three thousand dollars. Several hours later, I steep Evie’s tea, get into my newly acquired 2008 Ford Focus, and drive to the hospital.

  Evie

  I find the cup and mug rug in my locker after the longest day ever. After a day in which I felt like I was dying alongside the forty-two-year-old woman who actually did—in a tumor resection I was in on with Eilert and Hamm, one of the younger attendings.

  I open my locker, swaying on my sore feet at 9:45 p.m., and there it is. As if it’s always been there. Tea. I know it by the color and consistency, and many years of tired sipping: chamomile.

  In the few seconds I stare at it, my body heats up hotter than the tea, because…it must be him. I never drink chamomile at work; no one I work with but Eilert really even knows me. Except for Landon.

  When I turn around, I find him sitting at one of the round tables, feet kicked up into a chair, fingers steepled in his lap, blinking at one of the walls, all inconspicuous-like.

  I give him a slow smile.

  Landon smiles back, low-key and mysterious; flirty.

  I hold out the cup and ar
ch my brows. I look down at the mug rug in my other hand. “Pink and green. My favorite colors.” I tap my chin, twisting my mouth in mock confusion. “Do you know who left this for me?”

  “Must have been a pretty awesome motherfucker.”

  I shrug. “Thoughtful, sure. But pretty awesome? Ehhh.”

  His jaw drops slightly. “Someone brought you tea—hot tea—and left it for you, and you’re gonna talk like that?”

  “Well, just to you.” I wave my hand dismissively.

  “Just.” He shakes his head, looking insulted.

  And right then, I have this dizzying moment where it doesn’t seem real. That Landon and I are joking. That we work together. That we had sex last night. That he doesn’t know. I take a deep breath, and the moment passes.

  Calm down, Evie. Focus on the moment.

  To anchor my mind, I drag my gaze up and down him, trying to give myself something to observe.

  “You look very rested,” I observe. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, khaki shorts, and beat-up sneakers. His hair has that just-washed look about it, and his gray eyes look brighter than I’ve seen them lately.

  “Being pretty awesome brings out my good looks.”

  I laugh, and sip more tea, and Landon looks me over. “You look tired.”

  “I am.” I take another long sip of the tea and lean my butt against the donut room’s counter. “We had one bite it in a meningioma resection. Don’t know if you heard already. How long have you been around?”

  “Just got here.” He moves his feet out of the chair and turns his full attention on me. “What happened?”

  I describe the surgery, a resection of a meningioma tumor at T4, and the simple mistake Hamm made while narrating his technique to Eilert and me.