This, by the way, is something I share with my new therapist, Lina, whom I see twice a week. Because: issues.
I see Pippa at least once a week. I hang out with Renn and his friends whenever they’re around. I call Nora for weekly catch-ups. She now lives with Colt. They are planning their wedding, and the other day, she asked if I’d attend.
“Are you kidding me? I need to sign a fat check after everything I put you through. Of course I’ll be there,” I answer.
When I ask her if she keeps in touch with Joe, she says, “Nope. He hasn’t really taken any of my calls. Colt tried too. I doubt he wants to hear from any of us, Ev. But I did see him the other day, down the street.”
“When? Where? Who with?” I demand.
There is an uncomfortable silence on the other side of the line before she says, “I shouldn’t . . .”
“Tell me, Nora,” I all but bark at her.
She sighs. “I saw him by the Walgreens. With a woman. A brunette. He had his arm around her shoulder.”
It hurts so much that I spend the rest of my day clutching my chest to keep my heart from spilling out. Joe is trying to move on. Why shouldn’t he? We can’t be together. I was with his brother. Plus, I hurt him the last time we were together. Then, finally, I left. Again.
For my twenty-fifth birthday, my family throws me a Halloween-themed bash, even though it’s June. Donna invites Dylan and Ashton, whom I’ve met numerous times at this point. Renn gifts me a Malibu surfboard. Handcrafted and designed in goth themes, “Because you suck and need a beginner’s surfboard, and because I love you enough to be honest with you about it.”
It is the first personalized gift he’s given me in six years, and I am so touched I don’t give him smack for his sass.
Donna gets me a full hardcover collection of Jane Austen’s classics.
Dad gets me two tickets to see a band I stopped listening to at age sixteen, but at least he tried.
I wait for a message from Joe all day. When one doesn’t arrive, I decide to message him. I can’t help myself. I miss him so much. It doesn’t seem to get any better either. Like the memory of Dom, or even Mom.
And it’s not just about me. I’m also worried about him. Yes, he is self-sufficient—has been his entire life—but he has just lost his brother, and I didn’t make matters much better.
Ever: It’s my twenty-fifth birthday today. How do you deal with celebrations after Dom?
When he doesn’t answer, I send another text, knowing that I’m teetering on the line of unhinged.
Ever: Sometimes I think about you so much I can’t sleep at night. Please tell me you’re okay.
He answers after a beat. I’m OK. Happy Birthday, E.
My heart beats so fast I feel like I’m about to throw up. He answered. It’s not much, but it’s workable.
He is also hugging brunettes all over Salem and wants nothing to do with you or your friends, I remind myself smartly.
Ever: Are you writing?
Joe: You know the answer to that question.
Ever: Are you feeling better?
Joe: See last answer.
Ever: When’s your birthday? You never told me.
He is going to turn twenty-six soon. I remember he is almost exactly a year older.
Joe: August 10th.
Ever: What can I get for you?
Joe: A fucking spine for yourself?
Unbelievably, I’m encouraged by what I see, not horrified by the dig.
Ever: I don’t think a spine would help. I figured you wanted nothing to do with me, considering what we’ve been through.
Joe: Your logic works in mysterious ways. What Dom wanted and didn’t want doesn’t matter now. He is not here, so we can’t hurt him.
Joe: I told you. I warned you. Don’t break my heart again. You did.
I start typing You are not in love with me, you were, and I went away precisely BECAUSE I’m still in love with you. But it’s too clingy, too honest, so I delete it. Then I write, Some heartbreak it is. You are already parading other women all over town. But then I delete that one, too, on the grounds that I don’t want to sound like a stalker. Finally, I settle for generic.
Ever: Well, I’m always here if you need me.
I wait for another snarky comment, but all I get is a generic thumbs-up emoji.
That’s the last I hear from him for a while.
During the first week of August, I walk past the gates of a small cemetery in Half Moon Bay.
San Francisco banned burials on its grounds in 1900, on the basis that the city is dense as all hell. In what must be one of the most dazzling cases of irony known to mankind, the city of San Francisco deemed burials to be health hazards. Let that sink in for a moment.