Dear Ana: Chapter 15

Some idiot took my usual spot, so I had to park a block away from the café.

I was dreading the walk––not because of the frigid weather, but because it was so long. I never ended up walking, though. I was skipping. Yes, me, Maya fucking Ibrahim was skipping down the sidewalk to meet her favorite boy. Her new best friend. Her first non-fictional crush. I was blushing just thinking about him.

My happiness was interrupted when I saw the café closed. It was four PM on a Wednesday––when we usually saw each other. When it was always open. But from what I could see it was dark inside, and the window blinds were drawn. I checked my phone and I had no new notifications. I tried not to be offended, but I couldn’t stop that stupid, silly, inconsequential hurt that instantly stung through me.

I took my keys out of my pocket and picked the one he’d given me a few weeks ago. The key to his cafe. I wasn’t trying to pry, but I just needed to make sure everything was okay.

I unlocked the door and walked inside, looking around. I’d never seen it look so quiet and dead. After confirming Noah wasn’t there I turned to leave, but the heavy wind from the open entryway ruffled the tarp concealing the bookstore. That’s when I saw him standing by the window. If he knew I was there, he never made any inclination. I hesitated for a moment before walking in his direction.

“Noah?” I said softly, stepping through the tarp. He didn’t look at me, and he didn’t respond . . . he just stood there. I went over to him and gently touched his hand. He jumped at the contact, startled, and looked at me in shock.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you . . .” My voice trailed. His face was off. “What’s wrong?”

He turned back to the window. “My dad died.”

My hand flew to my chest. “No,” I breathed. “What happened? Why aren’t you with your family––?”

“Not my adoptive dad,” he interrupted. “My birth dad.”

“I’m so sorry. How did you find out?”

“He’d been trying to reach me for a few months now, but I never returned any of his calls.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “His lawyer showed up this morning before I was supposed to open. He told me that my dad was diagnosed with stage four prostate cancer and that it quickly spread throughout his whole body . . . he died two days ago. Before his lawyer left, he handed me an envelope.”

My eyes landed on the thick envelope strewn on the floor, unopened.

“Are you going to open it?”

“I don’t need to open it, Maya, I already know what it is. It’s his fucking will,” he chuckled humorlessly. “He gave my mom nothing when she was trying to take care of me after his sorry ass left us, but then years later he decides to leave me money? I’m not opening it. He can’t just––” He shook his head angrily. “He can’t just be a terrible dad, and then suddenly decide to reach out because he’s dying, leaving me with all of this . . . guilt. Guilt for not answering his calls. Guilt for not letting him redeem himself before his time on this earth was done.” He pressed his clenched fists against his eyes. “Maya, I need you to leave, please.”

“I get it, okay? I always want to be alone when I’m upset, or mad, or in pain. But here’s the thing, Noah . . . deep down under my urge to be alone there’s always this tiny, yet burning need to be with someone. This gnawing wish that someone would push back and stay. You can tell me to leave, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He was silent for a moment, staring solemnly out the window. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“See you like what?” I asked, confused. “See you sad?”

“No,” he scoffed. “See me angry. I’m not sad that my piece of shit father died, I’m fucking pissed.”

“Then be angry. I don’t understand why I need to leave––”

“Do you think I don’t notice every time you flinch?”

The rest of my words got lodged in my throat.

“Do you think I don’t notice every time you jump at a sudden noise? Or when you cringe away from someone––a man––stepping too close to you?” I looked away from his intense gaze. “You did it with me before, at Ana’s grave. And again the next day when I blocked your path outside the café. I could see it on your face––how absolutely terrified you were. How your body got all tense like you were bracing yourself for something . . . I’m sorry. I never should have done that.”

“Noah, it’s fine. I’m fine. You don’t need to walk on eggshells around me,” I insisted.

“I’m not, I just . . . I don’t ever want to be the reason behind your fear,” he said. “I’ll be okay, I promise. Please don’t make yourself uncomfortable for me.”

He turned away and continued to stare out the window silently. I never realized he noticed when I reacted like that. Most of the time I didn’t even notice when I reacted like that, but of course, Noah did. He was always watching me, memorizing everything I did and everything I said . . . but if he wanted me to leave, I would. I didn’t want him to have to hold back because I was a broken little girl who couldn’t get over her past.

But before I took a step back toward the café, my eyes paused on all the paint cans he got for the bookstore. We were supposed to start painting today . . . I wanted to start painting today. I changed direction and grabbed one of the buckets. It was heavy, but not as heavy as the mountain of emotions sitting on my chest. Noah wasn’t the only one who was angry. I was angry with him. He didn’t deserve to go through what he was feeling. He was healed. He was happy. Fuck his dad for opening up old wounds and making him feel guilty. Fuck his dad for trying to ruin everything Noah worked so hard to build.

I lifted the paint can above my head, rage fueling my muscles, and chucked it at the wall. I watched it hit the drywall loudly and explode open at the impact, sprinkling paint all over me. I didn’t care. I was trembling with the slow burn of fury racing through my veins. I went to grab another can and felt Noah come up beside me.

“What are you doing?”

I met his gaze. “I’m angry too.”

He lifted his hand and gently stroked my paint-splattered cheek. “I’m not this person.”

I held out the paint can. “I know you’re not this person, but right now you need to be.”

He hesitated for a moment before taking it from me cautiously. “I don’t want to ruin your bookstore.”

My bookstore. Even though I never said yes, he was still giving it to me. Even though I never said yes, it was still mine anyway, waiting patiently until I could bring myself to accept it.

“Nothing can stay ugly forever.”

He didn’t waste any time throwing it effortlessly against the wall and spraying us with more paint. I stayed put beside him, making sure not to recoil from the loud sounds his throws were making. Every smack reverberated against the wall and bounced onto me, eliciting sharp memories. How was it possible that a paint can hitting the wall could sound just like a human body hitting the wall?

If I was being honest, I didn’t want to see him angry. I didn’t want to know him as someone that could be angry because I associated anger with my brother. In my eyes, anger meant you were a bad person. It was a dirty emotion that I refused to let myself feel because if I did then it would confirm all my worst fears . . . that I was just like him. That I would like it. It was there, though. Even when I didn’t let myself feel it or enjoy it, I could always hear it humming in the background. Sometimes it was quiet. Sometimes it was clawing and begging and roaring to come out. Sometimes I let it.

That’s the thing about sometimes, though. Sometimes couldn’t last forever––not really. It eventually had to stop being sometimes. It eventually had to fall back into never or transform into always. Was my sometimes anger slowly transforming into an always anger?

But when my gaze flickered toward him I didn’t see any anger that I recognized. He was mad, but it was a soft mad. His rage didn’t feel directed at me. His rage didn’t want to hurt me. His rage was simply pain, and there wasn’t a single ounce of my being that was scared of him.

Maybe anger didn’t make you bad. Maybe it was how you chose to deal with that anger. Maybe we were all bad. Unavoidably, inexcusably, absolutely bad.

He stopped moving. All the cans were completely demolished, and the white walls were covered in green paint.

“Noah?”

“Yes, Maya?”

“I’m sorry it took him twenty-eight years to want to get to know you,” I told him. “I’m sorry it had to take dying for him to realize the mistake he made when he abandoned you, but don’t let him ruin the amazing person you’ve become despite him.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“I’m going to hug you now, okay?”

“Okay.”

I wrapped my arms around him, and he immediately crushed me into his chest. We stood there, our clothes wet and sticky, and I let him hold me. After a while, I finally felt him release the gust of air trapped in his lungs. I waited for her to thump in protest, but Ana was quiet. She was letting me comfort him without any interruptions.

“I’m all right, Maya. It was just a moment. Thank you.”

I didn’t respond. I just breathed him in completely and begged some of his relief to replace the fire screaming inside me. God, I was so fucking angry. I was angry at his father for not loving him. I was angry at Mikhail for making me this way. Above all though, I was angry at myself for making Noah feel like I couldn’t be a source of comfort for him. For making him feel like I was the only one who was allowed to be in pain. For making him feel like he couldn’t express himself for fear of hurting me in the process. What kind of person did that? What kind of friend did that?

He pulled away from me slightly and rested his forehead against mine. “Your body feels tense.”

“Oh, those are just my hunky muscles.”

“Funny.”

“I prefer hilarious, but funny will do.”

“Maya,” he said seriously. “I gave you my pain, it’s only fair that you give me yours too.”

“You promised you would never ask.”

“I know, but I didn’t say I would never break my promises,” he replied, leaning closer. “Tell me.”

“Why do you want to know so badly?”

“So I can be there for you like you’re always there for me.” I felt his velvet finger at the corner of my mouth, tugging it upwards. I couldn’t help smiling half-heartedly under his touch. “So I can cheer you up like you’re always cheering me up.”

And for a second I considered it. I really considered giving him what he wanted, but even the idea of it was too preposterous for my mundane mind to comprehend. I felt like I was constantly trying to speak about things that were unspeakable. The words were there, scratched into my throat, but they just . . . couldn’t be said.

“I can’t.”

He sighed. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long until you’ll be able to tell me? Is it going to be forever? Are you going to keep hiding everything forever? Because I can’t do this forever, Maya. I can’t keep watching you hurt alone forever.”

I stared at him, a million thoughts and secrets and letters swirling around behind my eyes, bursting to come out in a sea of shrieks and sobs. I settled for a light chuckle instead. “There’s so much I wish I could say, but I don’t know how to, because no one has ever asked. No one ever wanted to know about my pain and now . . . the words are poison on my tongue, Noah. The memories are acid in my brain and I––” I swallowed back the lump in my throat. “Nothing good ever came from talking, so I just stayed quiet. Now I only know how to be silent.”

“I’m sorry your ears stayed open for everyone’s words, despite no one ever taking a second to hear yours,” he said softly. “But maybe talking wasn’t the problem. Maybe it was the people you were choosing to listen.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. The damage is done. It’s too late.”

“Don’t let the bad things fool you, Maya. It’s never too late.” He wiped away the lone tear that had managed to escape without my notice. “You’re going to be okay too, I promise. And this is a promise that I will never break.”

He was wrong. A soul could only hold on for so long before it eventually let go and ceased to exist . . . but I nodded anyway. He didn’t need to know he was holding onto a corpse.

“Do you want to lick the spoon?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?”

Noah paused and glanced at me with confused eyes. “I assume so, why?”

“That was a rhetorical question,” I said, laughing. “You asked me an obvious question so I asked you an obvious question back.”

He looked back at the bowl. “You’re a weird chick.”

“And you’re a weird dude,” I replied, taking the spoon covered in batter from his extended hand. “When are you adding my banana bread to the menu? I don’t think it’s fair that only I get to enjoy all this finger-licking delectableness.”

“Did the paint fumes get to you?” he asked, grinning. “Are you on cloud nine right now, Maya?”

“It’s possible,” I mused. “It’s concerning how much I enjoyed throwing that paint can at the wall. I feel . . . lighter or something.”

Almost like how Mikhail feels after he throws you at the wall.

“You should come on my runs with me,” he suggested. “You’ll get the same feeling without all the mess.”

“The only way I’ll be going on runs with you is if you are doing the running while I ride on your back,” I said, sticking my tongue out and scooping up the last chocolate chip. “Besides, I like the mess we made in the bookstore. It gives it character.”

My eyes flickered in his direction when he didn’t respond. He was staring at me intensely, his darkened eyes zeroed in on my mouth.

“Stop,” he demanded.

“Stop what?”

“Stop torturing me,” he whispered, walking toward me. He lifted his hand and gently pried the clean spoon from my fingers.

“I’m high on paint fumes, remember? I legally can’t be held accountable for my actions while I’m under the influence.”

“That is definitely incorrect,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You are an incredibly well-spoken woman, Maya, but I swear sometimes you say the weirdest shit and I fucking love it. I can listen to you talk nonsense for all hours of the day and never get sick of it. You told me once that getting to know you was work, and you were right. It’s the dream job I never knew I needed to have and I’ll willingly do it free of charge, for the rest of my life.”

Thump, thump––

“Did you just call my intellectual speech nonsense?”

He laughed again and stepped away. I watched silently as he erased the item written under the specials section on the menu, and wrote a new one in bright pink chalk.

Mayas Finger-licking Delectableness Banana Bread “No one’s ever going to order that,” I told him.

He shrugged and wiped his chalky hands on his pants. “More for you.”

The oven timer went off and he carefully removed his delicious masterpiece and placed it on the cooling pad. “Am I grabbing plates, or packaging this up for you?”

Noah’s voice was casual, but I could hear something else simmering beneath the surface of his smooth tone.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he insisted. “At least let me go turn on your car so it can heat up for a few minutes. It’s been sitting there for a while now, it’s probably a rolling ice box.”

“I can do it,” I said quickly, standing up.

“It’s freezing,” he stressed, grabbing my keys. “And you’re always so cold. I’ll be quick.”

“Wait!” I said, and he turned back. “You have to––I mean; you might have to like, try it a few times.”

“Try what a few times?”

My face was red with humiliation. “You know . . . the ignition,” I explained awkwardly. “It’s an old car . . . so sometimes it doesn’t start on the first time, especially in the cold.” Or the second time. Or the third . . .

Understanding replaced his confusion and his eyes softened. “It’s okay, Maya.”

I didn’t respond, so he grabbed his jacket and headed outside. I held my breath and prayed that it would run smoothly this one time, please, please, please––

My bones cringed painfully as the loud groan and splutter of the engine flowed into my ears, but I breathed a sigh of relief when it turned on after the first try. Noah came back in after a few minutes, his dark curls windswept and his nose a rosy pink. He immediately came up to me and rubbed his cold hands against my cheeks.

Thump, thump––

“What was the point of heating up my car, if you were just going to come back in and make me cold too?” I protested but made no move to push him away. My face was cold, but the rest of my body was sizzling with warmth.

Thump, thump––

“Thanks for calling in at work,” he said after a moment. “Is it terrible that I’m willing to commit some murders just so you feel obligated to stay here and comfort me?”

I laughed. “Yes, it is terrible.”

“And thank you for making me dinner. Your impeccable culinary skills truly illuminated my kitchen.”

“Hey––I put out that fire before it did any real damage. Don’t act like the grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwich I made for you wasn’t the best thing you’ve ever eaten.”

“The very best,” he agreed and released my face to start packing up my banana bread. “Thank you for staying even though I asked you to leave.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m already okay,” he replied. “I grieved my father a long time ago. Physically, he died two days ago but he died in my heart when I was six.”

I nodded as he took his jacket off and put it on me instead. “That’s good because being sad is my thing,” I reminded him sarcastically. “I called dibs on it the first time we met.”

He laughed. “Technically it was the second time.”

“Right, well, you can . . . call me, you know. If you need to talk or whatever. I’ll probably be awake.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You hate talking on the phone.”

“Yeah, I do,” I agreed with a chuckle. “But I think I would hate it a little less if it was you on the other end.”

He smiled, his eyes beaming through the dimly lit café. “In that case, I hope you have unlimited minutes on your phone plan.”

“Okay, settle down.” I rolled my eyes, but my skin was flushed. “Don’t make me block you.”

“Try not to finish this on the ride home,” he teased.

“No promises.” I took the container from him. “See you later dude.”

“Bye, chick.”

I stepped outside and rushed to my car. I was going to get there later than usual, but surprisingly my mom hadn’t hounded me with any messages. I didn’t have to wonder why for long though, because when I got to the house the answer was clear. The living room light was on through the curtains, and three shadows stood out. She wasn’t texting me because she probably didn’t even realize I wasn’t home. She probably assumed I was locked up in my room, instead of going up there to actually check. She didn’t care where I was because she was too preoccupied with them. Her husband and her son. Her family.

“Do you think I haven’t noticed you staying out later for the past few weeks?”

“Bullshit,” I spat, opening the container and tearing off a piece of banana bread.

Fuck them and their happy little bubble.

I shoved another bite into my mouth before I was even finished chewing the first one.

Fuck them for acting like I was the black sheep in the family. Like I was the reason behind all the chaos and drama, and not him.

I crammed another chunk into my mouth, but I couldn’t even taste the finger-licking delectableness anymore. All I could taste was the salty tears coating my lips.

Fuck them for only giving me attention when they needed something from me. They loved me when I was paying their bills and keeping quiet about their precious son, but after that? After their debt was cleared and I was so deeply traumatized that I couldn’t utter a single word about him even if I tried? I was nothing. Nothing but a burden. Nothing but the miserable outcast threatening to contaminate their clean and polished air.

The container was empty now. The only thing left was some crumbs on my shirt and chocolate smudged on my fingers.

Fuck them for making me feel useless when I couldn’t be used. Fuck them for making me drain everything I had on them, only to be left completely dry and shriveled up. Fuck them for consuming me with the overpowering urge to take care of them, and now I had no idea how to take care of myself. Fuck them for making me question if my need to comfort Noah was genuine, or if I was just doing it because I didn’t want him to realize I was a valueless excuse for a friend and he could find better. He deserved better.

I muffled all my pain for them. I swallowed all my anger for them. I concealed all my wounds for them. I was the perfect daughter for them. I chose my parents every time, but they always chose him.

I shook the container again, not believing that it was empty. If it was truly empty, then why was I still empty? Why didn’t I feel full?

My phone buzzed in the cup holder. I pressed it against my wet cheek.

“Hey,” I greeted cheerfully. “Are you okay?”

“I was okay,” Noah replied. “I’m better now, though. Amazing.”

A laugh tumbled through my chocolate and tear-stained lips, and I quickly muted myself just as my laughs turned into sobs.

“Maya? Are you still there?”

I forced a deep breath through my clogged chest. “Yeah, sorry, my reception is bad.” Another deep breath. “So . . . if you’re better than okay, why did you call?”

He was silent for a moment before speaking softly, a gentle caress against my ear. “You told me that I could.”

Someone finally chose me.