Goodnight,
Ashlie
You really like calling me that…
Me
You don’t?
Ashlie
I didn’t say that… It’s cute.
Me
As are you…
Ashlie
Oh yeah? Why don’t you come say that to my face?
Me
Bet
Stayinglate to avoid evenings alone is becoming a habit. All I plan to do is shower and fall into bed. Not bothering to turn on the light, I lock my apartment door, hang up my keys, and feel my way back to my bedroom. Pain shoots across my hip, something clattering to the floor when I bump into the bookshelf.
Grumbling, I flip on the light, and the Christmas present from Mom lies on the herringbone rug in front of me. I’ve had it hidden under papers and random junk for months. I’d forgotten it was even there. But now it’s taunting me. Pleading to be noticed. Begging to be opened.
“Fucking why not?” I sigh, curiosity getting the best of me. I’m already feeling low, why not sprinkle a little aggravation on top?
Settling on the edge of my king-sized bed, I turn the package over in my hands. It’s not heavy, covered in a shiny gold foil wrapping paper. Nothing rattles when I shake it. I peek inside like whatever’s in there will jump out and bite me, but it’s just a book. Leather-bound, with gold lettering that spells out my full name:Hunter James Jackson.
Pictures of me as an infant are scattered across the first page, listing my birth stats and the hospital I was born in. I turn to the next page, and the next, and the next, each with a progression of photos throughout my childhood. Tucked in between the pictures are basic milestones—first haircut, school awards, and the dates I lost all my teeth.
As I move toward the back of the book, the pages dedicated to my teenage years have less pictures and more news clippings of my records from the high school track team. All standard things you’d expect from a scrapbook. Several of the memories behind these photos make me smile, briefly forgetting for a moment who this book came from. It’s a sweet little keepsake, even if my callous mother created it.
The last spread is filled with newspaper clippings of every running record I broke in college, next to pictures of me after each race. These aren’t reprinted from the internet. They’re original, neatly cut from the Gradford University Gazette.How’d she get all of these? Graduation was years ago. She was already living abroad when I did all of this. I doubt the university keeps a backlog of physical papers for long. None of it makes any sense…until it clicks. Four years of my collegiate athletic career stare back at me, and the only way Mom could’ve done this is if she had the original papers when they were printed.
I run my fingers over the yellowing newsprint. As the full reality of what this book means dawns on me, a tear drips on the back of my hand.I’m fucking crying? Over a basic-ass scrapbook from the heartless Black Widow, no less. Another drop stains my hand, and despite the armored insults swirling in my head about her, I feel cracking in my chest.
She’s been there. Not physically, but she’s always been with me—keeping tabs on my accomplishments from the time I was born until I graduated from college. In her own way—in the only way I’ve allowed her to—she’s kept up with my life over the years. It doesn’t forgive anything she’s done. I’m not that soft. But something wedges into the split in my chest and stays there, allowing a little more softness in and a lot more resentment out.
Fresh tears prick my eyes, and once they start to run, I can’t get them to stop. Whatever mechanism I’ve held on to so tightly inside breaks, the floodgates releasing an onslaught of pent-up emotions. Years of angst, a decade of hate, and what feels like a lifetime of hurt all come to the surface. Sadness over Ashlie. Fear about losing her for good. The force of it makes me hunch over the open scrapbook, shoulders shaking as I sob.
“Shit.” My tears are ruining the pages in my lap. Tossing the book to the side, I lean back on the bed, causing the stream to drip into my ears. I press my hands to my eyes, trying to slow the leaking, to no avail.What.The.Fuck.Is happening to me right now? Weeping like a sentimental sap, over a damn scrapbook, is some fuckery.
It’s more than that.She may have missed some things, but she didn’t miss everything. Despite giving me the space I demanded, maybe—just maybe—she was telling the truth; she regrets leaving me behind.
Taking deep breaths seems to help, so I pull air in through my nose, blowing it out of my mouth until I feel the storm pass. With my arm draped over my forehead, I pull out my phone and dial a number I never thought I’d willingly use again.
“Hunter?” Mom’s voice hesitates. “What’s wrong? It’s…early.”
Shit. I didn’t even think of the time difference. I glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s close to 4 a.m. in Sweden.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry. I didn’t realize the time. I can call back later.” I’m pretty sure we both know I’m not calling back if I hang up this phone.
“No! No, it’s okay.” I hear shuffling in the background. “Is everything alright? Did something happen?”
