Only You

closer

The mind has a funny way of painting a picture of a moment, a snapshot, that seems so small at the time. It's almost as if your subconscious can foresee the impossible, or manifest it into existence. Who do you resent when that happens? Who do you blame? No one but yourself.

We get back to Bedford at around five in the morning. The snow has melted into grey streaks on the sidewalk, and the sun breaks weakly through the sky, asking timidly for a place in this graveyard world. I drop Cate off at her house.

Cate standing in her doorway.

Closer.

Her soft golden hair flying in the icy breeze, lifting and bowing over her clear blue eyes.

Closer.

The veins in her pale hands, the wrinkles of her turtleneck sweater, the slight shiver moving through her body.

Closer.

The tremble of her lip, the way her eyebrows crease, the water that shines in her eyes even as she smiles. The tremulous beauty of it all, the way we burn out together like old stars. A million I-love-yous pass silently between us. An empty house waits behind Cate; nothing behind me.

"Come in," she says. "Just for a bit. We can have some coffee."

I smile. "Do you have coffee?"

"No," she says, and her laugh bounds down the vacant street. Cate reaches out, to hold me, to shake my hand, to touch my face--she can't seem to decide, and lets her hand drop down again. "But just come in."

I almost do. But I know if I did I would never be able to leave. I look up and kiss her instead, long enough to feel right, to convey a sort of promise.

"It's cold," I say finally. "You should go in."

Cate's eyelashes flit down, but she doesn't argue anymore. "We'll see each other soon," she says, uncertainly. She draws away from me, and the warmth of her skin is replaced by the cold air and the dull ache of loneliness. I don't think I'd ever realized how much I depend on her, how much I care for her, and the ache spreads until I nearly change my mind. But I turn away, walk down her porch with a nonchalance I don't feel. When I get into my car I give her a little salute before driving away. I see her smile slightly. She doesn't close her door until I am out of the street.

My house is exactly the way I'd left it, and I would have thought my parents had spent the entire time back in the city if it weren't for their jackets and shoes lying scattered in the foyer. The place is silent; they must still be asleep. A rushing feeling of compassion runs through me as I pick their jackets up and hang them in the front closet. What else could I feel for them? They are empty shells, candle wicks burnt down from a love that failed them. I know what Cate had said back at the thrift shop was true. Yes, my parents love me with the maternal and paternal obligation humans have. But the other love, the kind of love that makes you stay, and sacrifice, and wait--that love is a choice, and they've chosen to give it to Arden, and I to Cate.

In the end, I realize, everything is a choice.

No losing or winning side. You choose what you choose, and it's nothing to be bitter about.

I walk to the phone in the kitchen, and call the detention center. I have to wait a while, and there's confusion at the other end, but eventually I hear my sister's voice.

"Jude?"

"Arden."

"Oh, Jude--holy shit. Jude. Hi." She sounds exactly the same. I can picture her so clearly all of a sudden, and tears spike my eyes. But they are gone in the next minute.

"It's not too early?" I ask.

"What? No. Of course not. Jesus." A shuffle, and I hear her lean away from the headpiece to greet someone. "Listen. You probably hate me--"

"No, I don't. I don't hate you."

"You don't?"

No. Because I don't know you. How can one hate a stranger? I hear the relief in her voice, but all I feel is the faint pleasure of a distant acquaintance.

"I just wanted to ask one thing," I say, my tone as calm and even, cool and aloof, as Cate's. "Why did you do it?"

There's silence on Arden's end. I repeat myself even though I know she heard me.

"Why did you buy the drugs?"

"Jude--"

"What--for an escape? Don't you think everyone else would've wanted an escape, too?" Then I stop, because I've realized something new. Of course everyone looks for an escape. Arden found the drugs, I found Cate. What do humans live for if not the art of fleeing reality? I can't blame Arden anymore than I could blame myself. The rigidness in my voice falls away. My shoulders sag as if relieved of a burden. "I'll see you," I said.

"You mean it?"

"Yes. Soon."

Because I've decided to go to New York. Because Cate might be my drug. Because I feel so wild and alone, so vulnerable and afraid when she's not with me. Right now it may be mistaken as the fervidity of young love, but how would it seem to her after months--maybe years? I love her, of course I do. But it's got to be only love, not a way to fill up a void inside me, not a way to make her replace my parents, my sister, my friends.

I sit down at the table with some pieces of paper and a pen. I write two letters--one to Cate, and another to my parents. The letter to Cate is covered with crossed-out lines, burning hard with an urgency to make her understand. The letter to my parents contains only two lines.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I forgive you.

Then I am out of my house again, this time with nothing on me except a letter to be mailed and a smile on my face.