Did I Mention I Miss You? by Estelle Maskame
I don’t think Tyler cares that I’m asking questions again, so I quietly cut in and ask, “How long had it been?”
“Eight years,” he tells me, then shakes his head as though in disbelief. “He hadn’t seen me since I was twelve. Twelve . . . Like, that’s crazy. I’m twenty, and I think he was seriously stunned for a good ten minutes. He missed my entire teen years, and I bet that was weird for him, seeing some guy standing across from him rather than some kid.”
“Were you . . . angry?” My voice is quiet as I ask this, my tone gentle.
“No,” Tyler says, and he seems pleased to be able to say that. “I don’t even know what I was feeling. Kind of empty, like there’s just nothing there. So I sat down, and then Dad did too, and there was nothing but silence for at least five minutes.” His fingers move from my wrist and back to my hand, where he taps each of my knuckles one by one, softly and slowly. It almost seems like he needs to keep his mind half concentrated on something other than the words he’s stringing together. Like touching my wrist and tapping my knuckles and squeezing my hand tighter are all just ways to distract himself. “Brooke made me tell him everything.”
I raise a brow. “Everything?”
“Everything from the moment he got locked up to right now,” he says. Deep breath, brief close of his eyes, the tightening of his hand around mine. It’s always the same whenever Tyler’s about to say something he doesn’t want to. “I told him about the three times I got suspended from school. I told him that I was fourteen the first time I got high. Sixteen the first time I tried coke. I told him that my grades sucked because I didn’t care about anything, that I treated Mom like dirt, that I actually liked getting drunk. I told him about the times I was sitting in the back of a cop car and I told him about the kid’s nose I fractured back in tenth grade. I told him about New York and I told him about you. I told him why I was in Portland. I said I was here because of him, because I needed to fix the mess he made of me.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until I blink and the first tear escapes. My chest feels blocked, my head heavy with the weight of his words. I already know all of these things, but hearing the pain in Tyler’s voice as he says them is what really hits me. I don’t think his father will ever truly know just how much damage he’s caused. The abuse may have been physical, but the damage is psychological.
“And I think that was the biggest relief, Eden,” he says, loud and clear, like that same relief is flowing through him again. When I blink away the tears gathering at the corners of my eyes, I realize his gaze has found mine once more. He bears yet again an expression laced with nothing but sincerity. “Getting to look straight at him and blame him for everything he’d done . . . It was kind of satisfying, and he broke down right in front of me. My dad was never one for crying—trust me on that. So I was surprised, because it was so unlike him, and then it slowly dawned on me that maybe he did regret it all. Maybe he hated himself for it. Maybe he really was sorry. It’s all he kept saying, that he was sorry, sorry, sorry. And so I calmly stood up and walked out of the office, leaving him there, babbling like a fucking idiot. And honestly?” He smiles. “I did feel better.”
With our hands still interlocked, I wrap my free arm around his and lean in close to him across the center console, pressing my cheek to his bicep. The soft material of his shirt catches my tears as they cascade down my cheeks, and I can’t bring myself to reply because I’m too busy squeezing my eyes shut. I hate crying, and the only time I ever do is because of Tyler. Always fucking Tyler.
And he himself finally notices. “What are you crying for?” he asks, surprised. With one hand he moves my chin to face him, sweeping his thumb under my eyes. Then he squeezes our interlocked hands even tighter. Any second now, one of us is going to burst a blood vessel from the pressure, I’m sure of it.
“You’re not a mess,” I say. If anything, I am. I’m the one crying on his shoulder. I’m the one who can’t fix things with my dad. I’m the one who can’t say no to ice cream at the pier. I’m the one who’s counting the days as they go by, relieved that they’re over, rather than doing something to make them better. That’s why I admire Tyler so much. He had that determination to change things. He moved to a new city, he went into therapy, he’s spoken to his dad, he’s set up a youth group, he’s working, he has his own place. That didn’t happen because he spent his time moping around.
Back when I first met Tyler, I never thought that one day I’d be so desperate to be just like him.
“Not anymore,” he says. “Having Brooke has really helped. That’s why I kept going back. I just didn’t expect Dad to be there at the next session. I was so confused when I first walked in, and then Brooke told me that Dad was sticking around for a while. She said we still had a lot of fixing to do, so Dad stayed in Portland and came to every single session, three times a week for the following three weeks. It got easier to talk to him each time, so I eventually told him that I was on the fence about starting a youth group. He liked the idea and offered to help. He can’t work with minors directly, so he said he’d handle the costs. Apparently, it’s the least he owes me.” I glance up, and Tyler’s grinning, trying not to laugh at the understatement. “But he kept his word,” he continues, pulling me closer against him, “and he pays the bills, and he comes back to Portland every month to check up on how things are going. He actually lives in Huntington Beach now. He’s been investing in companies for the past year and trying to build himself back up. I hate to say it, but he’s doing alright. I can’t blame him for trying to make things right, because I’m doing the exact same thing.”
I rub at my eyes and lean away from him, sitting up. Our hands are still intertwined. “Why was it so hard to tell me this?”
Tyler groans and glances away, suddenly going quiet and nervous again. “It’s just . . .” His words taper off and he heaves a drastic sigh. “It’s just the therapy,” he says. “I wanted to tell you, but it’s hard to admit it.”
“Why?”
“Because when was therapy ever considered cool, Eden?” He flashes his eyes to me, and for a second I think he’s about to lash out at me for questioning him, but there’s no anger in his expression nor in his tone. Long gone are the days when his temper was hot. “Therapy isn’t something you should be proud of.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
His eyebrows furrow. “What?”
“You should be proud, Tyler,” I say, fixing him with a firm look through my damp eyes, then I release our hands. “Therapy doesn’t mean that you’re weak, you know. It means that you’re strong, and you should be proud that you made that decision. Just look at how much happier you seem.”
“Why do you always do this?”
“Do what?” I ask.
Slowly, a smile spreads across his face, lighting up his eyes. “Make me feel better with all your wise words.”
I grin at him, as wide as I possibly can, because his smile is just that contagious. He may not be proud of himself, but I’m proud of him. I don’t think he’ll ever stop surprising me when it comes to discovering how incredible he is. “Because when you really care about someone,” I tell him, “you want to make them feel better. That’s just what you do when you love someone.”
Something flashes in his expression, but it’s so quick that I hardly have time to recognize it. He angles his body slightly toward me as his lips curve into a playful grin, one that’s full of both relief and joy. “Love, huh?”
I feel the color rise to my cheeks from the intense pressure of his stare. His glossy eyes are watching me as he waits for confirmation, but I feel so sheepish that I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye as I say it.
I lean over the center console toward him, quietly murmuring, “Always have,” while wrapping my arms around his bicep and burying my face into his shirt before I get a chance to even see his expression. He throws an arm around me and pulls me in even closer, the two of us holding onto one another so tight it’s as though our lives depe
Now I want to kiss him. I really, really want to kiss him, because I’m in love with him. I can feel it in every inch of my being, in every cell of my body, in my absolute entirety. It’s always been there, and no matter how hard I’ve tried to convince myself this past year that there has been nothing left, the truth is that it never went away in the first place. I’ve been in love with him ever since I was sixteen.
I’m so ready to kiss him. But now isn’t the right time again. This is Tyler’s moment, and my body against his already feels like enough. He rests his chin atop my head, and I can feel his breath against my forehead, warm and slow. It’s a gentle rhythm that’s the most relaxing thing in the world, and we remain like that for a short while, our arms around one another, tangled up in the front seats of Tyler’s car in the middle of this parking garage in downtown Portland. A year ago, I never imagined my life could be like this again, but now that this is my reality, I wouldn’t dream of changing it.
Next time, I think.
Next time I’m kissing him.
18
It doesn’t take long for the idea to hit me.
I’m sitting there, my breathing in sync with Tyler’s, our eyes half closed as we rest our gazes lazily on the windshield, when suddenly my body shoots upright. I lean away and straighten in the passenger seat. The abruptness of the movement startles Tyler, because he flinches and then fires me a questioning glance.
It’s not even eleven, so we have the entire day ahead of us. A full day that Tyler’s free before he returns to work tomorrow. Emily said to go have fun, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Portland style.
“Change of plans. Pass me the keys,” I say. I’m biting back the smile that’s threatening to spread across my face, because I’m trying my hardest to maintain a look of mischief. I want to surprise him for once. Usually, it’s the other way around. Usually, Tyler is the one who comes up with the great ideas, like taking me to the pier for the first time and making reservations in advance at Italian restaurants, like teaching me to play baseball and buying us tickets to the Yankees game, like letting me drive his freaking supercar in the middle of the night in a parking lot in New Jersey and buying me new Converse that he later wrote on. In Spanish. Tyler always has exciting ideas that make my day. Now it’s my turn to make his.
“Huh?”
“The keys,” I repeat. “I need them to drive.”
Tyler glances at his car keys that are in the cup holder in the center console, then at me, then at the keys again. He seems wary, as though he honestly believes that whatever I have in mind could be dangerous. It’s not. Just adventurous. Eventually, he reaches for the keys and slips them into my hand.
“But I thought we could—”
“Just switch,” I order. “And trust me.”
Tyler doesn’t linger. He opens the door and steps outside, and as he makes his way around to the passenger side, I climb over the center console and get settled in the driver’s seat. I’ve never driven this car before. The old one, yes. This one, no. It’s nowhere near as powerful as the former, so I feel pretty at ease as I start the engine and pull on my seatbelt. Thank God it’s an automatic.
By the time Tyler joins me back inside the car, he’s smiling in such a way that tells me he’s confused but intrigued. He adjusts the seat, clicks his seatbelt into place, and then leans back and gets comfy. “Is your idea legal? No trespassing? No reckless driving?”
I cast him a glance. “Of course it’s legal. Why would I do anything that wasn’t?”
“Well, we are pretty bad at breaking the law,” he says, and we laugh as though our previous conversation didn’t even happen. His anxiety is gone, replaced with humor and a sparkling glint in his eyes that’s only there whenever he’s truly at ease. I think he’s glad that that conversation is over, and I think he’s even happier that I’m not saying anything more on the issue. Life isn’t always about dealing with the bad stuff. Sometimes enjoying ourselves has to come first.
I set the car in drive and navigate my way out of the parking structure, back out onto the warm streets of Portland. I don’t want Tyler to know where we’re going, so having him drive isn’t an option. And where we’re going is outside the city boundaries.
“So,” Tyler says when we’re stopped at a red light, “is this an abduction? I know you haven’t seen me in a year, but there’s no reason to resort to this. Car theft and kidnapping.”
I roll my eyes, and then I finally allow that smile I’ve been holding back to spread over my face. “I’m taking you on an adventure,” I announce. “We’ve got a couple of stops to make. The first is a forty-minute drive away, and I really hope you haven’t already visited it.”
Tyler releases a hearty laugh, then he goes quiet and does nothing but stare at me with a smile on his lips. There’s something in his expression which I don’t think I’ve seen before. It’s not gratitude. It’s not relief. It’s appreciation.
The atmosphere in the car is so different now. It’s shifted from tense to electric, fuelled by good vibes and laughter and constant smiling. The radio is back on, echoing the latest mainstream chart singles while the sun beats down on us through the car’s windshield. For the first time, it actually feels like summer. This is what summer is made for—days of sunshine filled with adventures with the people you love most right by your side.
The traffic is still light, so getting out of downtown and across the Willamette isn’t a nightmare. It’s actually easy, and soon we’ve merged onto the highway. This highway has some amazing scenery, and it’s hard to believe that my dad actually took me on long drives across this route when I was younger. We’d take road trips every Saturday morning, but that weekly norm stopped the moment his relationship with Mom began to break down. These days, we can barely even look at each other without feeling aggravated, let alone spend some quality time together. It’s sad how different things can become over time.
The drive doesn’t feel like forty minutes. We head east, leaving Portland behind and enjoying the view of the river as it glistens in the sunlight. This drive is never as nice when the weather is bad. The time also passes much quicker because I don’t think Tyler and I have stopped talking for even a matter of seconds. He keeps trying to guess where I’m taking him, and he keeps guessing wrong. No, I’m not taking him across the river to Washington. No, I’m not taking him up to the peak of Mount Hood. And no, I’m definitely not taking him jet skiing, which I think he’s secretly hoping for. When we’re a couple of minutes away from my brilliant destination, his expression changes. His face brightens, and he reaches to shut off the radio before turning to me, a lopsided smile plastered across his face. “Multnomah Falls,” he says.
I almost slam on the brakes out of frustration. “Oh, c’mon!” I throw one hand up from the wheel in agitation at my surprise no longer being a surprise, narrowing my eyes at him. “How’d you know?”
He laughs and sits up, pointing back over his shoulder. “The road sign back there? Yeah, it said Multnomah Falls.”
Multnomah Falls is Oregon’s tallest waterfall, a prime attraction in this region of the state. I haven’t been in years, but it was one of my favorite places to visit, especially with Dad. We used to hike straight to the top together, ask a stranger to take our picture, then send it to Mom, who would reply saying she wished she was there with us. “Please tell me you haven’t already been. I want to show you it.”
“I haven’t,” Tyler says, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
The thing about Multnomah Falls is that it’s special. That’s why it’s our first stop, because today feels special. There’s something in the air, lingering around us. I can feel it, and I like it.
We pull into the parking lot just opposite the Multnomah Falls Lodge. Tyler seems on edge as I maneuver his car into a tight spot between two others. Thankfully, I do it without losing both his side mirrors. I yank
“I’m guessing that’s it?” Tyler asks, joining me and nodding over my shoulder as I roll the sleeves of my sweatshirt up to my elbows.
I don’t even have to glance behind me to know that yes, he’s looking at the falls. It’s so noticeable that you can even see it from the highway, on your right as you pass by, and right now, we’re really not that far away from it. “Yeah.”
“Alright. Lead the way,” he says.
Immediately, I reach for his elbow, pulling his arm back so that I can slide my hand into his, intertwining our fingers once more. Over the past hour, everything seems to have just clicked. I don’t need to hesitate anymore when it comes to deciding how I feel about Tyler, because there is nothing holding me back anymore from accepting the fact that I’m still in love with him. I understand now. I understand why Tyler had to leave. I understand why he came here to Portland. I understand why he’s made the decisions he’s made, and I understand why he needed to make them on his own, for no one else but himself. I understand, and now that I have answers and explanations to the all of the questions and doubts I have had over the past year, there is no anger left toward him, no mixed feelings. Only love and forgiveness. Lacking his touch for so long has driven me insane, and now that I have finally pinpointed exactly how I feel, I’m desperate to feel his skin against mine. I’ll take advantage of any opportunity that arises, like right now, as I’m leading him across the road with our hands bonded together like glue. Luckily, Tyler doesn’t seem to mind.
There’s already several other people around us, a young group of girls and an elderly couple, and they all make their way toward the beginning of the paved trail. We follow behind them.