If I Stay (23 page)

“I'd say he has the right idea,” Ben rested his hands on my shoulders, and we both laughed. It was funny seeing him stand behind me in the mirror, and I felt so small. Ben and I made a few funny faces, and he remarked that the bathroom was otherwise kind of gross, and I agreed whole-heartedly.

“Do you want me to wash it off?” Ben asked, motioning to the mirror. I pondered it, but the answer came quickly.

“No,” I told him. “Let's leave it.”

We finished packing up the rest of the things, making love on the floor of my old bedroom with the adhesive from the glue-on stars still stuck to the ceiling. Ben held me for awhile, kissing away the tears I shed and reminding me soothingly that everything would be alright.

Eventually, when everything was packed up and away and the keys had been returned, I took one last look at the place that I'd called home throughout those college years that had come and gone so quickly. I shut the door, listening to the reassuring
click
of the lock, and forced myself to walk away.

I never stepped foot into the building again, although I would go on to pass it more times than I could count. And it felt like, before I knew it, I was helping Ben pack for his month-long stint in the City of Angels. A place I'd never been to, and maybe never would. At least, the mere thought seemed completely unfathomable beyond any stretch of my imagination.

He brought one suitcase. Just one. Explaining, briefly, that he liked to travel light.

“Who likes lugging bags around?” he joked, zipping the suitcase shut. “I'll tell you: nobody.”

Amelia came to visit on the evening before Ben left. We hung around the living-room eating take-out sushi and watching
It's Kind of a Funny Story
, and I kept wondering what would happen between Craig and the girl in the
I Hate Boys
T-Shirt. I wondered what must be like to spend time in a mental institution, or to feel so lost for no explainable reason at all. Bobby was my favorite, though. And all of us laughed at the part where he asked Craig to compliment him on his shoes.

It was really difficult being in Ben's arms that night. He held me close and just kept whispering how everything would be just fine, and I knew he was right. I knew that everything was fine, and that I was so
beyond
lucky to have the arrangements that I did in the meantime.

It's just, the whole missing people thing. It sucks. And I've developed the firm belief that quite frankly, it never stops sucking. You just kind of learn to deal with it.

Still, the drive to the airport was filled with silence aside from The Shins singing about
Pink Bullets
and the sinking pit in my stomach that kept yelling at me to turn around. I walked Ben to his gate, and he hugged me for a really long time before pulling back, taking my face in his hands, and saying:

“I love you, Gemma Davies. To the moon and back.”

“To the moon and back,” I repeated, standing on my toes and cherishing that longest kiss I think we'd ever shared.

And then I watched him go. Reminding myself, over and over again, that he'd be back before I knew it. The plane took off, and whether or not it was actually his, I didn't really know. I just sat around until the sky grew dark, and I couldn't see the planes anymore, and there was little much else to do other than watch the people pass by, all heading in their different directions.

I picked up my purse, walking slowly through the airport and out the automatic doors. A light rain had started, stupidly typical, and I sprinted through the parking lot and towards Ben's car with enough speed to knock the wind from my chest. I took a few minutes, listening to the sound of the rain on the pavement and wondering what Ben was listening to. What Brandon and Sacha were doing, even though we'd already talked since their departure and it seemed like they were more than enjoying the Seattle life already. My phone had been blown up with photos of them at them on the plane, in their hotel room, in Brandon's new apartment. Along with a slew of other random, potentially accidental photos like the shot of Brandon's ear and a blurry picture of Sacha (I think) dancing.

Opening the door, I slid inside and waited a few minutes before starting the car. It was only when I went to toss my purse on the passenger-side floor that I saw it:

An envelope. With my name on it.

I contemplated reading whatever it was right there. But I didn't. In the event that it was something terrible and potentially emotionally-compromising, the last thing I or my family
needed was another accident. So I waited the entire drive home, lighting a fire and making a cup of tea and watching the flames dance for a little while before diving in.

Outside, the rain turned from a drizzle to a downpour.

And in the envelope wasn't a note, or a letter, or anything that I'd actually expected.

It was a story.

The story was about a girl who was down on her luck. She was a pretty girl. Kind, generous, thoughtful and sweet. But very, very confused. She came from a loving family that wasn't without conflict, but that was sort of alright, because they still had that ounce of love that seemed to get everyone by.

The girl still left, though. She moved into her own place alongside her best friend where they laughed about a lot of things, and talked about a lot of things, and thought about a lot of things. They dreamt about a lot of things, too. In fact, both the girl and boy were very much dreamers. They made the perfect pair.

Then, one day, the girl discovers an empty book in the library of her small town. But it isn't just any kind of book – it had the ability, when pen touched the paper, to transform whatever the author wrote into reality.

This was perfect. At least, it was at first. The book was able to remedy so many things for the girl and her best friend. They had money, and moved from their apartment into a nice, big house in the hills. They were never hungry, never without clothes or things that they wanted.

But loneliness often got the best of the girl, who eventually was convinced that the problem could be fixed by writing up the perfect boy for her otherwise now perfect life. Never really realizing, of course, the one boy who had always been in front of her.

The only issue with that? He wasn't perfect. In fact, he was far from it. He was evil – and he wanted the all-powerful book for himself. The girl, feeling beyond foolish, quickly realizes that all of the things she'd written couldn't possibly span the number of feelings and flaws that came into a real, living, non-created boy. And that in trying to purposely create someone wonderful, she'd accidentally swept herself into darkness instead.

Eventually, she burns the book, killing her evil boyfriend – but not without a final battle that ends up leaving a scar on her forehead and sends everything spiraling into a whirl of temporary chaos.

In the end, everything returns to normal. She still has the house, and she ends up falling in love with her best friend – the one who had loved her, truly, all along – and they continue on into their own Happily Ever After.

The story itself was only a few pages long, but I read and re-read it at least seven or eight times before finally setting it aside. I watched the flames as they swayed almost playfully, the rain still pelting like bullets against the window glass.

It was then that it hit me, like a shock of lightening straight into my brain. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and I couldn't run into the dining room and sift through the box which held my supplies fast enough. I didn't have much, but I had my sketchbook plus my pencils, and that was more than enough.

I worked for hours, toying around with ideas for what each of the characters might possibly look like. It kept me wound up as the fire slowly died and my tea grew cold and I accidentally somehow froze my laptop trying to replay my new favorite song (SafetySuit's
Find A Way
) over and over again, but it felt good to be busy. With Sacha gone, driven by his desire to travel, and Brandon gone on his hunt for the next big musician – it felt good to be inspired. It felt good to feel like I was working towards some kind of purpose, even it was kind of premature.

Turning the music up, I was so tangled in my work that I could barely hear the sudden knock on the door until it became louder. Heightened by the rain and branches that knocked with their own urgency against the windows.

I paused, startled, watching as my pencil rolled off the coffee table and onto the rug.

Muting the volume, I stood and walked over to the door, rising to my toes and peeking out through the little peep-hole in the door. It was much too high, so I couldn't see anything.

Waiting, I heard another knock. Then another. Then, finally, I decided to call out:

“I'll call the cops!” I yelled. “And I'm armed, so don't even dare try!”

I wasn't armed, obviously. I'd never even held a potentially dangerous weapon before, unless utensil knives counted. But if it was anyone I knew, they'd answer back. And when nobody did, I took three steps backwards and pulled out my phone, ready to make a quick call and even quicker dash up the steps and somewhere hopefully safe.

There came one last knock, and I was really shaking. I couldn't move, and my hands could barely keep my phone from slipping out of my grasp. With the door already latched, I listened to the sound of keys sliding into the lock, the brass knob turning, and with wide eyes I watched with a frozen helplessness as the door swung open.

At first, all I heard was the rain. And then, soft as the droplets that fell against the floor, I heard him. I saw him.

There was Ben, standing in the rain.

And my heart. My heart, my heart.

It nearly stopped.

“It took me a terribly long time to catch a taxi...” he explained, slow and shivering. “My flight was delayed from some engine issue, and the entire time I just kept thinking:
how do I leave? How do I actually do this?
I paced around for a good hour or so, and by the time I'd ran back through the airport gate, you were gone.”

He stopped, shaking his head as he stepped inside. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

“There's a line, you know, from your beloved Salinger,” he said softly. “
I don't care if it's a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye. But when I leave a place, I like to know I'm leaving it. If you don't, you feel even worse.
”

I took his hands. Cold, so cold, and kissed them.

“Are you real?” I asked him. “Are you really standing in front of me right now?”

He nodded, leaning down and kissing me. Over and over and over again, until he was on his knees and holding my hands, and I still couldn't quite believe it.

“You can't do this,” I told him, my voice nearly breaking. “Ben, you need to go. You need to turn around and get on the first plane out of here. This isn't what you're supposed to be doing. I can't be the one who forces you to change your plans and just sporadically rearrange the things that matter. I can't.”

He was quiet for a few still moments, his breath quick, his clothes completely soaked. I stroked his face, and he was still holding mine.

“You're not forcing me,” he finally said. “I want to be here. I want to stay here. With you, Gemma. Don't you understand? It was always you. Always. You inspire me.  And it's just...it's like Salinger said, I suppose. As I was sitting there, waiting, I realized that it wasn't the proper goodbye. I knew that I couldn't leave like this. Not like this. Not alone, with everyone you're closest to gone on their own separate journeys.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that I'd rather stay here. I'd rather wake up knowing that you're near me, alive and breathing and everything is just as it needs to be. The two of us together.”

I wiped away the tears, laughing even though it wasn't quite a funny thing. It was just that he was so sopping wet and I was so full of lingering anxiety and that sting of fear-induced adrenaline.

“I have to show you something.”

I grabbed his hand and led him into the living room, showing him the work that I'd already made. He looked at it, then at the papers on the ground, and delighted, he said:

“You read the story already?”

“I read it the second I stepped foot through the door.”

We were both smiling like fools, and I threw my arms up and around him. Not caring if I got soaked, too. I loved him. I loved him, I missed him, and here he was.

“I have an idea,” he said quietly. “A most brilliant idea. I'm not sure what I was thinking before. Or maybe it's just the writer in me that seems to be more drawn towards these dramatic moments.”

“What is it?” I asked. He grinned, beautiful and mine.

“Tell me, my love.” he kissed me. “How soon could you throw together a suitcase?”

I didn't need to hear another word.

We drove into the nightfall, taking a morning flight into the great and glorious city of Los Angeles. The frantic nights and foreign streets paved with hopes and dreams of the feverish and the futile. And as we took off into the sunrise, I felt so full of hope and light, thinking about one line from
On The Road
, where Kerouac talks about the mad ones lighting up like Roman Candles.