Dear Ana: Chapter 7

I checked my phone for the hundredth time. It was eleven-fifty.

She’s not coming.

I lifted my phone to my ear anyway and waited.

“Hello?”

At least she answered.

“Hey Bayan, where are you?” I said cheerfully. Too cheerful. Synthetic.

“Home.”

One-word responses. Just like her texts.

“Oh . . . I thought we were hanging out today. Did I get the day wrong?”

I didn’t get the day wrong. I had our hangout marked in my calendar because I was so excited to see her. I was so excited that she texted me back––three weeks later, but still.

“Oh my God, I totally forgot,” she apologized. It sounded genuine. “My mom has been super extra every time I ask to leave the house––you know how she is––and I’ve been really busy lately with . . .”

I listened while she vented about her overly strict parents, and her busy, busy schedule. Regardless, I still drank in every scrap of her life she threw my way––a dog begging at the foot of the dinner table. I didn’t mind. I missed her voice.

“. . . but anyway, rain check?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. What day did you have in mind?”

“I’ll text you,” she promised.

She won’t.

“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

You won’t talk soon.

“Bye.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Things weren’t always this weird between us. There was a time when our friendship ran deep. There was a time when there wasn’t a single second of silence between us because we couldn’t stop talking, and laughing . . . until I ruined it by being sad. I mean, I was always sad, but it was background noise. I could tune it out when I was around her because she was a ray of blissful and charismatic sunshine without even trying, and it was contagious. But eventually, my world darkened to a point of no return and everything I was holding back came tumbling out, tainting our friendship forever.

It wasn’t like I ever told her anything. I never once vented or cried or dumped all my trauma onto her unwilling shoulders to make myself feel better. I was simply but completely a little sad. My smile was a little smaller. My laugh didn’t come from the gut. My height lost a few inches from the new slump in my shoulders. My eyes were a little less bright. And she just . . . never questioned it. She accepted the sudden shift in my personality without acknowledgement, causing our relationship to dwindle into a series of unanswered messages and meaningless hangouts every few months. We would meet up, she would talk, I would listen, and then she would leave.

My phone was still pressed against my ear.

But what about you, Maya, how are you doing?

“Not good,” I whispered into the screen.

Why, what happened?

“Mikhail’s moving back in,” I told no one. “He’s moving back in and I’m so terrified and mad. I’m so fucking mad at them for doing this. For being so oblivious and gullible. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. He put me through hell and they’re just––” my voice broke “––welcoming him back with open arms.”

Silence.

“I met a boy yesterday,” I continued. “He seems nice, and he’s kind of cute. Really cute. Exactly my type.”

Let me guess––tall, lanky, dark curly hair?

“Yes,” I laughed. “But then I made it weird. I had this whole bitchy, Shakespeare-level dramatic monologue. It was mortifying.”

Typical Maya. How did he react?

“He reacted . . .” I paused. “He didn’t react. He just carried on the conversation.”

See? Stop overthinking it.

“He gave me his number. Should I text him?”

Yes!

“There’s something else.”

What?

“He knew her. Ana. He knows I knew her too, and when he asked me how I lied.”

So. Everyone lies.

“But this is a big lie. What if he finds out?”

That you were about to die in a car accident and needed a heart to survive?

“Her heart,” I corrected.

So what. You’re just another transplant patient, Maya. It doesn’t need to be deeper than that.

“I guess . . . I don’t know. Every time he spoke, it was like she was reminding me of her existence in my ear with her thumps.”

Your thumps, Maya. There is no her. Ana’s dead.

“I know. It’s still my fault, though, kind of. Sort of? And I know he’ll agree with me if he finds out.”

Then don’t tell him.

“I won’t,” I promised.

Silence.

I swallowed and glanced around the cafeteria, peeling my phone away from my face. I didn’t look alone and crazy. I just looked like a girl talking on the phone with her best friend. I grabbed my wallet and pulled out the ripped piece of polystyrene with Noah’s number on it. I didn’t know why I kept it––I already had it memorized. But I liked having a piece of that hour. Proof that it really happened.

I smiled as I replayed our odd conversation. The only reason I accepted his offer for coffee was because I knew it would be a one-time thing. I didn’t think I would want to see him again . . . but I did. I hated that. I hated how quickly my loneliness clung to people. I hated how quickly I became obsessed.

But this was different. Noah was different. He already knew I was sad, so I couldn’t ruin it this time.

He could find out, and that will ruin it.

I added him as a contact anyway . . . and then before I could overthink it I sent him a message.

Hey, it’s me

Three dots immediately appeared.

Who’s me?

Maya, obviously

How could that possibly be obvious?

My mouth twitched.

Damn, you caught me

Come to the café

I smiled.

I’m busy

After you’re done being busy

My smile widened.

The best two words I heard all day

Okay, settle down dude

I’ll try my best, chick

My alarm rang. Five minutes left for lunch.

I have to go

Okay

I’ll maybe see you later

I’ll maybe see you later, too

Maya?

Noah

I’m so glad you texted me

Thump, thump––

One more time, Ana, I promised, and then I’ll never see him again.

I opened the front door of Espresso & Chill, my gaze immediately searching every inch of the perimeter for him. A set of mismatched eyes locked with mine from behind the front counter, and his face lit up with that beautiful, toothy grin.

“For you,” he said, handing me a steamy mug before taking a seat across from me.

“Are you sure you’re okay to take a break?” I forced down a sip. “It looks like it’s getting busy.”

“I’m here if they need me.”

“How many baristas do you have?”

“I only needed to hire one . . . until this morning when I decided to hire a second one.”

“Why the impulsivity?”

“I had a feeling I was going to be preoccupied this evening,” he said, giving me a pointed look.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Noah. I had to fish your number out of the trash.”

One corner of his mouth tugged upwards. “Fishing my number out of the trash is a much bigger compliment than if you had simply added me as a contact right away.”

I looked away, letting my short curls mask my expression. “Permission to withdraw my last statement?”

“Permission denied,” he laughed. “I caught you red-handed. Or, in your case, red-faced.”

“Okay, settle down.”

“I’m settled. You on the other hand . . .”

I shook my head in annoyance but then started laughing despite myself, the spontaneous sound coming from the deepest part of my belly. It felt different. It almost felt nice.

“Can I ask why you felt inclined to get rid of my number in the first place?”

“I’m not usually eager to face people after throwing an emotional bitch fit in their presence.”

“I’m used to that––it comes with the job description,” he assured me. “I make girls drinks, and in return, they cry and tell me all about their problems.”

“I did not cry, okay,” I scoffed. “And you’re describing a bartender, Noah, not a barista.”

He shrugged. “Bartender, barista––same thing.”

“They start with the same letter,” I echoed smugly.

He chuckled lightly. “Tell me about your day.”

“I had work at six am and I finished about thirty minutes ago,” I told him, forcing down another sip.

“I thought you only worked at night?”

“Well, I do.” What was I trying to hide? “I have two jobs. I work at the hospital from six to three every day except Sunday, and I work at Tysons from five-thirty to ten most nights.”

“Wow,” he replied, his eyes widening in surprise. “How do you juggle both jobs with classes?”

My face immediately flushed with shame. “I differed my enrollment for two years last September. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that yesterday.”

“That’s okay, but why did you defer? You seemed excited about it.”

“I can’t work two jobs and go to school, so I figured I would just focus on saving up for now.”

It was crazy how the more I told that lie, the more I started to believe it myself.

“Have you tried looking into financial aid?”

“I have financial aid, but six years is a lot to pay back.” I focused my gaze on the mug in my hands, wishing he would just drop the subject but it was too late. His question already triggered one of the prohibited boxes in my mind and it was wide open now. Financial Aid? More like financial debt. I didn’t even know what the amount was after all the accumulated interest because I couldn’t bring myself to open any of the envelopes or emails they sent me. There was years’ worth of unopened letters shoved into the back corner of my closet. I had changed my number countless times to avoid their constant calls but they still ended up figuring out the new one, sending me into a frenzy of panic every time my phone buzzed with an unknown caller screen.

But what could I do? How could I explain that the reason I couldn’t pay them back wasn’t that I was irresponsible or that I didn’t care, but because my money was not my own? They didn’t care about my sob story. Every cent I earned went to paying the bills, groceries, and gas. By the time I was done, I could barely treat myself with a simple cup of coffee because the thought of spending my money on myself felt like . . . theft. Or some other outrageous crime against humanity. I didn’t even bother trying to make a payment plan because what was the point? My dad’s health was a chronic issue, making it impossible for him to get a job with a livable wage. Mikhail was fucking useless, so the burden fell on me. I was going to have to press the permanent pause button on my dreams and take care of my family for the rest of my life while dodging creditors hiding in every corner.

I blinked against the lights that were suddenly too bright and my hands twitched to cover my ears from the low background music that suddenly wasn’t low anymore and my lips were trembling to tell the people chatting casually around me to stop fucking yelling so I could just think of a solution to my never-ending problems––

“Maya? What are you thinking about?”

“Just thinking.”

“Is your brain being a menace again?”

“Not again, Noah. Always.”

He hesitated. “I find that fresh air usually helps, but I know how you feel about birds. The outdoors is kind of their territory.”

“It’s December––they’re already long gone and won’t migrate back until early spring. The smart ones would’ve escaped as soon as the temperature started to drop, and any stragglers left in the city will get hit by natural selection soon enough––except for crows, of course.” My mouth kept moving, spouting useless information to distract me from thinking. “Did you know that a group of crows is called a murder? I mean, there has to be a reason for the name. Can you blame me for being terrified? They’re basically just mini dinosaurs.”

“For someone who’s scared of birds, you sure do know a lot about them.”

“Isn’t that always the case? To obsessively memorize and consume all pieces of information pertaining to the thing you fear the most?”

“To put it eloquently,” he agreed with a chuckle, standing up. “Come on. I’ll protect you from all the mini dinosaurs.”

The wind hit as soon as I opened the door. I quickly took in mouthfuls of air, looking up at the grey clouds. Noah stood beside me, far enough to give me some space but close enough for me to feel his presence and know he was still there.

“Please tell me you’re finally regretting the choice to ignore my helpful warning.”

“Not quite,” he smiled and started walking down the sidewalk. “Why are you so desperate to prove your point?”

“I’m not,” I sighed, shaking my head. “This might shock you, but I’m not usually like this,” I laughed. “Well, I am, but not at first. I normally like to get to know someone before revealing how emotionally unstable I am.”

“Everyone is emotionally unstable, Maya. Some people are just better at hiding it.”

“I’m good at hiding it,” I insisted. “Seriously, it’s like my only talent. Or was.”

“Hiding isn’t a talent. It’s just a delay on something that’s destined to happen.”

I rolled my eyes. “You just have all the answers, don’t you?”

“Nope. Only the lessons I learned the hard way.”

“Oh my God, do you hear yourself?” I asked in disbelief. “You sound like a walking self-help book.”

He laughed.

“Is that what this is? Do you have a book you’re trying to sell? Are you a barista, bartender, bird-lover and author? No, not an author––” I paused for dramatic effect “––a book writer.”

“Gotta keep it consistent,” he agreed, still laughing. “I do sound like a corny douche, don’t I?”

“You? No. Never,” I replied sarcastically.

“I swear I’m not some entitled white man,” he promised. “I only speak from experience.”

“You keep hinting at this secret messy life of yours, Noah. Enlighten me.”

He chuckled. “Well, once upon a time there was a little boy named Noah . . .”

“Here we go,” I groaned.

“. . . who woke up on his tenth birthday and found his mom dead in the kitchen.”

My teasing grin disappeared.

Fuck.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m an asshole, Noah. I am so sorry.”

“You’re not,” he disagreed softly. “And it’s okay, it happened a long time ago.”

I was an asshole. I was so consumed with my own life that I forgot shitty things happened to other people too. Worse things.

“How did she . . . ?”

“Overdose.” He spoke soberly. Business like.

Overdosing was clean. Simple.

“I thought she was asleep,” he continued. “I didn’t realize what happened until she started to smell.”

No one would even know at first.

“You were so young, of course you wouldn’t think she was . . .”

“Not really,” he replied, looking straight ahead. “Physically I was a kid, but mentally . . .” he sighed, shaking his head. “My mom struggled with severe addiction for most of my childhood, and it was hard for her to take care of me. Eventually, I had to start taking care of myself and her. Cooking, cleaning, taking money from her purse every night to make sure the bills would get paid on time.”

“And your dad?”

He laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, that piece of shit took off when I was six and left us to fend for ourselves.”

“But who . . . you mentioned your parents to me yesterday, didn’t you?”

“My adoptive parents. I was put in the foster care system after my mom overdosed, and a few years later I was adopted. That’s how I met Ana.”

Thump, thump––

Brother, not boyfriend. It hit me then, how ridiculous it was to immediately assume his relationship with Ana had to have been a romantic one. Sometimes I forgot that brothers loving their sisters was completely normal.

“We were placed in the same foster family, and we were inseparable ever since. My adoptive parents originally came in wanting a girl––Ana––but she insisted that she wouldn’t leave without me,” he chuckled lightly.

Did I really call her a bitch the other day? She was a fucking saint.

“That was incredibly nice of her.”

“Ana’s the definition of nice. Or . . . was.”

Thump, thump––

Abandoned father, addict mother, foster care and two intimate deaths all in the span of twenty-eight years, and I was the sad one. Pathetic.

“I know we just met, but for what it’s worth, I’m glad she did that. You deserve a family that loves and takes care of you.”

“My mom loved me, Maya. I know it sounds terrible, how we were living, but she tried her best. People are so quick to judge, but they just don’t understand that addiction is a disease. She wasn’t selfish, or neglectful. She was just fighting demons’ that no one else could see.”

I nodded in understanding. I knew the feeling.

“She tried her best,” he repeated. “Even though she didn’t always show it, I know she loved me.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

He didn’t respond. Just kept looking straight ahead with his eyebrows scrunched together.

“It’s okay to be mad, Noah,” I told him after a few minutes of silence. “Just because there was a reason for her actions, doesn’t make it okay.”

He exhaled deeply before speaking. “I begged her to pick me over using for my entire childhood. But one day I just . . . stopped? And then when she died, it was like . . . my inner child died with her. Now I just have these days where I hate myself for not trying harder to help her.” He paused. “It’s been so long though and it just feels silly to keep thinking about it, you know? It’s not helping anyone by continuing to fester over it. What’s done is done. I’m over it.”

“Who says?” I asked, irritation creeping into my voice. “Who made it a rule that family can get a free pass to treat you however the fuck they want to and you just have to accept it and move on.”

His gaze immediately cut to mine, startled by my sudden outburst. I didn’t say anything more, but the deed was done. I wasn’t talking about his mom, and he knew it.

“It wasn’t like that, Maya,” he said slowly.

“I know, I just––” I took a breath. “You don’t need to be over anything. Even if you convinced yourself you were over it but it hits you all over again. There is no timeline. It’s not supposed to be easy and clean and short––it’s supposed to be messy. That doesn’t make you weak, or a bad son. It only makes you human.”

He smiled and nudged me with his shoulder gently. “Who’s the corny douche now?”

I rolled my eyes at his teasing tone, but I still felt guilty for judging him so quickly. I hated how optimistic and buoyant he was and automatically perceived him as some privileged white male. He was privileged, in a sense, but the way he spoke yesterday . . . he wasn’t bragging, he was just thankful. He knew how it felt to be on both sides of the coin.

We started heading back to his café, just as the evening rush began. I had no choice but to step closer to him, and our hands bumped against each other.

“Sorry,” he murmured after each accidental touch.

I glanced down at our hands with curiosity––one gloved, one bare––and carefully shifted my pinky finger, hooking it with his. I felt his eyes on me, but I continued looking forward. After a moment his finger tightened around mine, securing it with his and our hands started to swing lightly between us. My lips inched up in a tentative smile, and in the corner of my eye, I could see his doing the same.

Thump, thump––

My finger slipped out from his and my grin evaporated. I felt his eyes on me again, but I ignored him. A minute passed before he looked away, and put his hand in his pocket.

I only held his finger for a second, but it was enough. A second was all it took to wonder if I could be touched by a man without being in pain. If I could be ignited into flames without being burned to ashes in the process.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I told him sincerely once we reached my car. “But your optimism and lust for life . . . it’s refreshing.”

He shrugged and smiled brightly. God, he was always smiling.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“Do what?”

“Stay so . . . positive? And happy? It’s weird.”

He tipped his head back and laughed.

“I’m being serious,” I insisted. “Is your café just a front to sell special deserts? Are you on cloud nine right now, Noah?”

“Is it really so unbelievable that I could simply choose not to let a few shitty things dictate the rest of my life?”

Yes.

“So this is how the other half lives?” I muttered. “Interesting.”

His eyes softened. “Whatever you’re going through right now will pass, Maya. Things will go back to normal. The way they used to be.”

I looked at him sadly, and for the first time since I met him, I told him the truth.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He waited to see if I would continue, or give more details, but I didn’t. I let my cryptic response float uneasily in the air between us until my alarm went off in my pocket.

“I have to go to work,” I said reluctantly.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“I don’t usually hang out with my acquaintances multiple times in one week.”

“Well, that ship has already sailed. We’re currently at three.”

“Three?”

“Running away at the cemetery, antagonizing me at my café, a trauma dumping stroll downtown.” He tallied them off on his fingers. “We’re basically a married couple.”

I snickered at his word choice. “I don’t know if the cemetery counts as a hangout.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

“Yes, Noah,” I consented. “You will see me tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Pinky promise?”

I groaned. “Is that going to be a thing?”

“Do you want it to be a thing?”

“No,” I replied immediately. “The only thing you can pinky promise me is that you’ll never say the words pinky promise again.”

“Bye Maya,” he grinned and turned to leave.

“Wait!” He looked back. “I hate your coffee.”

“What?”

“The coffee you keep making me? I hate it. It’s disgusting. The thought of drinking it ever again makes me want to vomit.”

His eyes widened in shock.

“You told me a secret,” I explained. “I wanted to tell you one too.”

“So, I gave you deep and heartfelt, and you’re giving me an insult?”

“Yes.”

He raised his eyebrows and then realization hit him. “It’s disgusting? But you drank it.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, to be nice.”

“You’re not very good at being nice.” A laugh burst through my lips. He watched me for a minute before cracking a smile. “What about the cute little designs I frothed?”

“Super cute,” I agreed. “But I don’t want to admire my coffee, I kind of just want to drink it.”

“Okay, how do you take it?”

“Iced double shot of espresso made with almond milk––” he cringed “––four pumps of sugar-free vanilla syrup and a shit ton of stevia.”

“It should be considered a crime for you to order that at any café,” he said painfully.

“No one likes a coffee snob, Noah.”

He laughed again and shook his head. “You’re something else, Maya. I’ll see you tomorrow with that caffeine abomination waiting.”

I waved and got into my car, my phone beeping before I’d even put my seatbelt on.

I might still be your acquaintance, but you are most definitely my friend -Noah

Thump, thump, THUMP––

“I know, Ana,” I whispered. “I know.”