Page 50 of The Now in Forever
Light white flakes fall onto the boardwalk, making a sugar-coated dusting. It’s beautiful but slick—dangerous. Christmas lights twinkle all around. Wrapped around the lampposts, lining the little coffee kiosk. Even the passing boats are decked out in colorful designs. The large sailboat passing right now has green lights strung back and forth from the mast, making a giant Christmas tree.
Gingerly, I make my way to the bench. The same bench I sat on six months ago when Ed bought me an ice cream. Tonight is definitely not a night for ice cream. It’s thirty-two degrees and dropping. Pulling my coat closer around me, I tuck myself into my scarf and tug my hat down around my ears, pushing my hair out of the way. The green streak is gone. It’s all my normal chocolate brown. A boy in my Intro to Philosophy course told me I have beautiful hair. He said it like it surprised him that it was coming out of his mouth. He asked me to coffee, but I said no. How could I have coffee with some other guy when my heart belongs to Ed? I’ve replayed our day together,that day,nonstop for the last six months. For me, it feels like it never ended. Like Ed will walk out on these slippery planks and we’ll pick up where we left off.
I check my phone—7:13 p.m.
Ed’s late.
But that’s not too surprising. I walk to the coffee kiosk, and the woman opens a little sliding glass window, just like at a drive-thru.
“What can I get you?”
Scanning the menu, I try to decide. It’s too late for coffee for me. I’ve found it makes me jittery and panicked if I have more than a morning cup. “Peppermint tea, please.”
“You got it. Just in time. We’re about to close.”
“Oh, could I get a hot chocolate too, then?”
This time, I’ll buy the treats. Ed will have a warm cup of sugar waiting for him when he arrives. Then we can get in my grandma’s car and go somewhere warm. I borrowed it for the night. Too cold and snowy to bike and skate.
Drinks in hand, I head back to the bench and brush off the snow that instantly covered my seat. I set Ed’s drink down on the ground. Steam rises out of the hole in the lid of my cup. I’m greedy for the warmth and take a small sip. The tip of my tongue yelps in protest. Too hot.
Wrapping my hands around the cup, I suck in all the warmth I can. I think about pulling out my book, but I don’t want the snow falling to wet the pages. So, I just stare out at the dark water.
Thirty minutes go by. My tea is cool enough to drink now, which warms me up a little, but my face is so cold, I can’t feel my cheeks. The coffee kiosk is dark, and the woman who was working is long gone. I’m completely alone on this dark, snowy night. The longest night of the year. I check my phone again.
Why didn’t we exchange numbers? It was idiotic. What if something happened to him?
What if he just plain forgot?
No, he wouldn’t forget. How could a night that’s branded in my brain be completely forgettable to him? Something must’ve happened.
What if he got in a plane crash on his way to Colorado? What if he was in a skateboarding accident? What if he tried to skate here tonight and he slipped and hit his head and he’s lying in a ditch somewhere, unconscious? What if he met someone? What if he met someone inColorado—another writer, a poet with super long hair like the pink-haired girl from the Polaroid in the tree house—and they fell madly in love and he’s with her right now?
The tree house. I check the time again—8:03 p.m. I throw away Ed’s full cup of hot chocolate, more like freezing cold chocolate now, and get in my grandma’s Honda Civic, cranking the engine to life and turning up the heat to full blast. I’m honestly not sure I can find my way back to his mom’s, with the tree house in the back. But I’m going to try.
This can’t be how our story ends.
The college radio station plays Beck's “Heart is a Drum.” His voice is soft on this album, the guitar ethereal. It’s eerie driving with the snowflakes whizzing past the car like stars. I go to the drive-in first. It’s dark and shuttered, closed for winter. From there, I follow the exact route we took that night. I’m usually terrible with directions, but I remember every second of that night. Every move, every turn, every touch.
After about thirty minutes of driving up and down streets, the familiar light-blue house with a white picket fence comes into view. I park the car and walk through the snow-covered yard. Before I go to the front door, I peek in the backyard to look at the tree house, to make sure this is the place. The tree is there, but the house is gone. Completely gone. All the blood rushes to my toes in a whoosh, so swift it makes me dizzy. I know this is the house… The roses—thorny bushes at the moment—are still there, the little patio is still there, but no furniture. I look again at the tree. Two rungs of the ladder remain on the trunk, like streamers overlooked after cleaning up a party. They look almost burnt. But it’s dark and hard to see.
There’s a light on in the living room and a Christmas tree in the window, tossing light into the night with wild abandon. Rolling my shoulders back, I walk up the three little concrete steps to the front door. I’ve come this far; I might as well see it through. With my heart in my throat, I knock.
A man with gray hair and a Seahawks sweatshirt answers the door.The strong smell of chili wafts through the cold air. Maybe it’s his grandfather, but part of me knows it’s not.
“Can I help you?”
“I… Is Ed here?”
A woman comes to join him at the door in a matching Seahawks sweatshirt and blue leggings, her hair in a neat bob. “Who is it?”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you; I was just looking for my friend Ed. He used to live here.”
“Oh, I think the owner before had a son. Was that him?” the woman asks, but not to me—more to her husband.
The man frowns. “We bought the house in the fall. Short sale on account of the fire.”
“Fire? Was everyone okay?”
