Page 209 of Haunt Me

I keep asking her where she wants to go, and she is ok with everything. It’s beginning to bothers me, honestly, how she never asks for what she desires. Or, maybe she just doesn’t want anything—which is even worse. The gnawing fear that Eden, who has such a brilliant mind, and opinions on everything under the sun, can’t ask for the date she wants takes a hold of me.

I don’t believe what the specialists say, that her ‘free will’ was beaten out of her as a child. Besides, even if that has a hint of truthin it, she is working with her therapists and doctors constantly, so I have to trust that she is in good hands—as long as I don’t mess her up more. As long as I don’t hurt her.

I had this grand, romantic plan of ‘dating her back to health’, but I didn’t take into consideration just how much of an unstoppable moron I am. I seem to be completely unsuitable to her needs. Completely helpless. But she agreed to date me—the one thing she has solidly refused to do for about half a year now—so that must count for something.

“What are we doing tonight, Isaiah?” she asks me every day when I call her to say ‘good morning’.

“Can’t tell you,” I always reply and she squeals.

Honestly, I could get used to starting my day like that. I think I already have. The one thing she’s told me she loves is surprises. So our dates are different every night.

I don’t think I have put this much thought and effort behind anything else so far in my life: Not school, definitely not music lessons; not even songs, my one passion—other than her.

But I plan our dates meticulously, obsessing over every little detail for days in advance. We spend a lot of quality time together, walking around New York, being goofy in the park, sitting at cafes or libraries, watching the snow fall as we talk and talk for hours. I make good on my promise to cook for her. I take her to watch movies, and we don’t watch anything because we make out the whole time like a couple of teenagers. Well, we didn’t do that when we were actual teenagers, so now we have to. I take her to exclusive clubs and bars, but the noise is too much for her, so I choose quieter spots.

I quickly discover her favorite kind of night: staying in.

Which just happens to be my favorite as well.

We spend our nights just chilling in my penthouse, reading, writing, making music together in front of the crackling fireplace. The rest of the world fades away, along with the distant traffic noises of a snowy Fifth Avenue, bustling with screaming taxi drivers twenty-four floors below us.

…

Tonight, the snow hasn’t stopped falling all night. Eden snuggles by my side on the couch, nestling her head in the crook of my neck.

“Paradise,” I murmur, as her hair brushes my chin. “This is paradise.”

“A little more wintery than one would imagine,” she says, but she’s smiling.

“Maybe a poet could imagine paradise like a winter’s night,” I say.

“That was too cheesy, even for you,” she laughs.

“Well, I know one poet who isn’t cheesy,” I say, climbing to my feet. I don’t remember where I’ve abandoned my phone. “Give me a second.”

“Nooo! You’re not going to read one of mine, are you?” Eden runs after me with a cushion in her hands, her socks padding on the carpet.

“I definitely am!” I yell. I’m not looking for my phone, but for my coat.

I always carry one of her poems in my pocket, like any normal boyfriend. Meanwhile, Eden is trying to whack me over the head with her cushion, but I slide an arm around her waist and hold her my prisoner.

“Aha!” I find what I was looking for.

It’s her poemWhat If.

I have it printed on a piece of paper, which has been folded a million times over. It’s on my phone as well, but I prefer it on its own like that. It’s stained with tears, the paper warped and frayed. I like it like that. It reminds me of the days when everything was warped and broken. Maybe that’s the way things have to be before they get better.

“Shall I start?” I ask.

“Don’t you dare!” Eden replies.

We walk back to the couch and sit down. Eden curls her body around mine. I straighten the paper out and she doesn’t stop me. I start reading, and she listens.

What if I had grown up safe?

What if I had grown up with a real father?

Would I be careless?

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