Dreams of 18

Just when I think that I’m going to be walking forever, lost in the thick woods, I reach a clearing.

And in that clearing sits a house that kind of dries out my throat.

Mostly because it’s not what I expected but at the same time, it’s exactly where I expected Mr. Edwards to live.

On one hand, everything about his cabin is very masculine and woodsy and outdoorsy and tough. It’s exactly what I felt when I saw Mr. Edwards on my sixteenth birthday, hauling that coffee table.

But on the other hand, it doesn’t look like anyone lives here.

Or anyone can live here.

Because it seems inhabitable. Take the front yard, for example. It’s overrun by brambles and wild grass and shrubs that haven’t been trimmed in years. There’s a snaking stone pathway through them that leads to the stairs, which in turn lead to the porch of the cabin.

Now the stairs and the porch.

Wow. They’re made of wood but they seem to be sagging.

In fact, through all the savage flora, I can see that one of the stairs is cracked and a piece of wood is simply hanging there. Like someone’s foot just went through it.

And don’t get me started on the front door, man.

Like the mailbox, it used to be a different color but now it’s all discolored and dull.

Oh and let’s not forget the roof.

The roof is pointed toward the sky but that’s the only detail I can tell. Because all of it is covered by ivy and something else that I don’t even know the name of.

How does anyone live here?

How does he?

Because I know he lives here.

It has an air of loneliness to it. If I focused harder, I could smell it. I could smell the old wood, the mothballs, the musty scent of dust. The neglect and disarray and even hate.

Forgotten and lonely.

Just like him. So far away from civilization and aloof.

I shake my head to dispel all these silly thoughts.

I need to walk farther, go to the front door of his house and knock. But I’m not moving. I’m not even looking at the front door anymore.

I’m looking around.

There’s a garage on the far right with an old-fashioned barn door, which is padlocked closed. It must hold the truck he used to drive, all black and big and so different from the BMWs of our neighborhood.

The truck I so wanted to ride in but never got the chance.

According to Brian, Mr. Edwards was possessive of his truck. He wouldn’t even let Brian drive it. It used to frustrate my best friend to no end.

But I used to find it cute – Mr. Edwards’s possessiveness – among other things. Other less appropriate things that I don’t want to think about.

The only thing I should be thinking about is apologizing. That’s why I’m here.

To apologize. To make up for what I did.

How am I going to do that? I’m still as clueless as I was when the girls asked me about it.

But I have to start somewhere, right? I have to take the first step and go knock on his front door.

God, front doors freak me out.

But it’s fine.

I’m fine.

I skip on the spot as if getting ready to go into the boxing ring or something, instead of knocking on a door.

But suddenly, I realize that I might not get an answer, even if I did knock.

Because no one seems to be home. The house sits in darkness.

I take a few steps toward the house, and through the big dust-stained window on the porch, I see the silhouettes of furniture. Maybe a couch and a coffee table. Even a lamp.

But there are no lights on and the sky’s getting darker by the second.

I bite my lip and stand there, trying to think about what to do next. Before I know it, my legs are moving forward.

I go around the cabin and look through other windows to confirm my suspicion. No signs of any light or movements. There’s no sound except for my own choppy breathing and a slight rustle of the breeze.

He’s not home.

I’m relieved.

I’m also disappointed. As afraid as I am to face him, I don’t like it that he isn’t here.

For a few moments, I thought he was close. He was right here. A knock – as impossible as it is for me to make it – and he’d open the door and I’d look at him after ten long months.

Now I don’t know what to do. Where to find him. When I’ll get to see him.

If I’ll get to see him.

Maybe I should go and regroup, come up with a different plan. And I’m all set to do that but I stop.

Because my gaze falls on something.

Something that makes my heart squeeze in my chest. So much so that I feel like someone is strangling it, suffocating it to the point where I can’t breathe.