48. Thad
Ifeel like I’m going to throw up.
And I probably deserve to, after everything I’ve put Helen through. My nerves, my racing heart, my indigestion, are mild prices to pay for abandoning her, for taking the choice out of her hands yet again. So, yeah. Penitent projectile vomit. It feels like the least I can do.
There are still a few minutes before Helen is supposed to come here to meet me, but I’m looking up and down the street, straining my head every time I see a flash of blonde hair go by. I check my phone, just in case she texted, then check it again a moment later to make sure I didn’t accidentally put it on silent. I haven’t. The ringer is all the way turned up, too, just for the record.
I honestly wouldn’t blame her if she stood me up. I know I put her on the spot before, just showing up at the library, but I didn’t know how else to do it. A text felt too casual. An email, too impersonal. I wrote a long letter, too, but I got too paranoid about it getting lost in the mail. So I decided to hand deliver it to her apartment, but then I worried that might be too creepy, like I’m trying to remind her that I know where she lives, or something. In the end, showing up at her workplace seemed like the best bet, because if she felt unsafe or just didn’t want to see me, there would be plenty of other people around to back her up when she told me to get lost.
She’s not coming, my pessimistic inner voice warns me. I need a distraction, so I pull out The ABC Murders. That’s right—an Agatha Christie book. One I’m actually reading this time. I worry it might seem a little manipulative, like I’m trying to prove to her I’ve changed, or something, but the truth is, I can’t stop reading them. Helen was right to recommend them to me, back when we first met, because they’re great books—but that’s not why I’m reading them. They could be the worst drivel of all time, and I’d still be hooked.
I knew, when I left Helen in that hotel room in New Orleans, that I’d miss her. I probably knew even then that I was making a mistake, but I think I got caught up in my head, like I was some kind of fucking film noir character who was proving his nobility by leaving the girl behind so she could live a good life. Only…I didn’t leave her behind. She was with me everywhere I went. I saw her in strangers on the street. I heard a laugh that sounded like hers and it felt like someone was squeezing my heart. I remembered the way she smiled at me after the Carolina Belle and I genuinely, truly loathed myself for being the person to hurt her.
I needed her back in my life, even if it was in some small, insignificant way. So I went to the library—not hers, but another branch where I was sure she wouldn’t be—and picked up my first Agatha Christie. And I actually started going through them as quick as I used to pretend to read them, back when I was following Helen. It felt like the closest I could get to actually being with her—reading the books I knew she’d read.
Glancing up from The ABC Murders, I see Helen standing on the other side of the window. It’s hard to read the expression on her face, and even that feels like a small blow to the gut, because she used to be so open and sunny. So sure of being treated kindly and fairly because she didn’t know any other way of dealing with people.
Until I came along.
My heart starts pounding as I rise to my feet. She’s here. I can’t believe it. She’s really here. I try to smile as she comes in to join me, not sure what tone to strike. I’m genuinely relieved to see her again, but I don’t want it to come across like what passed between us was no big deal, like it’s been easy for me to be away from her.
“Sorry for the wait,” she says as she joins me at the table. Her voice, too, is guarded, closed off, and even though she meets my gaze, her eyes quickly flinch away, like it hurts to see me.
“No problem.” I hold up the book, like a peace offering, as we take our seats. “I’ve been catching up on…” I realize suddenly that I have no idea how to say the detective’s name, since I’ve only ever read it on a page, never heard it out loud. “Porrot,” I try, and know immediately that it’s wrong.
That earns a ghost of a smile from her. “You’re actually reading the books? Not just using them as a cover to stalk librarians?”
I can hear she’s trying to keep her tone light, even though there’s obviously barbed wire around those words. I do my best to match her, minus the cutting undertone. “They’re really good. This is my fourth one.” I swallow, hesitating before adding, “I can see why you recommended them to me before.”
Her gaze flickers again to mine before sliding away. “That’s the best compliment you can give to a librarian, you know. That she’s helped you find the right book.”
Silence stretches out between us. I honestly have no idea why I’ve been talking about these books for so long—well, no, that’s not true. I’m delaying the actual conversation I came here to have, because I’m a coward.
I clear my throat. “What do you want to drink? I can grab it for you—I’m due for a refill anyway.”
“No, thanks.” Helen shifts, folding her hands on the table in front of her. “I actually don’t have too much time, so maybe we can just, you know. Get to it. Whatever you wanted to talk about.”
I’m the one trying not to flinch now. I told myself not to take up too much of her time, but I’m scared to get to the meat of things, because if she says no…that’s it. We’re out of each other’s lives, forever. “Okay. Sure. I just…I wanted to see how you’re doing, after everything that happened.”
“I’m fine,” Helen says tersely. “Great, actually. No complaints. You?”
This is it. No more waffling. I steel myself, clearing my throat again. “I’ve been doing okay. I’ve actually been seeing someone.”
I realize as soon as the words are out of my mouth that I’ve phrased things incorrectly because of the way Helen reacts—like she’s been slapped. I backpedal furiously, realizing what seeing someone usually means in the context of two people who’ve slept together and are meeting up after a breakup. “A therapist, I mean. We’ve been working through a lot of things together, and it’s made me realize…I was really unfair to you. I made the decision for us to end things, without you, and I didn’t listen to what you had to say. I thought I was trying to protect you, but that doesn’t mean I should have shut you out, or not given you a say. I’m sorry, Helen. Really.”
I’ve practiced the words so many times that I know them by heart, but I’m so nervous it comes out too hurried, some of the words half stumbling over each other. Holding my breath, I wait to see how she’ll respond.
Helen stares at me for a long moment, her face blank. Then she shifts in her seat, casting her eyes around the room, like she can’t bear to look at me. And even though I deserve it, even though I’ve done much worse, my heart clenches painfully in my chest.
“Thank you,” she says finally, but without much feeling. Like you might thank a stranger for holding open a door. “I appreciate that.”
That’s that, then. She couldn’t make it more obvious that she wants nothing to do with me. And again, I deserve it, I half expected it…but it still hurts.
“Is that all you wanted to say to me?” she prompts, watching me carefully, her brow furrowed.
No. That isn’t all I wanted to say to her. If I weren’t such a coward, I would tell her I’m still in love with her. That I can’t stop thinking about her. That even though we only knew each other for a little while, she burrowed herself so deep into my heart that I don’t know how to go on with any chance at happiness without her.
It’s more than just cowardice, though—and I think I’m being honest with myself when I say that. Helen spent so much of her life with people taking away her choices, and I ended up being one of those people. I’m afraid to bulldoze her again, to coerce her into something she doesn’t want to do, because she’s nice and doesn’t want to hurt my feelings.
But I have to be honest, don’t I? I can’t only tell her part of the truth, because that’s taking her choice away, again. That’s what Dr. Zahn would say, anyway, if he were here.
I rub the back of my neck, building up my courage. “I want to be in your life. If you want that.” I don’t want to pressure her, though, or maybe it’s just me being a chickenshit again, but I tack on, “As your friend.”
No. Definitely chickenshit. I realize it as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
“You want to be my friend?” Helen echoes, sounding confused, maybe even a little frustrated. “Why?”
Okay, sure, maybe this is the coward’s way out. Because I don’t want to be her friend. I want to be the first person she calls when she needs something, the person she tells about her day, the guy who gets to see her face first thing every morning.
Then again, I haven’t earned that privilege. I threw that away when I left her in New Orleans. Maybe friend is the most I deserve—and I will honestly take whatever she will give me, if I get to be a part of her life.
“Because…” Another scrub of my neck. “Look, I don’t like that many people, okay? People as a general rule are shitty. They’re liars and backstabbers and…just shitty. But you? You’re a good person. And I want good in my life.”
I must have said the wrong thing again, because Helen cringes, shaking her head. “I’m not that good.”
“Trust me. You are.” For the first time since we started talking, I catch her gaze and actually manage to hold it. I try to put everything into that look—my hope, my sincerity, my regret at hurting her and my resolve to never, ever do it again. “Look, I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me. But I’ll be a good friend to you, if you’ll let me.”
Helen holds my gaze, her eyes searching for something in mine. I wish I could read her, but I realize now I never really could. She’s always been an enigma to me, acting in ways I can’t predict, with motives I’ll never be able to fully understand. But I want to. I want to know everything about her. All the goodness and warmth and humor and sassiness, yeah, but every freckle and scar on her soul, too.
I think some of this must show on my face, because I can see Helen’s gaze softening, just a little. Still, she sounds bewildered as she asks, “What would we even do together? We have nothing in common.”
Grinning through my racing heart, I hold up my book. “What are you talking about? We both love to read. I’ve read four—no, five whole books now.”
She fights a smile, but loses, and my heart clenches again, in a good way this time. “You want to talk about books?” She tries to load her voice with sarcasm, but neither of us is buying it.
I feel my own smile broaden, so wide it hurts. “And go on walks. Get food. Go to the movies. Friend stuff.” I only wince a little when I say that last part.
“I guess…we could try it.” She levels a finger at me—and despite the silliness of the gesture, I can see in her eyes she is dead serious. “But no deciding you need to protect me, or ghosting me, or saying you’re not good enough—none of that nonsense. If we’re friends, I need to be able to trust you.”
I swallow, trying to convey in my eyes, my tone, my smile, just how important, how sacred,all of this is to me. “I promise, Helen. I’m not going anywhere.”