My eyes were swollen, and my throat ached from being on the verge of tears the entire time I was reading.
Lying in bed, I thought about Trevor and how in the beginning of our relationship he was all passion and flowers and gifts. Even though he wasn’t always willing to share his feelings verbally, I knew I meant a lot to him. When I would call, he came. I thought, maybe after rehab, he would go back to that wonderful guy he was when I first met him.
I thought about Jase and our history, and I wondered if it would always be there, lingering, like a creaking wood slat in the floor, to remind us of what we had endured. I texted him late that night.
Me: You up?
Jase: Yes
Me: Can I call you?
Two seconds later, my phone rang. “Hello,” I said.
“Hi.”
“When I saw my father, he told me to tell you thank you and that he was sorry.” I got choked up. “He’s sober now, and he was kind.”
“How are you so strong, Emiline?”
“Maybe you taught me.” I sighed. “Trevor checked into rehab today.”
“That’s good. You did the right thing by calling him out on it. I’m sure he’ll be grateful to you when he’s clean. Sometimes people who love us make us do hard things because it’s what’s right.”
“I’m almost done with the book.”
“What, are you reading, like, five words an hour?” he teased.
“I’m savoring it, jerk.” There was silence, and then I heard him try to stifle a yawn. “You sound tired. Is Andrea there?”
“No, she has her own room, silly. It’s late here, but I don’t want to get off the phone with you.”
“Go to bed, Jase. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Okay. Night, Em. Hey, you know what this reminds me of?” he said.
“When I was in foster care and we used to talk late at night?”
“Yeah, exactly . . . I miss you.”
“I miss you too. Night, Jase.”
He didn’t ask if I had made a decision about Trevor. When I thought about it, Jase hadn’t even said anything about a relationship between him and me. It seemed obvious, but was I really going to throw away seven years with Trevor to see if Jase could even handle a real, adult relationship?
IN THE MORNING, Cara was sitting at the breakfast bar, eating cereal and reading a magazine. “I can’t believe you’re home,” she said. “I haven’t see you in forever.”
“I know. I was helping Trevor.”
She stopped eating. “Kinda sad that he went from, like, superstar to super addicted.”
“He’s not a bad person. He’s a little lost, but he’s not a loser.”
She gave me a sympathetic look. “I know, Emi. So, have you thought more about what you’re going to do?”
“Yeah.” I sat down next to her. “I’m torn.”
“You’ll figure it out.” She continued eating.
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“Did you write the piece for Professor James yet?” she asked through a mouthful of Cap’n Crunch.
“No, but I will.” I hadn’t asked Cara anything about her life lately, and I realized I wasn’t being a good friend. “What’s new with you?”
She stopped chewing and swallowed. Her eyes darted around the room. “Don’t hate me, okay?”
“What?” My stomach started turning.
“I got an agent, and one of my stories is being published in the New Yorker next month.” She made a face like she had eaten a sour grape.
“That’s fantastic! Cara, you are so talented. You deserve every bit of it.” I hugged her.
“You seem different, Em.” Cara had never called me “Em” before she read the book. “You just seem more confident or something.”
“Maybe you see me differently now that you know me.”
She scowled. “I thought I already knew you.”
“No, now that you really know me.”
“Hmm.” She nodded. “Do you think Trevor knows the real you?”
“Probably not. If you really think about it, Trevor and I really don’t know each other at all.” I walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. “We’ve kept a lot from one another. He’s a good guy, he really is, but I think we’ve just never gotten to know what makes the other person tick.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to stand by him. I’m doing the right thing. We’ll figure it out.”
THE NEXT DAY, I tried to visit Trevor in rehab, but they told me it wasn’t family and friends day and that he was in that crucial period of detoxing.
Later in the afternoon, he was able to call me.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi, hello, how are you?”
I barely recognized his voice. “You okay, Trevor?”
“Not really. My shoulder is fucking killing me. The food here is disgusting, and the people are assholes.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said genuinely.
“No, you’re not. If you were sorry you would have helped before calling my parents, but you just wanted to get rid of me so you could go back to your precious Jase, even though I’ve been the one by your side listening to you whine about your terrible writing all these years.”
Be strong, Em.
“Okay, Trevor, that’s enough.” I knew he was sick and being irrational.
“I can’t believe I wasted all these years with you.” He was getting progressively meaner. Growing up around my dad had taught me how to react to addicts, but the words still hurt, even if I didn’t show it.
“I love you and you love me.”
“No, Emi, you’re wrong. I nothing you.”
I hung up and reminded myself once again that it was the drugs talking.
My second conversation with him wasn’t any better. But by the third time we talked, almost ten days after he started rehab, his tone had changed. He seemed tired, but I could tell he was coming around.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hi.” His voice was low, soft, and distant.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“I’m tired. I’ve had a hard time sleeping, and my arm hurts pretty bad.” He took a deep breath. “They’re bringing in a physical therapy specialist to try to help me get it straightened out without drugs.”
“Oh, Trevor, I’m so glad to hear that. I want nothing more than for you to feel strong again.”
“Thanks, Emi. Can I call you in a couple of days when I have more energy?”
“Sure. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
By the end of Trevor’s third week in rehab, I had written twenty thousand words basically chronicling my discovery of All the Roads Between, and how I’d found Jase at the bookstore. I had turned in ten thousand words to Professor James earlier in the month, and I was finally walking to his office to meet with him.
“Hello, sir.”
He grinned. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our resident memoirist.”
I swallowed. “That’s not what I had planned.”
“Have a seat.”
“I never really thought of it as a memoir,” I said as I sat down.
“You don’t need to hide behind anything, Emiline. You’ve got it all here. Have you settled back into work?”
“Yes. Thanks again for letting me take that time off. I really needed it.”
He leaned back in his leather chair and scratched his beard. “Finish this up. Once you’re ready, I can help you make the contacts you need to get this published.”
“Thank you, Professor. Do you really think it’s worthy?”
He answered slowly. “That remains to be seen. For now, just finish it.”
“I can’t thank you enough.” I stood and took the pages from him.
I wasn’t writing a true memoir—more like a roman à clef about a girl who discovers a book about a woman who discovers a book about what could have been, which sounded damn confusing, but it wasn’t. The catch was that I was her. I was all of those people. I was every possibility; I just had to decide how my story would end.
BY THE FOURTH week of rehab, I finally went to visit Trevor in person. It was time. I drove to the New Beginnings Facility by the Beach and waited to be checked in. There was a long hallway that led to the back pool and patio, which sat high on cliffs overlooking La Jolla.
One of the receptionists told me to go ahead and head toward the pool, where Trevor would be waiting, but as soon as I turned around, I saw him walking in my direction. He looked so different. He was thinner but looked strong, and his hair was cropped short. But the best part was that he was smiling his warm, proud Trevor smile. I ran to him. He held his arms out and caught me. I was hesitant about his throwing arm, but he held me so tight to his body that I actually whimpered.
“Oh fuck, I missed you,” he said.
I stepped back and scanned him. “Let me look at you. God, you look amazing, Trevor.”
“Thank you. I feel so much better. Let’s go hang out by the pool. Hey, do you want to stay and watch my therapy session today? It’s pretty cool. I’m using my arm a lot more.”
“Yeah, I would love to.”
He led me outside. We sat in lounge chairs and talked about his recovery and how well he was doing. He said he had talked to his old coach from Cal about an assistant coaching position for the next season, and it looked promising. We watched the ocean, and after a while, my mind wandered to Jase. To my left, there was a couple standing in a gazebo kissing. I realized Trevor and I hadn’t kissed yet.
I glanced over at him. He was smiling and tapping his foot to the soft jazz music they were pumping from the outdoor speakers. “How about you, Emi? How are you doing?”
“I’m good. I started writing again.”
“Oh.” His expression fell. “About what I said on the phone, I didn’t mean it at all. I hope you know that I think you’re a great writer.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“Actually, I do—it’s part of the deal here.” He took my hand and looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry.”
I smiled. “I forgive you.” And I did.
“Thank you. It means a lot to me.” He leaned back. “So, have you talked to Jase?”
“I have. We’re friends. We have a strange past with each other, and it’s kind of connected us all these years, but I made a promise to you. And I love you.”
He nodded and then looked down at his feet and frowned. “Do you have the time?” he said quietly.
I looked at my phone. “It’s three.”
“Okay, let’s head over to the gym for my therapy.” We didn’t say much as I followed him down a few long hallways. We entered a large room with weights and pads and several people bustling through, doing their workouts. A tall woman in her late twenties, with long blonde braided hair, came walking toward us. She bounced a little as she walked, and I could tell from her body that she was fit, even in her ill-fitting khaki pants and regulation polo. I looked at her and thought, She is a glass-half-full kind of person. I knew it before she even opened her mouth.
“Emiline, so nice to meet you. I’m Melissa.” She stuck her hand out. “Trevor speaks so highly of you.” We shook hands.
Smiling, I said, “Nice to meet you too.” What I really wanted to say was, Trevor’s never mentioned you, but she was so nice that I couldn’t be rude.
I glanced at Trevor and noticed he hadn’t taken his eyes off of Melissa. He wasn’t ogling her or staring at her breasts; I could just tell that she simply had his attention.
“Come on, we’ll start over here,” she said.
Trevor lifted weights and did mobility and range-of-motion exercises with her. Her hands were on him a lot though throughout the session. He seemed really proud of himself and happy.
“You can get to twenty, Trev,” she said as he lifted a small dumbbell above his head. When he hit twenty, she shouted, “See, I told you!” I clapped, but she seemed genuinely happy for him. They had accomplished something together. I noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding band, or even a tawdry promise ring.
After the session, they high-fived each other, and I thought that it seemed like the beginning of a nice friendship.
Back outside, near the pool, I said, “Do you like her? Melissa?”
“Yeah, she’s great. I wouldn’t be able to get through this without her.”
“That’s not really what I mean.”
He swallowed, and his smile faded. “What do you mean? I haven’t touched her, if that’s what you’re getting at. Not only would I not do that, but I’m sure it’s highly unacceptable behavior for a therapist to start cavorting with her rehab patients.”
“I’m not implying that either. I’m just wondering . . . if she wasn’t your physical therapist and you weren’t in recovery, would you . . .”
“There’s a spark, but that’s it.”
I stood up. “Can I hug you, Trevor?” He stood instantly and took me in his arms. I knew what was coming, and I knew it would hurt like hell, but I had to do it.
“What is it, Emi?”
I sniffled. “When you’re out of here in a week and you’re not in recovery and you’re not her patient, you should see about the spark.”
His arms tightened around me. “What are you talking about?”
“Trevor, I love you. I want to be in your life. I want to see you through this.” I stepped out of his embrace and looked up into his sympathetic eyes. “But you know that when you think of a wife, you don’t think of me.” He looked down at his shoes. “It’s okay,” I said. “This could be the best thing for us, after it stops being the worst.”
Stepping forward, he reached out and pulled me into his arms again and then buried his face in my neck. “I know you’re right. I read the book, you know. While you were away. I’ve never been jealous of him, really. I just didn’t want to see you hurt anymore. I care about you.”
“But you know we aren’t right for each other, right?”
He nodded. “I do.”
“Will we be friends?”
“You are my friend. Now. You brought me here and saved me, and I want you in my life too.”
He held my hand as he walked me to the front. Near the door, he bent, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Stick with it, number seventeen.” I socked him in the chest.
“’Bye, Emi.”
As I walked to my car, I said good-bye to Emi, the girl who begrudgingly went to frat parties and football games; the girl who pretended like everything was always okay while unenthusiastically teaching Intro to Writing classes; the girl with no past; the girl who wasn’t real and didn’t exist.
Once I got back to my apartment, I sat down and started writing.
