27. Stephen
27
STEPHEN
Age Eighteen
Hey sweetheart, you almost ready to go? I've got some of Mom's chocolate chip cookies we can share if you're hungry.
Dorothea
I’m sorry, I can’t tonight. Mom is up and alert.
Damn. Leave it to your mom to have the world’s worst timing. Maybe we can go driving around tomorrow?
Dorothea
Maybe. Can’t talk right now.
No problem. I’ll stop by in the morning if that’s okay. I love you, Dorothea.
I wake up and check my phone, rereading Dorothea’s texts from last night. I’m guessing she fell asleep before she was able to text me back, since that’s the only time she doesn’t tell me she loves me. A quick glance out my bedroom window shows that her bedroom light is still off, so I decide to check in on her later after she’s woken up.
I can smell breakfast on the stove, so I throw on sweatpants and head down the stairs. I’ll eat and then go for a run. I'm sort of really into sex now that I've done it. I want to keep myself in shape so I can keep doing it.
Mom and Dad are both at the kitchen table when I turn the corner, mugs in hand and a piece of paper on the table between them.
"Morning," I say, and they both look up at me with somber eyes. My stomach drops. The last time this happened–Mom and Dad at the table, staring up at me with sad eyes–it was the day after my grandma passed away. I look to Mom, and her lip trembles.
"What's going on?" I ask. My voice shakes, and I hate it.
"Stephen, son, why don't you sit down?" Dad says as he pushes the chair out next to him. I slowly cross the room and sink down into the seat.
"What's going on?" I ask again. They look to each other, and then down at the paper. Mom slides it across the table, and I pick it up with trembling hands.
Turning it over, I read-
Stephen ,
I have to go. I'm so sorry.
I promise to think about you.
-Your Dorothea
I read it again and again, trying to make some sense of the words. It might as well be written in Mandarin for all the sense it makes to me.
I ball the paper up in my fist and move to the front door. I stand on the porch, staring at the house next door.
Dorothea doesn't come out.
Dad tries to coax me back inside.
I don't go.
Mom brings me tea.
I don't drink it.
I stand, and I watch, and I wait.
The sun rises. The sun sets.
But Dorothea doesn't come back to me.