My escape from nonfiction

It was a boring Tuesday afternoon. So boring, in fact, that I went to a coffee shop read a book and sip on a mocha latte. You’d rarely have found me in a coffee shop, and on that note, you’d rarely have found me reading a book made out of actual paper. But sure enough, there I was.

I’d gotten lost somewhere in the book when I suddenly felt a presence hovering around me. I looked up above the bland white and black pages to see a girl dressed in bright pink staring down at me. She had short brown hair and was wearing a beret that was tilted to the side. I didn’t have a clue who she was, but she wasn’t fazed by the quizzical look I was giving her.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“That’s a good book. I have it at home, but the cover art is different,” she replied.

“Oh, were you trying to see the cover?” I asked, holding up the book where the front was clearly visible to her.

“Yes, thank you!” she smiled, carefully examining the artwork, and going so far as to bring her face inches away from it.

“Are you an artist or something?” I asked.

“No,” she paused, backing away from the book. “It’s my favorite book, and I just wanted to see what was on the newest version of the cover.”

“Oh, cool,” I replied, expecting her to be done with me and walk off.

“So how do you like it?” she asked, taking me be surprise.

“It’s a good book,” I said. “The characters are dynamic and believable and the situations aren’t too outlandish, even for a science fiction novel.”

“I know, right?!” she exclaimed. “The main character and her boyfriend always come up with the craziest schemes!”

“And yet they are always feasible,” I responded. “The author is a genius.”

“Have you ever seen an interview with her? She really is very smart,” the girl said. “Look one up on YouTube sometime.” I smiled and nodded.

“Hey, I know we’re already in a coffee shop, so asking you out for coffee sometime would probably be kind of silly. How about I buy you some coffee right now?”

“Definitely!” the girl responded, smiling.

“Can I ask you something?” I questioned.

“Sure, what is it?”

“How do you talk to random strangers like that? You have a very inviting personality,” I observed.

“Really?” she asked. “That’s the first time I’ve ever made an effort to talk to someone like that. I was just hoping you’d ask me on a date.” She laughed, which made me laugh in turn.

“My name is Michael,” I said, motioning for her to have a seat since she was still standing.

“Amanda,” she said, sitting down in the chair to the side of me. “Very nice to meet you, Michael.”

“Same here, Amanda. Same here.”

A lot of things I post here aren’t exactly happy stories.  Some are, but it seems like most aren’t.  I think that the form and length of the stories I write are the reason for this; the sad ones seem to be more entertaining – to me, at least.  So, this story might not be quite so entertaining, but I thought an overall happy one was due.

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It felt absolutely unreal seeing her just standing there like she’d never left; like she’d been there all along.  It felt cruel, knowing that she’d been away for three months and had been so busy that she’d barely had the time to talk to me on the phone.  I hated it.  She hated it.  It was like an unusual punishment for some crime that neither of us had committed.

We thrived on each others’ company, and though I did enjoy my alone time as well, three months without her was just a bit much.  She’d send me random text message pictures of herself making the sign language hand gesture for “I love you,” and those always brightened up my day.  It was really the only sign that either of us remembered from the sign language class we’d taken together.

She had returned the day before.  When I picked her up from the airport, she was so exhausted that she fell asleep on the 15 minute car ride home.  I carried her out of the car and carefully put her down on the sofa, gently lifting a light blanket over her body.  That was at 10 o’clock last night.  It was now 8 in the morning, and she was just waking up.  We hadn’t really gotten much of a chance to talk since she’d literally fell asleep almost immediately after I picked her up.

“Morning sunshine,” I said.

“Good morning,” she yawned, sniffing at the air.  “What did you make for breakfast?  Smells good.”

“French toast,” I said.  “Just finished cooking it, so it’s still warm.”

“I’m glad you’re still used to cooking for two,” she smiled, helping herself to a plate and some of the deep-fried bread.

“I know I’ve told you this like a hundred times in the past 91 days, but I missed you,” I stated, finishing off the sentence with a bite of syrup covered French toast.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she replied, sitting down at the table next to me.  “It’ll help us out though.  The extra money from both the trip bonus and the raise have been coming in.”  She’d gone across the country for a work trip.  Because she sacrificed so much to go, and because it wasn’t required of her, she got a promotion, which came along with a nice pay raise.  We were by no means poor or struggling with the bills, but we were the type of couple that was always striving to be better, both personally and professionally.  We wanted to have nice things, and one day, when we had kids, we wanted to be able to provide nice things for them and to be able to send them to whatever university they wanted to go to.

“I saw,” I replied.  “I already set some of it to automatically deposit into the savings account every month.”

“Cool,” she stated, munching on her breakfast.  We ate in silence for a few minutes until I started feeling a little uncomfortable.  Something felt weird.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.  She bit her lip and looked up at me.

“Wrong?  No,” she said.  “But there’s something I’ve been needing to tell you.”  I suddenly felt butterflies in my stomach.  I didn’t like the way this sounded.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I thought I’d be able to come back to tell you after I was there for a month.  I didn’t want to tell you over the phone; it had to be face-to-face,” she began.  “As time went by, it got harder and harder to keep it a secret, but I wanted to tell you when I could hold your hand and see your expression.”

“So what is it?” I asked, still somewhat uncertain of what was going on.  She reached over and gently wove her fingers in between mine.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.  My jaw dropped as I suddenly felt a rush of emotions.  I looked at her with a look that must have asked “really?” because she smiled a really wide and happy smile and nodded, reassuring me that it wasn’t a joke.

“You mean…I’m going to be a dad?” I asked.  She nodded again with that same smile.

“You’re going to be a daddy,” she responded.

“You kept this from me for three months?” I asked, as if I couldn’t believe it.

“I did.  It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, and I’m sorry if you think that it was unfair of me to do that, but I just had to be here to tell you,” she said.

I sat there in disbelief, silently staring at her smile.  She was radiant; the reality of the situation sparkled in her eyes.

“Aren’t you happy?” she asked.

“Happy?” I said.  “No.  I’m ecstatic!”

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too.”

About a month ago, I decided that I’d had enough of my long hair and chopped it all off. “Get rid of it,” I told the stylist. “Do whatever you want once it’s short.”

$50 and 50 minutes later, my head felt lighter and my ears felt naked. And that’s when it all started. Random strangers started greeting me like they’d known me for years. One girl in particular came up to me and gave me a hug and asked how I was doing.

The first few days freaked me out. Was I suddenly more approachable with shorter hair? No, it made more sense to think that I looked similar to someone else now that my hair was short. Once I had that revelation, I decided to play along with the strangers’ greetings.

Finally, a week after it started, someone said what I’d been waitin to hear.

“What’s up Kent?”

I finally knew who people were mistaking me for. You don’t really realize how little people use each other’s names in greeting them until you specifically listen for it.

I played along, acknowledging that I was Kent, even though I had definitely been Warren for the past 22 years. I used context clues to continue conversations with people I didn’t know about situations I didn’t know; laughed at inside jokes that didn’t make any sense.

Then, a few days ago, another person recognized me as Kent.

“Geez, this guy has a ton of friends,” I muttered and then beamed a “hello” to the girl.

“Hey, I’m having a party at my new apartment tonight. Wanna come?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied. It would be a great opportunity to learn more about Kent.

“Great! I’ll send you an invite on Facebook as soon as I get home,” she replied.

“Actually, can you just tell me the address and I’ll pit it in my phone?”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. It was completely insane. I’d just gotten invited to a stranger’s party and met about 20 other people that had mistaken me for this other guy leading up to that moment.

That night, I arrived at the address the girl had given me. There was a large group of people hanging around, a few of which greeted “Kent” as I walked in. If the girl had followed through with the Facebook invite, hopefully Kent would show up so I could finally meet my doppleganger.

I hung around for a while, talking to strangers that neither Kent nor I knew. It was easier to make real conversation with them than fake conversation with someone I had to pretend to know.

At least an hour passed with no sign of Kent. I had just about given up and was preparing to find an excuse to leave when I saw exactly what I’m been trying to find.

It was like looking at myself in the mirror. There stood a person with the same build, same hairstyle and color, same facial features. This was me. I was standing in front of myself. He didn’t just look like me or look similar to me; this person was an exact copy.

“Kent,” I stated quite simply without a hint of shock or any inflection in my voice. He didn’t say a word as he walked closer toward me.

“We finally meet,” I said, “But I have to guess that this is completely unexpected for you.”

“This explains so much,” Kent said. “No wonder people keep asking me why I ignored them at the mall or telling me that it was nice seeing me in places I haven’t been to.”

“Whoa, Kent has a twin,” someone whispered. We were drawing attention.

“Which one is Kent?”

“I didn’t know he had a brother.”

“I don’t think Kent knew either.”

Conversation halted as the entire room stared at us.

“I think there is a very long and interesting conversation to be had with my parents right about now,” Kent said.

“Mine too,” I replied. “Care to join me?”

“Sure,” he replied.

“The name’s Warren,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”

If you’d told me I had a long lost twin brother a month ago, I’d have called you crazy. A week ago, I’d have called it possible, but more probable that someone out there just looked really similar to me.

But there I stood, drowning in thoughts of which one of us was adopted or if neither of us knew our biological parents or if there were any more siblings I had that I should know about.

“This is cool,” Kent suddenly said, breaking the silence. “I always wanted a brother.” I smiled at him and nodded, then turned and looked at our audience.

“Okay everyone,” I started, “Back to the party. My brother and I have some catching up to do.”

She was my first love, and I guess that’s okay. First loves are supposed to be unforgettable and undeniable, but love is sometimes fickle and corrosive to the point of wanting to forget feelings as though they had never existed.

That wasn’t the way it was with her though. She was funny, beautiful, smart, classy. She’d glance over at you from across the room and your heart would turn into liquid.

She left me when her parents decided to pack up and move 500 miles away. We didn’t have a choice but to call it quits, and even though we were young, we knew we were in love, which made it all that much more difficult to say goodbye.

That was our sophomore year of high school. Ten years ago, though it seems like 10 days ago. I can still see her face when I close my eyes; still hear her laugh when in silence. Ten years of trying to forget her became ten years of remaining mesmerized by her.

We’d catch up every once in a while on the phone or online, and those were my fixes. It was how I got by. I didn’t tell her about my persistant feelings, though I desperately wanted to. I just pretended like I was happy; no point in making her feel bad.

I was going to go to college wherever she went, but she decided to study abroad. As much as I wanted to be with her, I simply couldn’t afford it.

As far as I had been concerned, college was my last chance to reunite with her; the last chance I’d ever have to get her back. I tried to give her up completely; tried not talking to her, but I couldn’t.

I was pathetic. Constantly depressed; drove friends away, denied the love of other girls that seemed to fall for me for whatever reason.

She came back to the states and found work, much to my disappointment but not surprise, another hundred or so miles further away from me. I was tied to my job in the depreciating state of the economy, otherwise I would have found another job and moved to be with her.

It seemed crazy. It didn’t make sense even to me that I was still in love with her, but I was willing to do anything to be with her. I felt so stupid. She’d even had a boyfriend since we had broken up, but I didn’t care.

Then, a week ago at the supermarket, I saw her mom picking apples out of a bin in the produce section. I did a doubletake, but it was unmistakable. I confronted her, shaking, hoping she’d recognize me, and she did without even skipping a beat.

She was in town visiting family, but regretted to inform me that her daughter wasn’t with her. Regretted?

She repeated herself when I questioned her word choice. I wanted to cry when she explained, but the tears wouldn’t come. My emotions were so screwed up that I couldn’t even have a breakdown like a normal person.

She explained that her daughter had been in a state of deep depression ever since they’d moved. She cried and she fought her parents’ decision to move. She dated a guy for a week to try to forget me and broke it off when she realized it wouldn’t happen. Going to college in Europe was her attempt to put more distance between herself and the person she thought would never love her again, in hopes that a new experience would change her outlook on life. It didn’t.

I stood there, staring at her mother holding the bag of apples, and watched her mouth form words that finally broke me. She still loved me. She told her mom on the phone at least once a week, and it made her mom feel awful.

I fell to my knees right there on the cold tile floor and tried desperately to hold back tears.

600 miles. 600 miles was nothing. It was like telling a scuba diver running low on oxygen mid-dive that there was a fresh air tank just a few feet out of his way. Of course he would travel a few extra feet to stay alive.

Likewise, I would travel a few hundred miles to feel alive after ten years of simply living. I drove all day and well into the night; 12 hours or so. By the time my GPS said I was five minutes away, I should’ve been exhausted, but instead I was wide awake due to a combination of nervousness and excitement.

I pulled up in front of her house and sat there for a minute, staring up the walkway to the front door, contemplating exactly how to confront the love of my life for the first time in ten years at 12 AM. I didn’t get the chance to carry out any type of plan though, because right then, the front door flew open and there stood the silhouette of the most amazing girl I’d ever met.

I got out of my car and ran toward her as she just stood there wide-eyed. There were no words spoken as we stood there, inches from each other. I leaned in and kissed her, and in that moment, the ten years we were apart seemed entirely worth it.

Yes, it was definitely okay that she was my first love. First, current, and last; I always knew there could never be anyone else.

When I saw her walk by, I never would’ve predicted the events that followed. When I heard a mass crash through the glass of the window behind me, I never would’ve thought it would’ve been her.

But it was.

I leapt to my feet and ran the short distance over to the window that was now nothing but open air. The cool breeze from outside whipped through the hole surrounded by crackled glass.

I knew if I looked down, I’d see the girl falling. It had only been a couple of seconds, and being on the thirty-second floor…well, I wasn’t a physicist, but I knew it would take longer than that. But I looked anyway, just in time, in fact, to see her body smash into the concrete.

I wanted to look away. I didn’t even want to see it happen in the first place, but I had looked anyway. A crowd was gathering – parents shielding the eyes of their children. I saw a someone rush up to the body from which hope and now life had escaped. It looked like a man, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I didn’t know what was going on, but never in my life had I felt so helpless.

Even when I woke up from that awful dream with beads of sweat running down my forehead, the feeling wouldn’t leave me.