The Heartbroken - S01 E38

Story 2 years ago

The Heartbroken - S01 E38

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 38

*CONTINUES*

But the smile didn’t fool

me. His eyes, probably

unintentionally, seemed

thankful; grateful. And

when I picked my fork

up, he, just like he did

on the day of the picnic,

placed his hand on my

head, ruffling my hair in

a gesture that seemed

both Seth-like and un-

Seth-like—a silent

thank you in the

passing of

understanding, words

left unsaid.

I wasn’t sure when,

exactly, it began, but I

knew I was curious

about all of his secrets.

When he was done

making my hair look like

a bird’s nest, he picked

the guitar up again and

said, “Hey, you play too,

right? I saw a guitar in

your room.”

A moment of silence

passed before I finally

said, “I don’t.” I sighed.

“I don’t play it, I mean.”

By the way his face fell,

I knew it wasn’t the

reply he expected. “Oh.

You don’t? Then… was

the guitar for… him, by

any chance?”

The weight of the word

him made the sentence

seem so heavy. I let out

an almost bitter laugh.

“Who else?” I said.

He was silent for a

while. A pause, then he

said, “Why didn’t you

give it?”

“I was supposed to

give it to him,” I said. “A

birthday present. The

night he dumped me.” A

pang of hurt washed

over me as I recalled

that night. It seemed

so far away, so much

like a surreal dream.

Except it wasn’t a

dream. It wasn’t even a

nightmare.

It was just reality.

Nightmares—they end

when you wake up, but

reality exists in a way

that none of us can

truly ever escape.

“Let’s give it to him,” he

suddenly suggested.

My head quickly

snapped to his direction.

“What?”

“It’s goodbye,” he said.

“Give the guitar to him.

You can’t keep it there

forever.”

I knew he was right. I

knew that that guitar

can’t stay in my room

forever, collecting dust

as I refuse to get rid of

it because it feels too

much like getting rid of

Cedric permanently.

Seth was right about

the guitar, but I wasn’t

quite sure if I could do

it. It seemed like

something I could never

do, some impossible act

I can’t ever pull off.

“I guess you can

always sell it, but… I

think it would be

something like, Hey it

was nice knowing you!

Here’s to the past!

Goodbye forever.”

I remained silent,

pushing the stuff on

my plate as he looked

at me in all seriousness.

“It’s part of moving

on,” he said, this time

quietly. “The question

is”—he gave me a

sideways glance—“do

you want to?”

—

When I got home, the

house was empty as

usual. It felt so

abandoned, as if the

family who had lived

here already left years

ago. Only the traces of

what used to be a

happy family evidence

that somebody

occupied this house at

one point in time—the

picture frames hanging

around the house, the

books my father used

to give her whenever he

found something

interesting.

That’s the thing about

my father. He was an

avid reader. He lived at

least half his life within

the pages of a book. It

was his only vice. While

most men would go

fool around with

unbearably young and

hot blonde secretaries,

Mom’s only rival were

the books. There were

days when he would

lock himself up in his

office, finishing four

books in a day. Mom and

I would go to the mall

and get ourselves new

outfits. She would get

my hair cut. We would

watch a movie and

spend the day without

doing anything really

productive.

When we get back

home, my dad would be

finished with the books,

and he’d have prepared

dinner already. Even

though he wasn’t a

very good cook (he can

manage to burn soup,

of all things, until it’s

nothing but charred

remains of what would

have been a delicious

dish), none of us felt

the need to complain.

We were happy, my dad

with his books, and me

on a fun day with Mom.

And though the day

might have passed with

us doing different

things, the nights were

always for the three of

us, eating some burned

dish, making jokes, Dad

dropping a random

quote from the books

he’d read and playing

Scrabble or chess or

Snakes n’ Ladders.