"Happy Anniversary, Sunshine"

There I was, Interstate 89. Too far from Boston to beat the rain, too close to stop for the night. The escalating tension of my heartbeat as my hands wrapped around the steering wheel a little tighter. I had to get to the city as soon as possible. I knew she would still be there, even after all of this she would still be there.

The phone call was as out of the blue as the sudden storm cascading across my windshield on this June afternoon.

“You have a tiring personality. I don’t know what else to say, Nate.”

I felt the rain of closure’s finality in her words. The way those words wiped the smile off my face like rain off this windshield. Would she still be there? I pushed that thought from my mind as soon as it appeared. This would work; it would have to. We just have to fix it.

I tapped the screen one more time, catching my breath through the thirty-second countdown to the sound of a robotic woman’s cold voice. The lifeless voice telling me that my call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system.

“Why would you even want to keep doing this?”

The message flickered onto my screen as soon as I hung up. I became taken aback. Had she finally replied? I found myself elated at her disheartening response. The dopamine coursing through my brain, numbing me to the crushing weight of her words. Clumsily shifting my focus from the road in front of me to the screen, tapping with one thumb frantically. Catching my breath as I catch the car from swerving over the white line into the lane beside me.

“You told me you want this to work. I believe in it.” I replied.

For five minutes that felt like hours, I kept rolling down the interstate. Occasionally stepping tighter to the gas pedal when the rain let up slightly. Pulling off the gas when it would pound the car once more, trying to get a few inches closer to Boston—to her.

“We’re different people now. I don’t think it’s gonna work. I’ve said this before.”

The reply finally came through. I did my best to thumb out a reply with one hand, to no avail. There was simply too much to say, more than one thumb could manage.

“Call me” I typed out.

“No.” Her reply immediately returned.

At least she was replying quickly. Three dots at the bottom of the screen. Breathless with anticipation. What would she say next? My heart was racing. I couldn’t contain myself. How could five years all culminate in a hostile text thread? I clung to every memory held close to my heart. All the trips out west, Vegas, Seattle, even San Francisco? Holding each other, watching the sun come up over the Mojave desert's boundless expanse. Nothing more than a memory now. Every night we spent together just thrown away at the hands of a merciless, oddly cruel heel turn. It felt so sudden. Was it the move to Boston? She was excited about her new job. She was excited for me to come with her! Or so I thought? If that wasn’t true, what else wasn’t true?

My thoughts rushed as fast as the rain against the windshield. The car careening down the interstate; the gauge hit seventy-five, eighty, eighty-five. My thoughts raced as quickly; how much was she holding back this whole time? I watched the patches of blue try to push through the murky gray skies above, to no avail. Focusing on anything to escape the urgency of the question lingering in my mind.

“Is there somebody else?”

I text impulsively. Releasing the thought. The three dots at the bottom of the screen disappear. Just the empty space inside this car, as I’m staring at the LED coffin of our relationship. Instantly, a paragraph appears.

“Look, this has been a long time coming. You not noticing shows me just how little attention you were really paying to me, or even us, at all. You constantly fixate on things that don’t matter. I was right here. You didn’t try. You’ve visited me once this month, just to help me move in. I am four hours away from you. What is wrong with you? Did you not think I’d want to see you a bit more than that? You call; tell me you love me. It’s bullshit. I already know you’re probably going to ‘surprise’ me and show up here. Don’t bother. Too little too late. I’m sorry if this seems ‘sudden’ to you, I guess.” She wrote.

It’s amazing how somebody can act like they know you so well, yet still play strangers with you. I had no clue. I thought we had a great time when she moved in. I mean, we went out to Copley Place, had drinks, held hands, walked for hours, taking it all in. Letting the snow fall across our faces as we locked eyes in the middle of the city. We talked about our plans, how excited we were to be living there together soon. Everything was perfect; or so I assumed. The thoughts flood my brain, the gas pedal closer to the floor with every remembrance. I just needed a couple of months to wrap up my life back in Vermont. How could she throw all of this in my face? Pushing the car faster, trying to freeze time with speed. I’m working, I’m busy, I would have loved to go see her. There was no time—there’s never any time!

The flash on the screen breaks my focus once more.

“Seeing somebody else? What the fuck?” I saw in her words that this wasn’t defensive indignation. I pissed her off with a stupid question. Those six words conveyed a palpable anger. I messed up. I just have to fix this.

“I’m just trying to make sense of this. I didn’t mean for it to be that way. I mean, if you are, I’d rather know than not know.” I clumsily piece my response together, salvaging the mess I just made. My left hand banging on the steering wheel in frustration.

The question wasn't unfounded; she would talk about this guy she worked with over there. Employee outings where he shows up, he does something funny; he helps her with a project. ‘Oh, but he likes my coworker, this girl Kendall.’ So much for that line of shit. The more I thought about it, the more it became real. Until I reach the inescapable conclusion that this is the case. She is seeing this man. Their torrid love affair in my thoughts had him pressing her back to the walls of my imagination. There is no other explanation. How? Could it be my fault? I tried so hard; this is the only conclusion that makes this make sense.

The dinging of my phone heralds her next statement via text.

“You’re seriously doubling down? Is it that hard to believe I just might want to work on things by myself? Maybe this all has more to do with me than anything else?” She questioned.

“Why can’t we work on things together? I don’t even get a chance?” I typed my retort.

“I’ve given you, like, five chances!” She hit back.

Five? That’s fucking ridiculous. We’ve had our rough patches, but how is she counting five chances? What does that even mean? I couldn’t bear the thought of asking her those questions, so I asked myself instead. Two days ago, she said the sound of my voice felt like home. Surely that feeling can’t evaporate in forty-eight hours! I can still fix this, right? She said she wanted to feel my hair between her fingertips; she wanted to see my face staring back at her when she opened her eyes in the morning. She told me I’d always be her favorite. She knew she was my favorite. The sweat dripped down my hands, clenched even tighter to the steering wheel. My mind clutching tighter than that to a glimmer of hope for reconciliation. My body almost shaking from trying to hold back the tears I felt in the corners of my eyes. I refuse to cry. It’s not happening. This isn’t over. The cuts of our words bandaged by the touch of our hands reaching for one another. Stitching the wounds with a slow kiss on the sidewalk under a halo of headlights. Emotional surgery in every pull from her to me and back again. It'll be alright.

The phone buzzes once more. I can barely bring myself to read her newest message.

“Look, I realize you love me a lot. I’m sure this is painful for you. I’m sorry.” She offered.

That text was as cold as the air conditioner blowing against the sweat of my skin. The unassuming maliciousness of her indifference in every letter.

I watched the trees zip along the roadway, flooring the gas pedal into the storm. Painful for me? How is it not painful for you? Has it been this obvious the whole time? I can’t believe that text message. Like I’m the only person who kept this whole thing going? I’m just moving to Boston in a month because I’m friggin’ delusional. Yeah. That makes total sense. Every text just feels like she’s trying to write herself out of our story.

I need the car to move faster, just like the rhythmic pounding of my heart trying to burst through my chest. If I can just get face to face with her, it’ll be okay. She can be cold over the phone, but she can never keep it up when we’re in the same room. That must mean something, right? I know she misses me; that’s all this is right now. She’s panicking the same way I am right now; it’s just reading as cold because it’s a text message.

I remember in Copley Place when she moved in. Her hands were trembling when we talked about the two months we’d be spending apart. I told her it would fly by; she wasn’t so cavalier about it. There was a nervousness in her touch that day, but her kiss was as inviting, as passionate as ever. That’s how we told each other we’d get through. That kiss said it all. Was her nervous energy from the inner knowing that this was coming? The return of my spiraling thought process brought a flood of anxious clicking of my teeth, clenching of my fingertips only to release my grip when I angrily hit the mute button on the car radio. Exuding frustration. We have to fix this—we always fix it.

“How can you be so cold about it?” I type the letters, almost manic.

“I’m not. I just didn't want to leave room for any confusion.” She texted back with freakish speed.

The confusion had more than a little room; it had taken up residence in my soul. I didn’t know what to say anymore. It’s like walking into a wall where a door used to be. What was the point of all these years? Is that just the end, a few text messages, one bitter, quiet phone conversation? That glowing brick in my cupholder kept us so connected, laughing, even kept us in love for the last month. Now I wish her name wouldn’t flash across the screen. Every time it does, I somehow end up feeling worse. It kills me a little more with every word, every buzz of the notification. I can’t take it anymore.

I pick up the phone, tap her name, and the thirty-second timer begins anew. Something in my gut, my soul, told me she would pick up this time. It hits the voicemail. I tap again, waiting anxiously, knowing how pathetic it is to call somebody twice in a row. The desperation of my foot on the gas pedal, the helplessness of another hundred miles to go. Feeling my thoughts fly through my mind as fast as the scenery outside this car disappears into the rear-view mirror. The ringing stops abruptly. There's stillness.

“Hello.” She said curtly.

“Hey.” I stammered.

“What’s up?” She asked.

“Uh—I don’t know. I didn’t expect to get this far.” I tried to get a laugh.

“Why call then?” She asked plainly.

I thought about it. It was a good question, why call? I ruminated for seconds that held eternity in their endlessness. There was no good answer to that question. If there was, it wouldn’t even need to be asked. If she felt how I felt in this moment, she wouldn’t have asked me that. It’s the end of the road, even with another hundred miles to go. I knew the only good answer to that question would be to turn the car around, cutting my losses. But her words, still, they hung in the air. The seconds ticking away across the front of the screen shining up at me. Every second that passes becomes an engraving of the inevitable on a necklace I'll never give her for an anniversary we won't celebrate. The more I contemplated it, the more I knew—I accepted the answer. I was staring at a dead end, hoping for a through-lane. The phone sat on the console, her cold, empty breath hanging on the other end of the line. All of this encompassed in one word that made my day and broke my heart all at once when it left her lips:

“Hello?”

END