“Well, if it makes you feel any better, being away at college really did make me happy, so this isn’t the first time I’ve smiled in those four years. As soon as I changed my last name the summer before I left, I could already tell things would get better.”
“I tried finding you. Online, I mean. I already knew you didn’t have any social media profiles in your own name because of your stepmom’s rules, but I figured you’d make at least one account after you left. It honestly didn’t occur to me that you would change your last name.”
Nowmyexpression is the one that’s shifting, and Jase doesn’t miss it.
“What?”
I shrug. “Honestly? I’m surprised you even thought about me at all.”
He looks back at me, incredulous. “Are you kidding? I thought about you all the time. Anytime I saw a girl with long black hair, I kept hoping when she turned around that I’d see it was you. I thought about you anytime I saw Oreos or heard Bob Seger playing or saw a raven, or saw any bird, period.”
I know the feeling. The most random things made me think about him over the years, but it was the more specific stuff like hearing Rick Astley, or eating ice cream, or simply visiting places around town that triggered those memories the most. And it never got easier.
But I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that Jase ever felt the same way.
My skepticism must show, because he can’t look at me, fixating his stare on the table, his fingertips tracing the carved design of the hardwood table top. “When it was clear I wouldn’t find you online, a small, very stupid part of me still hoped you’d eventually reach out, that you’d forgive me.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “Thatwasstupid.”
I don’t mean for it to be rude, and thankfully, Jase doesn’t take it that way either. It’s just facts. Still, the answer leaves him looking dejected.
“Even if youhadapologized, it still would have taken me a lot to forgive you,” I say. “And the fact that you never bothered to apologize made it clear you weren’t seeking my forgiveness.”
Of all things, Jase looks taken aback by this. “IfI had apologized? You are joking, right?”
The look he’s giving me is so utterly confused, I can’t help but laugh. Not because it’s remotely funny, but because he can’t possibly be implying what I think he is. “You do realize you neveractuallyapologized to me?”
The fact he’s now staring at me like I have to be high leaves us both looking equally baffled.
“No words vaguely resembling ‘I’m sorry’ ever left your mouth when I confronted you on our first day of sophomore year,” I clarify. “And you never spoke to me again after that.”
“Yeah, well, seeing as how you ended that conversation, I didn’t think trying to talk to you in person was my safest bet.” He mimics punching himself in the face, and I roll my eyes.
“Yes, if only there were these little devices you could use to call or text someone,” I deadpan.
Jase just continues to blink at me. “Again, you are joking, right?”
When it’s clear I’m not, he pulls out his phone and opens up his text messages.
“This is your number, correct?” He shows me the contact at the top of the screen, and I nod. “What does this look like to you?”
Jase begins swiping, and I watch as dozens and dozens of text messages fly past on the screen…
They only take up the right side, showing that the “conversation” has been one-sided.
Without thinking, I take the phone from him, needing to see it from my own hands.
Because this has to be a trick.
But the more and more I scroll, I see that it’s not. Those dozens and dozens of text messages soon turn into hundreds. Some are photos with captions like: “Thought of you,” while others just say things like:
I’m an idiot.
Can you forgive me?
I’m so fucking sorry.
Can we talk?
