Theresa Paolo - (Never) Again

But when I called him, it went straight to voicemail. I left a message and Dad’s cell number so he could call me back, and then I called Sadie.

“Oh my God, Liz! I’ve been trying to reach you! Why didn’t you answer your phone? You didn’t leave a note either. And there was a shooting at Josh’s school. Is that why you didn’t come home?” Sadie babbled on. I tried to stop her, but every time I went to say something she continued. “Is Josh okay? Did he get shot? Oh my God, he’s not dead right?”

“Sadie!” I finally yelled. “He’s fine. He got shot in the leg but he’s okay. He was lucky. Really lucky.”

“Holy shit, Liz. Where are you?” she asked.

“I’m at the hospital. I’ve been here since last night.”

“Why didn’t you call me? Wait for me to get home? I could have driven you. Are you crazy for driving by yourself?”

“I wasn’t by myself,” I said hesitantly.

“You weren’t? Did Professor Mulligan go with you?”

“No.”

“Then who?” she asked.

“Zach,” I said, taking my volume down several notches.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” I didn’t have to explain anything to Sadie. That’s why she was my best friend. She could read between the lines even if I didn’t give her lines to work with.

“Did anything happen?” she asked, and I went into the whole story, from the moment he showed up on my doorstep to the moment I discovered his missing Jeep.

“So what are you going to do?” she asked when I finished filling her in.

“What can I do? I’m with Joe now, and I’m happy. I can’t just let him go because my past came back.”

Sadie was silent, and I didn’t need to see her to know she had an opinion she was trying to keep to herself.

“What is it, Sades? And don’t tell me nothing, because I know you’ll be lying.”

“Look, Liz, I love you and I want to see you happy, but Joe’s not always as great as you think he is. I feel like you’re just scared to get your heart broken again, so you let him walk all over you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? You know what—don’t answer that. Think about it. We’ll talk when you get home. Tell Josh I said hi and to feel better.”

“Okay, I will.”

We hung up and I stood in the waiting room, thinking about what she’d said, trying to find the truth in her words. Eventually I gave up and went back to Josh’s room.

“Great news, sweetie,” Mom said as I entered. “They’re moving Josh out of ICU and into a regular room within the hour.”

“That’s awesome,” I said.

“Josh wants Chinese, so I’m going to pick it up. You want to come?” Dad asked.

“Sure,” I would do anything to get away from the hospital for a little bit. “What’s wrong with the food they gave you?”

“They’re trying to kill me, that’s what,” Josh said, and I cringed at the word “kill.” “It’s disgusting.” He lifted his fork and let what I assumed was gravy drip down in globs to the plate below.

“On that note, let’s get going,” Dad said. I followed him out of the room.

He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close to him. “You did good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Handling everything. Your mother and I weren’t here, but you took care of things anyways. You’re all grown up. You had everything under control. We’re proud of you,” he said, and I felt guilty because it was a lie. I hadn’t really handled anything. I wasn’t grown up. I was still a little girl, who covered it up with college classes and an apartment.

“Thanks Dad, but honestly it was mainly Zach.” I couldn’t lie to Dad. I had to tell him—if not for the honesty, for the fatherly support I needed so badly in that moment. “If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably still be sitting on the couch at home staring at the TV with milk dripping down my face.” He laughed.

“I’m sure he got you off the couch, but after that it was all you. You didn’t have to come here and face reality, but you did. And you did that on your own. As for Zach . . . where did he go anyway? I wanted to thank him for everything.”

“It was just time for him to go home.”

I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I smelled the aromas of chicken and broccoli and fried rice. As soon as we got to Josh’s new room and Dad opened the bag, my stomach growled in response.

He handed out containers to everyone, and we all gathered around Josh’s bed and listened to the story of what he went through that day in the hallway of the science building.

I had been avoiding the topic. I didn’t want to know what he went through or what he felt. The thought of it alone terrified me—I didn’t need the actual details. But with my parents on either side, I felt like I was finally ready to hear it, and Josh was ready to tell it.

The last time I saw Josh cry was when he was eight and he fell off his bike. That day in the hospital room I saw him cry again for the first time in over a decade.

He talked about the girl who died beside him as he tried to keep her conscious with words of hope. He cried when he spoke of her last breath, and how she would never see her mom again. I wondered if the lady who collapsed in the hospital was her mother. It made my tumultuous last twenty-four hours seem petty.

Tears stained his cheeks. Mom took his hand in hers as Dad and I listened to every word. I learned that day crying doesn’t show weakness. There is no weakness in emotion. There’s love and hurt and regret, but not weakness.

“Anyway.” Josh wiped at his eyes. “I’m ready to put this behind me and move forward. I think I might come home for a little bit. I don’t think I could go back to that campus.”

“And you don’t have to,” Mom said. “Your bedroom is always waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“I think this calls for fortune cookies,” Dad said and tossed one to each of us.

I popped the plastic open and took out the yellow cookie and cracked it in two.

I listened as everyone read their fortune, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of mine.

“Liz, what does yours say?” my mom asked.

I looked up, meeting her eyes, then looked back down at the small strip of paper in my hand and read.

“May the dreams of your past be the reality of your future.”

Josh was shot Monday afternoon. He went home Thursday night with an appointment for a follow-up and a scheduled time with a physical therapist. They pushed him out in a wheelchair and handed him crutches. And just like that, life started to go back to normal.

Mom fussed over Josh on every step from the hospital to the car and then from the car to the couch, which would be his bed for the next couple of weeks until he was capable of getting up the stairs.

I stayed at my parents’ the first night, not wanting to let Josh out of my sight just yet. Then it would be back to my life. I’d already missed so much school.

When I woke up tomorrow I would have to go to class and face Zach. I couldn’t sleep.

I wandered into the kitchen and looked into the cabinet farthest from the fridge. All of my baking supplies were still there. Mom never threw them out. Maybe she had hope that one day I would get over whatever held me back. Or maybe she just forgot they were there.

Not only did I bake when I was upset—I also baked when I was confused, when I was happy, when I just wanted a chocolate chip cookie. And as my hand ran across the packages of flour and brown sugar, I got the urge to bake again.

I reached for the mixing bowl Mom had gotten me for my fourteenth birthday and started adding the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. A smile began to form as I cracked the first egg, and it only continued to grow with each ingredient I added to the mix.