Page 157 of Only After We Met

Subject: Even if you don’t read this

He’s going to die. There’s no way forward. And I’m paralyzed. I shouldn’t still love him so much, should I? I shouldn’t. Not after everything he said. Those words still hurt. That was one of the hardest moments of my life, coming back after leaving my mother when I found out I was adopted, even though that was the moment she needed me most. I came back, and he…he told me:Obviously some things run in the blood.I hated him. I don’t know how to explain how badly that hurt me, at a moment when I felt more lost than ever, not knowing who I was or where I came from. And there was more. He told me he’d never wanted to adopt, that he only agreed to because my mother couldn’t have kids and he couldn’t stand seeing her so alone. We came to blows. He was the person I loved most in the world, even more than her, but in one second, it all crumbled. It just went toshit. All those days I waited for him by the door just to see him come home from work. The way I always used to try to imitate him. Sundays, trying to impress him. The hours we spent putting together all those goddamn models…

I realized in that moment that my whole life, my whole childhood, was a lie. I’ve thought it over many, many times as the years have passed…and I can’t believe he was just that good a faker. I can’t. Because he was a good father. Proud, sure. We had that in common. But still…for a long time, it hurt me even to talk about him. My mother told me at some point he wanted to see me, just to clear things up, but I couldn’t, Ginger. I feel like with him I just turn back into a boy incapable of protecting himself.

I don’t know… I can’t even think.

I wish I could explain myself better.

But you’re not even going to read this.

I always knew I’d make the same mistakes as him if I became a father. Pride. Wounding others because I couldn’t stand to be hurt myself. Not being able to untangle my emotions. That’s why I could never see him again, even though he asked me to. He told my mother he wants me to come home, Ginger. To say goodbye to him. And I’m not ready. To see him, to accept that he’s going to die. I can’t, after all this time. Because it still hurts.

Goddammit. I need another drink. Just one more.

From: Rhys Baker

To: Ginger Davies

Subject: Even if you don’t read this

I understood today, Ginger. All at once, like one of those revelations that comes to you when you least expect it. I was lying on the sofa. Not lying—splayed out. In the same position I flopped down in. I was looking at the ceiling as the sun rose on the other side of the window, and everything was spinning around me. I was trying to decide whether to have another drink or puke. And then it hit me. I’m the rose.

I never was the Little Prince or the narrator, and definitely not the fox. No. I was the fucking rose. Fickle, selfish, proud, full of thorns. And you spent years watering me and caring for me even though sometimes I pricked you when you got too close. And you don’t know how much I regret it, Ginger. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry I hurt myself. I’m sorry I didn’t know how to do things differently. I’m sorry I’m a disaster. If you ever read this, I want you to know I understand why you had to get away from me when you realized the world was full of rosebushes full of flowers and that actually I was never special.

98

Rhys

A person gets used to being lost. It’s like wandering through space, floating in the void. At first it upsets you, you scramble to find solid ground, to find yourself, but at some point the vertigo goes away and you think,Well, it’s not so bad living in the immense dark emptiness. You can close your eyes, forget what it felt like to be anchored to something, to someone, to the world.

You can simply stop being.

99

Ginger

I managed to get my phone out of my gigantic bag, almost juggling it. I picked up as I was pushing aside the curtains of the old kitchen, done in a very charming vintage style. I looked out onto St. Ives Bay just as the unknown voice uttered something in Spanish, in loose phrases, a bit of which I was able to grasp:

“Es usted familiar de Rhys Baker?”

“Excuse me? Are you asking…”

“Espere un momento.”

“Hello?” I looked at the phone.

A second later, another voice came on. “Am I speaking with Ginger Davies?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

I had a bad feeling as I heard the woman draw in a breath, speaking English with a strong Spanish accent in a neutral but delicate tone…

“The patient had you in his phone as his emergency contact. He’s at Can Misses Hospital. He fell into an alcoholic coma.”

I gripped the wooden counter, feeling my legs shake. Myheart… I felt him in my heart. It was beating strong, loud, erratically.

My heart…always making decisions for me.