You
by M. F. Luder
You dock at a pier because you're tired, yeah, and thirsty, and you can feel your shirt sticking to your back, you've been sweating so much. You pay the fee and walk down the pier, bag slung over your arm.
You don't really care where you are and, truth be told, it doesn't really matter. You just want some water, a bed that's not made of nylon, preferable 400 thread covers as well. A room where you can close the door and hear nothing but silence. You want your house, and your Playstation, and food on your plate that's not from a can.
Oh, and Ryan.
You aren't surprised by your thoughts because, really, when you have nothing to do with your time but think, one realizes certain things you can't deny. Ryan's one of them.
You wonder if maybe you didn't know about this the moment Ryan told you he was leaving, that Theresa was pregnant and he had to do the right thing. You probably were aware of it, and that's why you reacted the way you did. Either way, in these past three weeks you've accepted it and moved on.
You didn't leave Newport because your friend left. You left because the one you love left. That's ten times worse.
There are things about him you miss, the way his hair would be rumpled in the morning, how he liked to eat the cereal straight out of the box. How he would touch you. How he would smile at you. Little things.
Little things that turned out to be big things and suddenly, you miss him so much it hurts. You shake your head, your breathing eases as you walk down the street, people walking by, busy and occupied, and you look around.
There's a shop on the corner and coffee would be perfect right now. You walk in, stand in line and wait. You eye the muffins and cupcakes idly, not really hungry. You're just relieved to be able to get coffee and have ground under your feet. You'll never undervalue standing on solid ground again.
The lines move quickly and then there's a girl standing before you, black hair pulled back in a low ponytail, green eyes staring at you as she waits to take your order.
"Cappuccino," you say before pausing, because you were about to ask for a Mocha with extra milk. Habits die hard, you realize. Habits of months having coffee with the same person.
You press your lips into a thin line and nod slightly.
"Cappuccino," you repeat, though the girl has already turned around for your order.
You close your eyes, breathing deeply. You don't think about dark blonde hair that's being touched by someone else's hand. You don't feel bitter, but rather sick to your stomach all of a sudden.
Instead, you shake your head and realize you don't want coffee anymore. You don't want anything but to go back in time and when he's saying goodbye to you, when he gives you the damn map you fucking gave to him the first time you thought you'd lost him, you'll stand up and ask him not to leave you. You'll do that, and everything will be fixed because you know, you want to believe, he won't leave you if you ask him not to.
You blink out of your stupor and the girl is glaring at you, coffee in hand, fingers taping against the counter. You assume she said something and you didn't hear her, so you ask, "Huh?"
She rolls her eyes at you.
She's tired, but you're exhausted. She's bored; you're fed up. She misses her boyfriend, you mourn over the one that was never yours.
"Three dollars, twenty-seven."
You nod, handing her the money. She gives you back your change and you don't count it, closing your fist and shoving it into your pocket. Your chest is tight. You stare at your shaky hand as she hands you the coffee and you worry about spilling it on the only clean pair of jeans you have at the moment.
Your chest is tight.
You walk outside, the sun shining on your face and you cover your eyes with your free hand. Looking around, you spot a bench on your right. You sit, placing the coffee by your side and dropping the bag on the ground.
Sitting back, eyes almost closed, you try to forget everything. The two letters you wrote, though there's only one heartfelt still inside your bag. The people you left behind, the one who left first. What you miss the most, hoping he misses you as well.
Opening your eyes, you pick up your coffee and sip it slowly, eyes looking out onto the ocean. You don't want to go back, not to your boat, too tired to continue a trip that got side tracked, a trip that was never meant to be made alone.
You want to fix things. You want them to be the way they used to be. You want to hear his voice.
It's stupid really, and quite weak of you, but you are stupid and weak, so it's not really your fault. You reach into your pocket and get your cell phone out. You stare at it for a moment before flipping it open and dialing the number.
You remember hearing Ryan give the number to your parents two nights before he left. You repeated it in your mind until it was carved in blood in your brain, memorized before you even hit the pillow that night. You never saved it because that would have made it real, and you didn't want this to be real.
It rings three times before someone answers. You hope it's not her.
"Hello?"
You close your eyes. Your heart constricts. You can't speak. You don't know if you would, if you could.
"Hello?"
You think about hanging up and you're grateful that they don't have caller ID. At least, you think they don't because if they do and you hang up, then Ryan will still know and what's the point in that?
"Hmm... hello?"
You can imagine him frowning, blue eyes squinting slightly. There's movement on the other side and you frown.
"Hmm..." A pause and then, a whisper, "Seth?"
Your chest tightens. Your heart must have stopped beating, it must have, because nothing moves.
"Seth?" There's doubt in his voice. "It's you, isn't it?" Then, with a certainty you know by heart, "Seth... fuck."
You can see him like he's standing before you, frustration in his expression as he runs a hand through his hair.
"Seth..."
Maybe there's something in your breathing he recognizes, or in your silence. Maybe he knows you're the only idiot who would call to hear his voice and your name on his lips.
"Come home."
The words surprise you. You never thought he'd say that.
"Fuck, Seth."
Now, that you imagined.
"Seth, just... come back."
There's something he isn't saying, but you can guess by his tone.
Your parents miss you.
"Seth."
I miss you.
"Come back."
Come home to me.
You wish you could. You're too chicken to.
"Seth, please..."
Your resolve is wavering. This phone call was never meant to last this long. And you were never meant to respond.
"Seth."
You hang up because you know, one second longer, and you would have told him that you had docked and that you'll wait for him to pick you up. That's not fair to him.
You sigh, closing the cell phone and holding it tightly in your grasp. You wish you could have said something. You wish you could have said I love you.
You know you'll call again. You know you'll call. Maybe then, you'll say it.
Finished: November 2nd, 2004.