“What happened?” I asked softly, angling my head with deference, hoping he wouldn’t see me as a threat. I took slow, steady breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse.
“What does it matter? You can’t help me,” he repeated, his hardened glare dissipated for a second, but quickly recovered.
I braved another step in his direction. “Try me,” I whispered, my eyes never leaving his.
Chris glanced toward the floor, but swiftly looked back up again. He was losing his resolve. I could feel it. I inched one more tiny step toward him. I knew if I could get to him, a soothing hand on his shoulder or the thought of just knowing that someone was right there by his side would get him to calm down.
He shook his head bitterly, fixing his cold eyes on me again. “No,” he insisted, with a little less certainty than the last time. “You can’t help me.”
I breathed a small sigh of relief that his resolve seemed to be slipping.
“I know I can’t change anything.” I gingerly took another step and reached with an outstretched hand toward him. “I just want to help you calm down.”
He took a step backward, and bumped into the wall behind him. Shifting his eyes from side to side, knowing there was nowhere else to go and no other choice, he broke. His voice cracked, “I called home.”
“I know,” I said softly, nodding. I felt the squeeze on my heart, sensing his pain.
He squeezed his eyes closed as if he were trying to block out a thought. Then with one violent shake of his head, he opened them, revealing the hurt behind them. His voice was barely a whisper, “She moved on.”
In that moment, I took my final step toward him. My outstretched hand reached him. The moment my fingers connected with his shoulder, Chris crumbled. His legs buckled beneath him and he sank to the floor.
Panting breaths were immediately replaced by heartbroken sobs. “Oh god, she moved on,” he cried, gripping his head in his hands.
I kneeled beside him. “I’m sorry, Chris,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.” Watching this hardened teenager suffer such gut-wrenching pain crushed me.
Chris hung his head, crying out from weight of his heartache. He reached out, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me toward him. He tucked his head into the crook of my neck while his shoulders shook with unyielding sorrow. We sat together on that cold, hard floor while I cradled his head, gently rocking back and forth, consoling him.
I couldn’t help the tears that streamed down my face too. I remembered the moment I finally broke down in the car that morning. I’d been walking around, wearing the mask of strength for far too long. “It’s okay,” I coaxed him. “Let it out. You’ve been strong long enough.”
He clutched me tighter, burying himself in my arms. The warmth of his hug was a sharp contrast to the cold, barren room we were huddled in.
“I loved her so much,” he said through his tears.
Gripping his shoulder, I whispered, “I know you did.”
“I loved her so fucking much, but that wasn’t enough.”
Shaking my head, I insisted, “That’s not true. You loved her enough to fight for her—to protect her. You saved her, Chris. Your love was enough.”
“Why does it have to hurt so bad?”
I patted his back and gave him a tight squeeze. I was wondering the same question, but for different reasons. My response to him was, “I just don’t know. A heart is a fragile thing, I guess.”
After a few minutes, he took a few deep breaths, trying to pull himself together. A catharsis of emotions was exactly what he’d needed.
Lifting his head, he peered up at me with glassy, blood-shot eyes. “Thank you for coming. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I’m always here for you,” I whispered, looking down at him. His eyes were begging for the need to be heard and understood. I nodded inwardly. I hear you, Chris. Can you hear me?
He stared back at me, widening those deep windows to his soul as if to say, ‘I hear you.’
I drove away from Fairbanks that night with mixed emotions. On one hand I’d conquered the world. Helping people was the best feeling. But on the other hand, I knew the world I was headed home to. The closer I got to my house, the faster that amazing feeling of helping Chris was disappearing. I could almost feel reality’s hand reaching up to slap me in the face. Another sleepless night was on the horizon.
By the time I tiptoed through the front door, I felt as though I’d stepped into someone else’s world. This was not my life. My life was at Fairbanks—my happy world, where I was making a difference in people’s lives. Home should have been my safe haven, not the place I dreaded. I just couldn’t believe how the most precious thing I’d ever created could so easily zap my joyful spirit.