Of Mochas and Macchiatos

Part 23

I call Charlie the next day. I walk to the forest's edge. Let myself retrace the steps of the long ago explorer, cartographer, and allow my feet to carry myself to the cliff's edge where I can see the Nile as it ripples with the light of the sunrise. I imagine he, too, is by the sea. Connected, through the miles, by a shared view of the vicious, wild and unforgiving water. We have a long drawn out, painful conversation. But it needs to be said.

"Hey Charlie."

"Eve! Finally. How are you?"

"Good."

There is silence. Then I imagine that I hear the slight crackle of static. But who hears static on phones nowadays? I imagine him tousling his blond hair. His father would make him cut it, short, Ivy League, respectable businessman style. But during the summer he'd always keep it long. Oh, how I loved it long. I remember how I always used to ask to touch it, ever since I was a kid. And he'd let me tousle my hands through it. I remember his laugh, the lilting sound. Oh, Charlie.

"I'm studying anthropology and history at Astoria. Although, you know that, of course."

"I knew you got into Astoria. I kissed you, remember? I was so proud. I am still so proud of you. Do you remember where we were when you told me? On the pier."

I wonder is that where he is right now? In our place. By the waves. Is that the empty nose in the background? The lapping of the tide. I suddenly long to be closer to the water again, to feel the spray of the sea on my face, to hear that voiceless language of the ocean as it calls to me, beckons. I am standing close, too close to the precarious cliff's edge. Near where the mapmaker tossed himself into the churning mass below and I have a sudden urge to step forward, balance by the edge and feel myself tip into the depths below. But Charlie's voice anchors me to the ground. He was always my saviour. Was.

"But you never told me you were studying anthropology."

His voice is accusing. There is that strange silence again for a few seconds. Then he speaks again, his voice slipping between softly droning waves of static.

"Uh. And since when do you even enjoy that? You always hated history! Didn't you drop it, in like, year nine or something? The only subjects I remember you liking were English and Science. Wasn't it your dream to major in biochemistry or biomedicine? Evie! What are you doing with your life. You can't live out somebody else's dream-"

"You're wrong."

I let my words settle. White noise, what an awful sound.

I know that these are the words that will hurt him most. Charlie was one of the few people who truly knew me. Truly understood me. Knows things about me that nobody else ever would. But Rafe is getting there, persists a voice in my mind. He has seen all of you, and it's only a matter of time before he knows all of you too.

"I have a boyfriend now."

Surely you know. My parents told you, didn't they? That's why you're calling? Isn't it. There's no question about it. I want to say all of this, but I don't. Instead, I leave it at the one sentence.

I change the subject. I want to shock him, to hurt him. He of all people should understand what I am feeling and yet he refuses to accept the truth. It is all my fault and still he shakes his head and lies for me. Lies for himself. He doesn't want to lose me, even though I've lost myself. He can't bear to lose the two most important things in his life. Refuses to let himself be pushed away by both her and myself. Will we say her name, I wonder? It's been so long since we said it.