How Not to Let Go

I’ve hardly ever seen her in a dress. Mostly it’s skinny jeans and novelty T-shirts; you’d mistake her for an awkward fourteen-year-old boy, if it weren’t for the way she moves—not awkward, not a boy. But she stands at the fence now in the same red silk thing she wore under her academic regalia at commencement and to dinner in Montreal. At commencement, she looked pretty and happy. In Montreal, she looked fucking gorgeous, tousled and pink-cheeked from sex. Now, though, she looks pale and sick and much too thin, with exhaustion in her eyes.

That’s my fault.

There’s a look of dread on her face as her eyes find mine.

That’s my fault, too.

I wouldn’t have come if I had known. When the e-mail from Margaret came yesterday, and Diana asked if I would drive her and her husband up, I said yes easily, thinking there was no chance Annie would fly back at one day’s notice. No chance.

But she is a better friend than I gave her credit for, and now I am imposing myself on her, at her best friend’s wedding. Fuck. I am a waste of skin and oxygen, and she—god. Brilliant. Strong. Dazzling. Sane, so sane, when I was with her I felt like an escaped convict with his face turned toward raw winter sunlight. Clear. Vivid. Luminescent and illuminating.

I made her cry. I made her hurt. I am the lowest thing on Earth.

I tuck the crate of wine bottles and presents under my arm, put on my sunglasses, and go to the fence.

“Hey,” she says, not quite looking at me.

“Hey,” I answer, as blandly as I can.

“Need help with that?” she asks, squinting against the sun.

“Just point me to the food table.”

“In the house.” She closes the gate behind us and waves us to the back door. “Living room. It’s easy to find.”

I head for the house, planning tactics for staying out of Annie’s way for the next couple of hours.

Reshma and Margaret are married in the backyard, right after Reshma’s parents. Annie cries becomingly through both ceremonies, standing beside Margaret and handing over the rings when it’s her turn. I watch her the whole time; I can’t take my eyes off her. She looks so obviously unwell—can anyone see her and not see the grief, the loss of appetite, the disrupted sleep? They’re all my fault.

And at the same time . . . her feet are bare, her bare toes in the grass. Can anyone see Annie’s long, bony bare feet in the grass and not imagine the dirty, cool soles pressing into the backs of their thighs as she laughs and wriggles under them? I want to make love with Annie outside. I’ve never done that.

I never will do that.

Just stay out of her way, you arse, I chide myself.

Margaret’s family hasn’t come, so the only guests I know are Diana, her husband, and Annie. During the reception, mostly I occupy myself with noticing when Annie comes into the room, so that I can leave it—trying to give her space, trying to do what she asked. The third time this happens, Diana comes over and asks me what the hell is going on, and I look at the floor and the wall and the furniture as I confess, “Er, it’s awkward. Annie told you that she and I had, as she put it, ‘A Thing,’ but it ended rather messily when she left Indiana, and she asked for space.”

In fact, what the note said was You’re the best man I know. Please don’t call or write for a while, and I haven’t called or written, so technically I’m not violating her request, but—“I’m trying to give her that space,” I conclude.

Diana pats my arm and gives me a sympathetic smile.

“We’ll go,” she says. “We don’t need to stay for presents. I’m hot and tired and my feet are swelling anyway. Let me just say good-bye to Margaret.”

I nod—then I notice Annie watching us, and I walk out the front door. I put on my sunglasses and sit on the porch swing to wait for Diana.

After just a minute the door opens and I look up, expecting Diana, but instead there’s Annie.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” I look out at the garden. “I’m really sorry. I thought you wouldn’t be here or I wouldn’t have come. We’re leaving as soon as Diana’s ready.”

“Oh,” she says, and the hurt in her voice stabs at my heart. “I didn’t realize you wouldn’t want to see me.”

At first I’m too stunned by the irony of that to say anything at all, but finally I babble, “You asked me not to contact you. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I won’t, not until you say. I’m not avoiding you—I mean, I was, but it’s to give you the space you asked for. Not because I don’t want to see you.” I stare at her with my mouth open for a few desperate seconds, and then I add, just to be clear, “I do want to see you.”

“Oh,” she says, and she looks tired and gaunt. She must feel it, too, because she says, “Okay. Um. I’m gonna sit down for a second.”

“Okay.”

When she sinks onto the other end of the swing, I feel my weight counterbalance hers. Our bodies automatically find a shared rhythm, a slow, steady rocking that moves us back and forth together. We’re connected this way, through the swing, as we sit in a long silence. I feel all the things I want to say stack up inside me as I try to think of which thing I should say, but everything I can’t say jams up my thoughts and so I just sit there, bottlenecked, silent. This is probably my only chance to fix our ending, to give us something besides “You’re the best man I know. Please don’t contact me.”

I look down at Annie’s bare feet, the dirty soles turned toward each other on the wooden porch. I glance at the front door. I don’t know how long we’ve got before Diana comes. I take a deep breath and say, “Thank you for the note.”

It comes out at the same time she says, “I’m sorry I left without saying good-bye.”

“The note?” she says, turning to look at me, while I say, “You did say good-bye.”

I say, “With the key,” as she says, “I didn’t, I snuck out like a coward.”

“The note was your good-bye,” I say, folding our two conversations into one. I add, formally, “And it meant a very great deal to me.”

We sit and rock in silence, connected still through the swing, even as we each struggle with all the things we haven’t said, the things that have to be said now, when we have this last, unexpected chance.

“I’ll follow your lead,” I tell her, staring straight ahead. “When you’re ready, write to me.”

I feel her nod, but she says, “How will I know when I’m ready?”

Which makes me laugh a little. I tell her the truth: “Fucked if I know.”

She frowns at me. “Well, how long will it take?”

I laugh a lot this time and turn to look at her, grinning as I drape my elbow over the back of the swing. “Young Coffey, I know even less about this than you do. You’re leading us.”

She stares at me, dumbfounded, before she says, “Then we are screwed, because I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

And so I tell her the truth again. “I trust you.”

“I—” she starts.

And then Diana comes through the door, followed by her husband, and I can’t tell if I feel more relieved or frustrated. I join them at the steps.

“Ready?” Diana says to me.

No, I think.

“Yep,” I say.

“Gimmee a hug,” she says to Annie. They hug and then I watch as, with her hands on Annie’s shoulders and her eyes watching Annie’s face very carefully, Diana announces, “It’s none of my business. But let me know if you need anything.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Annie nods, her eyes tearful and bleak. “Bye.”

Diana’s husband supports her unsteady bulk down the three steps, and they walk toward the car.

Annie turns to me.

I put my hands in my pockets and say, “Bye, Annie.”

She crashes her body against mine, her face pressed against my chest, her arms around my waist. Reflexively, my arms go around her shoulders and I hold her against me, tight, close. She feels bony and fragile. It’s terrifying. And it’s my fault. I touch my lips to the top of her head and say, “Take care of yourself.”

She takes a deep, slow breath, and as she exhales, her arms relax. She lets me go. She takes a step back. We stand there looking at each other. Her face is so thin and tired, it breaks my heart. Food and sleep, I think. The world needs you.

“Bye, Charles,” she says, her eyes exploring my face. “I’m glad we got to say good-bye for real.”

There’s something about those words—“good-bye for real”—something conclusive, something intolerable. I haven’t fixed anything, I haven’t undone any of the damage. Oh god, I am crap at good-byes. I glance at Diana near the car, and back at Annie.

I say, “I don’t want ‘good-bye for real’ to mean good-bye forever.”

She shakes her head without taking her eyes from mine.

“Tell me what to do,” I say, still watching her wide, sad eyes. “Tell me what you need.”

“Kiss me good-bye?” she says, and the words are hardly out of her mouth before my lips are on hers, my fingers laced in her hair, even as I know it’s the wrong thing to do.

“CHARLES!” Diana’s yell breaks through, and I pull away, feeling like I’ve been slapped. Annie and I stand there, breathing hard, watching each other, and I know, I know, this will not be the last good-bye. I do not fail often, and this matters too much—she matters too much—for me to allow it to end this way.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I’m not,” she answers.

“Termagant.” I grab her and, with her throat braced between my palms, I press my cheek to hers, press my lips against her ear, and I make a promise.

“When you’re ready, I will be where you need me to be. I will be there.”

“Where? How will I know?” she says desperately. She touches a hand to my sleeve, and I know she’s looking for strength in me, and I hate myself for not having it to give.

“You’ll know,” I say. “If you trust yourself half as much as I trust you, you’ll know. Bye, Annie.” I kiss her earlobe and walk off the porch.

I look back once, see her watching me.

I get in the car.

I drive my boss and her husband back to Bloomington.

“We’re not going to talk about it,” she says. Fair enough.

And then I go back to my flat, change my gear, and run seven miles in the June heat, with “The Scientist” on repeat on my headphones.

An hour later, I’m standing under a stone cold shower, and I’ve got a plan.