“Do you still have it?” Gray asks.
I nod. “I wouldn’t let my mom throw it away. That one was a keeper.”
The rain picks up outside. It hits and slams against the window, but I think it sounds like music—a light mix of tambourine and cymbals. The wind sounds like a guitar, all low, melancholy notes. Thunder takes the drums. I’m quiet as I listen to the song.
“Posters?” he asks.
“None.”
“Really? I took you for a poster kind of girl.”
I shake my head. “No, I was more into clothes pins.”
“What?” he asks and waits for more.
“Clothes pins,” I say, like it’s a normal decorating feature. “I had strings strung along all four walls of my room and I used clothes pins to hang stuff. Magazine cut outs, drawings, photographs. One fall I had an entire room full of leaves. That one got messy. I had to promise my mom never to hang organic material again.” I look over at Gray and he’s suddenly too close. He’s dangerously entering my KZ— his face and lips are close enough to reach out and touch. He must be trying to torture me. I try to focus on the conversation. “One wall was dedicated to missing pieces. Just random things I found—torn paper, ripped notes, receipts, bags.”
“You mean garbage? You hung garbage on your walls?”
“They weren’t garbage,” I argue. “They were the lost remnants of a larger story.” I throw up my hands. “I’m not saying interior decorating was ever my calling, Gray.”
He smiles and I smile. I could step inside his smile and live there because it’s one of the most familiar places I know. I could easily lean forward into him. I’m starting to, I feel our faces inching closer when suddenly the door knocks open. Gray and I turn to see Sue Anne walk inside. When she sees us sitting on the bed, her face brightens.
“Are you two cozy in here?”
“Very cozy, thanks, Sue Anne,” I say.
“This is my daughter’s old room,” she says and looks around with nostalgia. “She loved pink. I haven’t had the heart to redecorate.”
“It’s perfect,” I say.
“Well, alright. Sweet dreams. And if you hear any sirens, you can head down to the basement if you want. It’s the last door at the end of the hall.” She closes the door and I hear it click shut.
Gray stands up and suddenly it’s easier to breath. He stretches his arms over his head. “I’m going to grab my bag from the car,” he says. “You need anything?” I shake my head. I have a toothbrush in my backpack, and a t-shirt and shorts.
When Gray leaves, I open my backpack and take out The Giving Tree, a book that he gave me when we first met. It’s the book I didn’t want him to see. I’ve been writing in it since he gave it to me, using it as a type of journal. It’s where I keep my un-want list.
I try to un-want things. It’s my latest challenge. And I’m continually broke, so it works out. Every day people make lists of the things they want, or the things they need. Shopping lists, to-do lists, grocery lists. I make it a challenge to un-want things. To see what I can do without. I un-want new shoes and make do with my dirty, worn out ones. I glue the soles together and sew holes. I un-want a new backpack and sew a patch on the one I have. Casting something away it easy, but just because it frays, just because it shows signs of age doesn’t mean it’s worthless. It’s amazing how well things hold up if you give them extra love.
I un-wanted getting a haircut and let it grow wild until I cut it myself. I un-want makeup and let my freckles stand out. And strangely, in all the unneeding, I seem to gain more.
I look up at the door Gray just walked out of. No matter how hard I try, I can’t un-want you. I can’t un-need you. Sometimes we don’t know what we need until we’re shown what we need. Up until then, we’re only making blind guesses. Sometimes, even when we think we’re roaming, we’re just traveling in a long circle that eventually leads us home.
Gray
I walk into the bedroom and sit down on the bed. Dylan isn’t here; it gives me a chance for a mental pep talk. I run my hands through my hair. I have to mentally rise above this situation. I can’t let myself remember. I can’t let myself want her. She is the one thing I can never have.
I look up at the door she’s about to walk through. I gave you up. I wasn’t born to love you. I was born to lose you. You are my sad song. My melancholy mix. You were my past until you suddenly crashed into my present. But you will never be my future.
I replay that sentence over and over in my head.