The End of the World (28 page)

When I saw them together walking hand-in-hand, I knew.

It might have taken me six months to locate her, but I knew our fate in only a handful of seconds.

My days with Shaye were over forever.

Obliterated because she didn’t have enough faith to trust me. And she ran away, just like she did when we were younger.

Still, in the last two years I’ve managed to carve out a fairly happy life. As happy as a twenty-four-year-old who almost has everything he’s ever wanted can be, at least.

I blink at my notebook, all at once aware that I’ve been staring at a blank piece of paper for quite some time now…all at once aware that someone is talking. Looking up, I position my pen and make myself focus.

“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that last part?”

*

Shaye

They say that
life inevitably has a way of repeating itself. Where I’m concerned, it has a way of repeating itself in the oddest ways.

“No, you cannot have another peanut butter cracker,” I say. “That last one made three, and that’s it for tonight.”

“But I’m three,” Zachary says, holding up three fingers, his little cherub face all scrunched up in a frown. It’s a familiar argument—him insisting that he should have as many snacks as his age; three apples, three cookies, three bags of microwave popcorn. But familiar often makes for exhausting when his vocabulary is limited to a few simple sentences that I consistently hear on repeat after a long day of work.

“You’re right, you are three. So you don’t need four.” I scoop him up and carry him to the bathroom. He smells like baby powder and peanuts, with a little caked-on mud mixed in to really round out the stinky little boy aroma. It’s bath time. First for him, then for me. I flip on the faucet and dump out his favorite toys into the stream of clear liquid.

“Alright, little man, you’ve got ten minutes to play before I come at you with a scrub brush and some bleach,” I say, planting a kiss on his nose before depositing him into the water.

He blinks up at me. “You’re not gonna use my shampoo?”

I smile down at him. “It was a joke. I’ll use your shampoo, promise.”

Listening closely to him while he plays, I make my way into the bedroom and gather up clothes for my own shower, taking a moment to pick up a few odds and ends lying on the floor—two pairs of Zachary’s shoes, a bra and socks from last night that I left in a hurry because bed was calling and that’s what happens when you normally manage to sleep only five hours a night or so.

I gather our few possessions to my chest and look around the small bedroom of our downtown Tulsa apartment. At my son’s toddler bed tucked into a far corner. At the mirror hanging slightly ajar on the wall that somehow reflects a happy, albeit tired, Mom. At the tiny living room and apartment-sized refrigerator I can see just beyond the doorway. At my son’s tuft of wet blond hair sticking out in jagged points all over his soapy head.

It isn’t located in Brookside like the dream I shared with Cameron all those years ago. Embarrassingly, it’s in Utica. I figured if I couldn’t actually share my life with Cameron the way I’ve spent my life wanting to, at least I could share his vision.

This place is tiny, far removed from the Oklahoma City home we lived in just a few short months ago when Mike was paying our rent and treating us like we were a family. Though I can’t blame him for leaving, for quitting on us. Zachary wasn’t his; we both knew it the moment he was born. To his credit, he stayed with us longer than he had to and paid our down payment on this apartment. But I put myself in this situation; it was time I dragged myself out.

Besides, Mike never loved me and I never loved him. Not in the way people should.

I’ve only ever loved one person that much—now, then, forever.

I force my mind away from familiar thoughts of Cameron and paste on a smile.

Zachary is watching me. And all that matters is that at the end of every day, there’s a peace that comes from knowing I’ve made a good life for my son and me. That I have almost everything I’ve ever wanted.

But like always, my smile begins to falter. I can feel it slip even as I work to force it back in place.

Because it’s the almost that haunts me. Even now.

Cameron

“S
o you weren’t
real impressed with the place, huh?”

James, my co-worker—if you want to call him that since our office consists of a corner table at a local bakery where we meet to write and discuss our individual careers every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning—asks me this as he leans back in his chair and takes a sip from an iced vanilla latte.

“It was horrible. If you’re going to charge forty-five bucks for a hamburger laced with truffles, have the decency not to burn it.” I rip off a bite of bagel and shove it in my mouth. “And if you do burn it and offer to cook another one, use a little common sense and don’t burn it again. It was what I imagine eating a hockey puck would taste like.”

“You imagine that often, do you?” Like me, James is sarcastic. It’s the reason we get along so well.

I toss back the last remnants of my coffee. “If you were forced to eat some of the things I’ve been offered, you might think a hockey puck was an improvement.” I stand up for a refill, this time going for the darkest roast and throwing in three packets of sugar just for the fun of it. By the time I sit back down, James is flipping through a newspaper. Neither of us is in the working mood today, though one of us has three articles due in the next two days and better get busy soon, unmotivated or not.

“What about the Indian restaurant?” he asks, glancing up at me over the top of the newspaper.

And this is the part I like; the part that has made me a lover of fine cuisine despite being thrust into the occupation before I had time to protest. Sometimes life doesn’t wait for you to figure it out. Sometimes it makes plans for you and fills you in on the details later, when everything is settled and the only questions left to ask are whether or not to bring a pen, paper, and an appetite for the slightly undercooked and rubbery.

Thank God the Indian food wasn’t rubbery.

“That place was fantastic. One of the best restaurants I’ve eaten at, actually. Goes to show you that a white man can cook Indian after all.”

An eye appears over the paper again. A scrunched up eye lit with a slight amount of surprise. “As if that was in question?”

“Indian food,” I say with a wink. “I meant to say cook Indian food.”

James laughs, and I open my computer to get started on another installment of The Worst Part of My Job. It’s never fun to discount an establishment that someone has poured their heart, soul, and sweat into. But people count on me to deliver honest reviews. So with my hands poised over the keyboard, I wrack my brain for a clever opening line—one that’s not too cute, but memorable. One that will suck the reader in without purposefully leading them along.

“What’s a food-related word that rhymes with burned?” I ask.

This is James’ specialty—thinking of memorable rhymes and catch-phrases. I wait for his response, knowing he’ll deliver a good one, but I’m met with nothing but silence.

And more silence.

“James?”

And this is the moment before. The moment when the comfortable life of denial I’ve built around myself comes crashing down beside my laptop, a warm cup of coffee, and my worn New Balance tennis shoes. The moment before everything shifts. The moment before eighteen years of a troubled past collide with my normal, everyday present. The moment before everything I’ve worked so hard to block from my memory comes at me like a pressurized tidal wave. These same moments have happened already; I just wish they would quit happening so often to me.

The newspaper comes down. The gesture matches James’ expression. Troubled. Concerned. Cautious.

Down.

He slides the paper toward me.

“Haven’t I heard you talk about this guy before?”

Curious, I tilt my head to study the image now in front of me.

“What guy?” My voice shakes. Something in my gut instructs it to be afraid.

The words are barely off my tongue when I see him. I’ve never forgotten his face; those eyes will haunt me forever.

And then I read the headline.

If I thought I was haunted before, now I may never sleep again.

For the first time in my life, I wish I’d never been taught to read.

Local foster parents Carl and Tami Bowden were arrested yesterday afternoon when the body of a teenage boy was found buried next to a lake on the outskirts of their property. The body is thought to be that of fifteen-year-old Peter LaMendola who lived with the Bowden’s for several years before disappearing last year…

I can’t read anymore.

I can’t read because I can’t see.

I can’t see because of the water.

Water and more water and more water.

It’s all around me.

I’m drowning.

I’m twenty-four, and it’s pouring from my eyes.

My head goes down to the table.

I need the cool wood to counteract the fact that it’s suddenly hot in here.

There’s so much that could have been different, if only I had tried harder.

*

Shaye

Fighting back tears,
I fling the latest copy of
Food & Wine
magazine across the room, only marginally satisfied when it lands to the right of the muted television and slides down the break room wall.

Obsessed.

It’s a word that people toss around lightly and often without even realizing what they’re doing.
I’m obsessed with this nail polish. I’m obsessed with this season’s newest ankle boots. I’m obsessed with curly straight short long black brown red platinum hair.
Fill in the blank and add your own examples.

Obsessed.

It’s a word people throw around to describe just about everything in life. A word nearly as obnoxious as the letters LOL. A word that I’ve always prided myself against using.

But somehow the word has found me, and now I’m a ticked off, hot mess.

I sniff, stare at the magazine, and within moments I second guess my actions and rush to grab it off the floor, glad that I’m the only one here, relieved that the magazine survived the abuse, yet disappointed that I care so much. But when it comes down to it, I care.

And I really wish I would stop.

“You know, if you hate that magazine so much, you should just cancel your subscription.”

Emily, my ridiculously beautiful friend and coworker who could easily pose for
Sports Illustrated
but instead works as a social worker—I’m taking online classes and working toward earning my license—walks in and plunks a take-out Caesar salad down on the table across from me, one that looks much more appetizing than my tuna on Wonder bread. She slides into the booth and removes the lid.

I look back down at my lap, smoothing out the creases that now mar the cover of the magazine. “I don’t hate it. That’s the problem. I love it. I love it too much.”

“Obviously, considering I rarely see you without one in your hand lately.” She moves lettuce around with her fork, her apparent strategy for staying skinny. “You have something against cooking, or is it the act of eating in general that gets on your nerves?”

I hold up a tiny piece of bread crust, the only thing left of lunch. “I clearly have no problem with eating.”

Emily smiles at the look on my face and reaches for the magazine. She opens it, thumbs through the pages. “Then what’s up with your hatred for this thing? This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you sail one across the room.”

I shrug. “Just one of its writers. A guy I used to know…” My words trail off, not because I don’t feel like talking, but because some subjects are sacred. My relationship with Cameron has always seemed private. Between only the two of us. Something that needs to be honored even after four years of silence.

Time still hasn’t made it easier.

I still can’t believe he took my suggestion and decided to write about food. The thought might make me smile if it didn’t bring immense pain from missing him so much.

“Is it this guy?” She points to a head shot next to an article on canning the perfect tomatoes, and I make a face.