Fall for Me by Claudia Burgoa

Chapter Twenty-Four

Willow

“If you could haveanything in the world, what would it be?” I ask my sister as we watch the stars.

We both love the night sky. It’s like a never-ending void with bright specks. The moon hangs hazy beneath a few fluffy clouds. The breeze blows warm, and the aroma of tall grass is intoxicating. Back in Santa Cruz, we used to do this almost every night. I miss the summer breeze, the salty smell lingering in the air, the soft sand beneath our bodies as we named stars. It was a children’s game, another time, a different era.

Next time, I’ll agree with the idea of going to a beach on vacation. This trip was spur of the moment. Hazel proposed going to Hawaii, but I’ve chosen camping. Gramps contacted a friend who owns a cabin in Upstate New York. We’re in the middle of nowhere but have all the amenities of home, and a big enough backyard where we can pretend to camp. The sound of the crickets and the firewood crackling are calming, but not as enjoyable as the whisper of the waves.

“Anything?” Hazel responds with a question. She’s lost in the infinite sky. I bet she’s daydreaming about her five-year plan.

“Yes, anything.”

I’m studying her, waiting for an answer that might seem meaningless, but will give me another piece to the puzzle that is my sister. It’s incredible how much our relationship changed after I left home. We became distant. Only now have I come to realize that our phone conversations have been superficial. It’s not her, nor me, but the circumstances that altered the way things worked between us. It’s amazing how much I’ve learned, and there’s so much more to uncover before I can fully understand my emotions and how to handle them.

During the past few weeks, I’ve learned people like me don’t have emotional skin.

“Imagine your emotions are muscles,” my therapist described. “What would happen if you didn’t have skin?” The mere thought made me shiver.

There’s no winning when I’m vulnerable to just about anything. From I love you to I hate you, everything is a trigger. I fall apart with just about anything. None of those are excuses, only causes. I need to be mindful of my feelings, aware of them while I’m experiencing them. It’s complicated to stop every second and think about the sadness creeping into my heart when I see the double-decker hop-bus passing by the street I’m about to cross. There are many words I have never used in my daily vocabulary now. Aware, intentional, relax.

My least favorite phrases include: be present, be alive, and let go.

Worse yet, they say them all the time during the yoga class Hazel and Fitz insist I join them in. The practice of being mindful isn’t just about me but watching those who surround me. Noticing the emotions of those who are close to me without being judgmental.

Currently, I’m focusing on understanding Gramps and Hazel. During these last few weeks, my relationship with them has shifted. I now understand my grandfather isn’t a demanding, overbearing asshole who wants to impose his demands. No. He’s trying to care for Hazel and me the best way he knows how.

“He’s a widower who barely speaks to his son. He only has us.”

This new understanding isn’t going to change my relationship with my grandfather drastically, but it’s the beginning of something different. That’s another thing I’m grasping. Relationships are like fingerprints; no two are the same. This is why I’m trying to ask questions. My therapist asked me almost the same thing during my first appointment.

“Why are you here?”

“Because I don’t want to die.”

My response surprised me because until then, I didn’t know that was my main goal. Until then, I hadn’t thought much about my actions or the consequences.

“What is that one thing in the world that you would want the most, Hazel?” I tilt my head to see her. Her unmoving eyes watch the stars in awe, smiling. “It’s a simple question.”

“Love,” she mumbles. “I miss that special connection with another person. Someone who knows what you’re thinking without saying a word. Your heartbeat is synchronized with his.”

“Is there someone like that out there?”

“There’s that one person out there, I know it.” She sips from her water bottle and shares it with me. “After all these years, I’ve learned that everyone can offer sex, not many can deliver pleasure, and only a few will have sex with your soul. They take your body and mind beyond pleasure—you become part of them.”

I think about all my lovers, from the first guy who was clueless about how sex worked to . . . Hunter. He made me feel like I was the only person in the world, in his world.

“When will I move on?”

“From?” Hazel tosses me a what are you talking about? kind of glance.

“Hunter.” He’s touched me in all the places I ache to be felt, including my soul. I lost myself in his kisses, in his words.

She laughs. “Moving on is subjective.”

After prodding marshmallows with a long stick, she raises it and walks to the fire pit. “Will you stop wishing you were in his arms?” Hazel squints, grabbing a graham cracker and placing the hot marshmallow on top of it, then seals it with a second cracker.

“What, no chocolate?” Hazel loves midnight snacks. “This is so unlike you.”

“Elliot would’ve made sure we had everything handy,” she says, handing me the incomplete s’more and making herself another one. It surprises me that she said his name, and she’s not running inside for one of Gramps’ Hershey bars. “It took a lot of self-control not to answer his texts, refrain from calling him when I felt like the world was swallowing me. That feeling like you’re never going to breathe again lingers for a long time, until one day you realize you’ve been inhaling and exhaling—all on your own. You haven’t died of loneliness, and you remember your heart has its own particular beat.” She leans forward, calling me with her hand as if she’s about to tell me a secret. “You realize your heart has been beating even without him by your side.”

She eats her s’more. “But I still miss those stormy-gray eyes. The mischievous smirk that made me smile like an idiot. Our nightly conversations. His strong arms, his voice. Up until last year, I avoided doing things only the two of us did together. I compare every guy I date to him.”

Preparing another round of s’mores, she says, “Once in a while you’ll yearn for his touch. It’ll disappear gradually until it’s gone forever—I hope.”

“Hunter and I weren’t together for twenty years.”

“Elliot and I only started dating ten years ago.” She reminds me that the time before that doesn’t count. “I was almost fifteen. He was a pretty great boyfriend. I’ve moved on, mostly. A part of him will always remain in my heart. I think it’ll be the same with Hunter, Wills.”

I’m not sure what she means by things being the same, but I protest her comparison. “Again, we were together for weeks, and only if you count the time I was playing hard to get.”

“It’s about quality, not quantity. You can’t measure love with time.”

“If you ever saw Elliot again, what would you say to him?”

“You’re pushing me too far, Willow. I don’t like to talk about him. I thought this was about you.” She closes her eyes. The deafening silence chokes me.

Feeling a little anxious, I try to process what’s happening between us and work on evaluating how her words and attitude are making me feel useless, stupid.

“As of today, I hope I never have to see him again.” Her response saddens me.

They had a long history together, and now they are nothing to each other.

At that moment, I wish upon a star Hunter and I can one day sit and have a friendly meal. That if possible, we can be friends because he’s an amazing man, a gentle soul. I want him to be a part of my life once I’ve overcome the obstacles I’m facing. Pulling my phone out of my green jacket, I take a picture of the horizon and text it to him.

He texts me a picture of Manhattan at night.

Hunter: Have a wonderful weekend, gorgeous.