The messages started out innocent enough, but quickly skyrocketed in urgency.
Taylor: Camille.
Taylor: Camille, please answer me.
Taylor: I need to talk to you.
I couldn't answer him. And it wasn't because reengaging in communication with Taylor would only push me two steps back and pour more holes in my heart. Those things were probably true, but I literally couldn't answer him.
My fingers were covered in ketchup chip residueâwhich let me assure you, is absolutely delicious. I speak from experienceâand I'd rather not get the screen of my iPhone covered with the greasy red crumbs.
Taylor had given up calling me a few days ago, but he never failed to send a text message or two daily. At best, his behaviour was insane, because he was doing the same thing over and over with the same result. No response from me. At worst, though, you could argue that he was harassing me because of the whole persistent, never leaving me alone aspect of it. But didn't the definition of harassment imply that the behaviour was unwanted? That, pathetically, was not the case for this situation. Just because I didn't answer Taylor didn't mean I wanted him to stop trying. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I saw those daily messages as daily reminders that Taylor still thought about me. Pathetic, right?
I was being greedy. I wanted him to give me a break and time to sort my feelings on my own but I also wanted to be on his mind.
Selfish.
With my phone sitting on my bed next to my laptop, I looked at these messages for an extra beat longer than usual. Maybe it was because a distractionâany distractionâwas more than welcomed. My task of the evening wasn't homework or my thesis, but it was definitely school-related.
More specifically: grad school related.
I had found out the day before that I had got accepted to the University of Toronto, which officially ended The Waiting Game. Now, I had to decide which school I actually wanted to go to, which was neither fun nor easy. (Even though I knew a good amount about all the programs when I applied to them, I wanted to make sure I had all the details covered now. Besides, when push came to shove and I had to actually think about attending these schools, things I thought I could overlook became huge red flags.)
And yeah, the whole process was anxiety inducing.
But maybe the real reason behind my extra attention to the messages was that they stood out from the others he had sent. They had a different vibe, a different flavour. Usually Taylor would just send a "How's it going?" or "I'm sorry, I really am," or "I'm an idiot and I love you." (Just kidding. He never sent that last one. I wish.) The point was, it never seemed like the world would end if I didn't respond. But these ones, though, made me feel like there was a fire nearby.
Taylor: Check your email and respond. Please.
What? Check my email? As soon as he said that, my phone pinged. I already had my email opened on my laptop, along with U of T and U of W's psychology department websites.
The bolded text of the only unread email stared at me, untouched and unread.
He sent me an email? Why would Taylor send me an email? Call me crazy, but I didn't even realize that hockey players used email.
Should I read it? I kind of had to read it, didn't I? I know Taylor said it was urgent, but it wasn't like I owed him anything, right?
How about this? How about I read it, and then decide what to do with it then? Maybe I'd reply or maybe I'd send it straight to the Trash.
From: taylorhudson27
Subject: Camille, please
Hey Camille,
This feels weird, emailing you. So, if you feel weird reading it, I'm sorry. (For that and for other things, but you already know about those.) Lawson gave me your email, I hope that's okay. Even if it's not, it won't change anything. Sorry. Again. I emailed you instead of texting you because what I have to say is kind of long, and I've already made it even longer with all the rambling. But whatever, I'm too lazy to go back and delete it all.
I'll keep this part short now, promise.
The Saints are coming to Winnipeg to play the Storm this Thursday. (You probably already knew that, because you're pretty much a hockey wizard. Sorry, saying things like this isn't keeping it short.) I need to see you. I really need to see you. I know I'm not your favourite person right now. To be honest, I'm not my favourite person either. But you're still mine. There's something important I need to tell you. Face to face.
Please. You know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.
Taylor
I read it once, then a second time, took a deep breath, and wrote a reply.
From: camille.riccardi
Subject: Taylor, please stop
Hi Taylor,
You're right. This does feel weird emailing you. I don't know, Taylor. I don't think seeing you in person right now is something I want. I do hope everything is okay with you. Really.
Camille
I felt like Jacob Black at the beginning of Eclipse, writing and rewriting his note to Bella. In the end, this was what I came up with. It was simple, but my thought process was anything but. If I had responded with how I really felt, it would have said, "Sure thing! Looking forward to it!".
Because apparently, I was all bark and no bite. Like a cat who can walk around acting bored and haughty but then get so excited over a stupid ball of yarn.
Taylor was my yarn. It didn't matter what I told myself about how I needed to get over him, that I needed space; it only took a prospective meeting to get my hopes up.
It took a lot of strength to tell him that I wouldn't be okay with seeing him. I almost didn't.
Not even a minute later, his response came through.
From: taylorhudson27
Subject: Please, please
Things are not okay.
It won't be long. From the time the game would end to the time I need to catch the plane, it'd be an hour, tops.
You have no idea how badly I need this right now. You, I mean. I need you.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Okay
The subject says it all.
From: taylorhudson27
Subject: Thank you!
I'll rent a car and come by after the game. I'll text you when I'm there. You won't even have to leave your house. I can't thank you enough.
Don't judge me. This wasn't about how strong I was anymore. This was about compassion and friendship. And you can say what you want about whether Taylor deserved it, but ultimately, he was a person I was in love with. And I didn't want to be the kind of person who turned down help to anyone who asked her, let alone those she loved.
Taylor said he wasn't okay. Do you know how scared that made me? Taylor was always okay. Even if he wasn't particularly good, he wasn't bad. He was that rare breed who could simultaneously criticize his performance and over-analyze every detail on the ice but still understand the big picture.
So if he said he wasn't okay, he wasn't okay.
After sending Taylor a quick email that consisted of the word "Okay," and that word alone, I got up from my bed. My heart was racing and I needed to pace. It was coping mechanism for a lot of situations. When I had too much energy. When I was nervous for an exam. When I was excited. And when I was scared shitless.
I took my empty chip bowl to the kitchen, so that my pacing would be more productive and less moronic. (Why did I even need a bowl? I ended up eating the entire bag, anyways.) Then I washed my hands to get the remaining residue off my fingers. Before I responded to the email, I had just licked them clean.
"Did you just eat the entire bag?" my dad asked.
He was sitting at the dining room table reading a men's magazine and I hadn't seen him.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I had been a near perfect child, teenager, and... whatever this stage of my life is called. He hardly had to discipline me, so he always pulls the Stern Parent act whenever I eat too much junk food.
"Yeah. I barely ate lunch, though."
He made a "humph" sound and I took that as my cue to go back to my room. I had bigger issues than consuming too many calories from ketchup fucking chips.
I had to make myself calm down. Thursday was two days away and I literally could not handle thinking about all the things that Taylor could possibly want to say. I'd go even crazier than I was at the current moment.
I opened Google and searched his name (minus the sex part, this time.) If it was something injury related, then reporters would know about it. Even if it was more of a personal matter, the media would still know. Th team would have to grant leave and call up another player to fill the roster spot, even though all that was shared was that it was a "personal matter." And that was all you got, nosy bastards.
Thankfully, I saw nothing of the kind. All the articles about himâand there were quite a fewâwere about his hockey stats. No injury, no leave, no scandal.
Oh, shit. I hadn't even thought about that. What if he had got caught drunk driving and gotten arrested? I wasn't sure why that was the first thing that popped into my mind. Taylor didn't drink, as far as I knew. Glad we established that.
The articles were reassuring. Whatever Taylor's issue was, it was clearly small enough to not interfere with hockey and personal enough that it didn't need to be broadcasted to the good people of Toronto.
Me.
I didn't give permission for my mind to think that thought, but obviously, it has a mind of its own.
Was I what Taylor was talking about? What had he said exactly? That things were not okay. Considering his messages were going unanswered and my chest was in physical pain more often than not, I would say that things between us were most definitely not okay.
Okay. So, then what? What did that mean?
What could Taylor have to say that was so important that he needed to say it to my face? He already apologized, both over text and back in Toronto. I hadn't said I had forgiven him, though. So perhaps he wasn't going to leave unless he knew I was feeling okay about the whole thing. If that was the case, he was going to miss the flight out of Winnipeg.
I didn't think that was unreasonable. I had spent these past few weeks trying to make myself okay. But this wasn't a rational matter. The heart didn't care all the reasons you gave it for why you should or shouldn't feel a certain way. It just... felt.
What if... No, I couldn't even think it. That probably wasn't it.
But then again, there wasn't any harm in thinking about it. Because if I do end up being right, then I can start healing that much quicker. And if I end up wrong, I'm still at the same place.
What if Taylor Hudson is going to get out of his car with a bouquet of flowers in his hand and admit that he was wrong? That he does have feelings for me. That he is in love with me. That he had to hurt me and live without me to figure it out, but he finally did, and isn't that the important thing?
Playing that movie in my head makes me giddy. I want it so badly. Of course I do. I'm still so in love with Taylor it hurts. If he tells me those three words (or four, depending if you count the "in"), then there's no telling what I could do. I know myself enough to know that I won't push him away or make him beg (intriguing idea, though) or demand that he's too late. I'd tell him I love him too. I'd let him kiss me and make love to me in my parents' basement. And then I'd tell my brother to drive the poor guy back to Toronto, or wherever his team is playing next.
The scene played in my internal theatre over the better part of the next forty-eight hours. I could barely concentrate on my classes on Thursday. Considering that I only had a few more classes until I graduated, I'm sure most of my classmates were in the same boat. Retyping my lecture notes kept me occupied until dinner but I still had four tortuous hours to go after that.
Good god.
Trying to work on school stuff would be pointless, so I read on my Kindle. I chose a story I had read before because I seriously doubted that I could process anything new. I could have watched the game with my dad in the living room but I was afraid that I'd blurt out that Taylor was going to come by after. My mom would probably question how I was feeling and I wanted to avoid questions right now. Because I don't think she'd be proud of the answers.
I knew the game ended because I heard my father go to bed. My heartbeat accelerated, sounding as loud as his footsteps.
I figured I had another hour to wait for Taylor, because he had to get dressed, talk to the media (short questions, people, he doesn't have all day), and then drive here.
Here.
My house.
Because he was coming here.
What if I threw up again? I was awfully nervous.
What if he seemed even more different from the last time he was in Winnipeg? What if he seems different to me, or if I seem different to him?
Imagine he comes all this way because he's convinced himself he loves me and then he sees me and is like, "Nah."
I'm nuts. Seriously bonkers.
Finallyâfinally!âI got a text from Taylor that he was turning onto my street. I pulled on my winter coat, hat, and boots because even though it was the middle of March, it was still freezing.
If I hadn't been expecting a car to pull into our driveway, I might have missed it. The headlights were off. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, but I ignored it. I already knew that he was here. I didn't need an electronic message to inform me of that fact.
I pulled my front door shut because the last thing I needed was my dad to wake up to use the washroom and find the door open.
That was the last thought I had before I opened the passenger side door of the rental car in my driveway and felt my mind go blank. I didn't think I remembered my own name in that moment, let alone the man's behind the wheel. But my body did.
As I sat in the plush seat, it sighed.
Finally. Taylor's here.
"Hi," he said.
My new favourite word.
"Hey," I squeaked.
I couldn't look at him right away. He was like the sun. A midnight sun.
"Camille, thanks for meeting me." His voice was low, the sound of a deep sigh.
"No probâ"
As I began to say the words I glanced at Taylor and I had to stop speaking. Because that one look on his face told me that "no problem" is a lie. Because that one look told me that he wasn't here to tell me he was in love with me.
And from that moment on, it felt like everything was in slow motion.
"Taylor, what's wrong?" I tried to contain the panic in my voice but I couldn't.
Why did I get the feeling that what he was about to tell me was worse than all the things I had imagined?
Because that feeling was correct.
"Uncle Mark died."
Stopped.
Everything stopped.
My brain didn't work. My mouth couldn't find words. I couldn't even lift my hand to put it on Taylor's arm.
Everything just stopped.
What the hell?
"Taylor, I...I'm so sorry," I whispered.
I wanted to cry but tears didn't fall. It was like my body knew that it had to be strong for Taylor.
He didn't say anything, but he nodded. I stared at him. Black hair curling out of the black toque. Shaved face with just a hint of stubble. Shadows under his eyes just worse than normal.
"How did he..." I let that sentence trail off, thinking better of it. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Slowly, Taylor nodded.
God. My heart broke. Differently this time, but just as painful.
"He died on Sunday. My mom didn't tell me until Tuesday, though. Heart attack."
"I'm so sorry."
I know that my words were useless, not at all helpful, yet I didn't know what else to say. As Taylor continued to speak, it was like he was in his own little world.
"He had had one a few months ago, but it was minor, whatever that means. I guess they call it that because he survived it. That was why he moved in with my parents. Doctors thought it would happen again and said he should be around people more often so they could help." A small choking sound came from Taylor's throat, which I realized a few seconds later was a sob. "Be around people who loved him."
"Taylor," I whispered, placing my hand on his bicep and giving a squeeze.
"I should have known that he moved in for a reason. He said everything was fine and I believed him! There was so much time I missed out on. Things I would have done if I had known..."
"Hey, listen," I said soothingly, cutting him off. "I was there when he told you, remember? He sounded so certain when he said it, so no one could blame you for not thinking anything of it. And his certainty tells me that he knew exactly what he was doing when he said that. Taylor, he didn't want you to know."
He shrugged. "I feel like I've been in a nightmare these past few days. Emailing you was the only sense of normalcy I've had."
I smiled weakly at the mention of our exchange. "Maybe the team can give you a few days off. Have they offered that? If not, I think you should ask."
"I haven't told the team yet. You're the only person I've told, Camille."
His dark eyes looked into mine when he said that second sentence.
Oh.
"Besides, there's no reason to take a few days off. My parents already took care of the cremation on Tuesday. Said that was what he asked for."
Wow. Mark really must have loved Taylor. He wanted to impact his life in good ways only. He didn't want even his death to be a nuisance for him. Still, Taylor might not see it that way.
"How do you feel about that?"
"Fine, I guess. Doesn't make a difference, does it?"
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded envelope.
"He had written this for me. My parents express-shipped it to me."
Taylor's hands were shaking slightly around it.
"What does it say?" I whispered.
Maybe it was personal and he wouldn't want to share. That was okay.
"I don't know. I haven't opened it yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I can't. Camille, I need you to."
Deep breath.
"Yeah, sure. Of course."
I took the envelope and studied it. It looked like it had been handled hundreds of time.
"I don't want to accidentally rip the paper. Do you have a key or a knife I could use?"
"Yeah."
Taylor reached for his key chain, removed a Swiss Army knife, and handed it to me.
"Thanks."
Nervously, I moved the blade across the top of the envelope. I could feel Taylor watching me and it was just such an emotional, pressure-filled moment. I was almost done and then... blood.
My hand slipped. The knife sliced into the other hand, which was holding the far side of the envelope.
"Shit," I mumbled.
I immediately pushed my finger into my mouth and the taste of blood overwhelmed my senses.
Oh god.
There was more blood than I had seen in the dark car.
"Let me see," Taylor said, reaching for the injured hand.
"I'm fine."
Taylor so did not need to be worrying about me in a time like this.
"Camille, you're bleeding. I need to see it."
His voice rang with authority so I stuck my hand out in front of him, frowning like a child. He flicked on a light in the car. Geez. That would have been helpful two minutes ago.
Blood continued to ooze out of the cut. I had to look away.
"I'm no doctor but you'll need a band-aid."
"I have some inside."
"Good."
"I'll put one on when I go in."
He looked at me like I was insane. Not insane, Taylor, just very clumsy.
"We should go in now," he insisted. "So that I can clean it and put it on properly."
Properly? It wasn't an intricate costume.
"That's oâ"
"Camille," he said, exasperated. "Please let me do this one thing for you."
"Fine."
I practically had to jog to keep up with him on the way to the front door. I placed a fingerâone that was not cutâon my lips.
If I was that concerned about making noise, I could have brought Taylor to the basement. But I only knew that we kept a small box of band-aids in the kitchen cabinet. I took after my mother in clumsiness.
Before Taylor could ask where the band-aids were, I pulled the box out and plopped it onto the counter. Seeing the box made me think of the condom box. I swallowed that down. It made me angry, and that was the last thing I needed to be feeling toward someone who was trying to help me. Someone whose beloved uncle just passed.
Gingerly, Taylor led my finger under the warm water running from the tap. When it hit my skin, I winced.
"That hurt? It's only water."
"Yes, it hurts!" I hissed.
Taylor mashed his lips, trying but failing to hide his amusement.
He grabbed a paper towel and covered the now clean finger, applying lots of pressure.
"How's that?"
"Fine."
There better not be a pulse point in that finger betraying my heart rate.
"I need to put the band-aid on but there's not enough light. Hop onto the counter so I at least won't have to bend down."
It was a tall counter for me to push my body onto by myself and Taylor must have guessed that, because he put his hands on my hips and lifted me.
Tingles.
Swoon.
"Okay, I'm going to need you to hold still," he murmured.
His forehead was so close to mine I could smell him. He smelled clean, like soap. And Taylor.
I watched him apply the band-aid like it was fascinating. It beat watching his face.
"All better now," he smiled.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
I thought the conversation would end there. Maybe we'd go back out to the car and Taylor would read the letter. Or maybe he'd go back and I'd stay here, because I probably served my purpose for his visit. Underneath the newly applied band-aid, I felt my blood boil. The shock of learning about Uncle Mark's death was slowly fading away, like raindrops evaporating on a windshield. I could see a whole lot clearer now.
And the realization that Taylor didn't come here to tell me loved me slapped me in the face.
I really was an idiot. Probably the stupidest person I knew.
Why couldn't I accept that Taylor just did not (I repeat: DID NOT) feel that way about me? Why did I continuously get my hopes up?
Sitting on the quartz countertop with Taylor standing in front of me, I realized that I was angry at him. I'm not sure what it said about me that I was mad at this boy who just told me his beloved uncle just passed. My mom would probably just say that it meant I cared about him, that I'm one of those people who can only truly get mad at the ones I loved. When it came to getting mad at others, I just cowered in the corner and cried.
Yeah, it doesn't make sense to me, either.
"Why didn't you tell me you got into U of T?"
Mmm?
Right, Taylor was still standing there. I almost forgot. Not. He was the size of the fridge and had a presence to match.
"How do you know that?"
"I asked Lawson," he said pointedly.
Like he was actually surprised that he hadn't heard the news from me.
"We haven't exactly been on speaking terms, Taylor."
"I've been trying..."
I gave him a look that shut him up. A superpower of mine.
"Never mind, that. Are you thinking of going there?"
I sighed. That was the million-dollar question. The more research I did on that program and the one in Winnipeg, the more one thing came crystal clear: if I stayed in Winnipeg, it would be because I was afraid to leave my family. Toronto offers the superior program by far. If both schools were located in Winnipeg and it was just a matter of comparing programs, I would go to Toronto's without hesitation.
I knew that meant that I had to go. I knew I would be letting myself down if I didn't. But not everyone in my family felt that way. When I told my parents that I was seriously considering Toronto, my dad just upped and went for a walk.
"I don't know. It's stressing me out right now. Sorry, I shouldn't--. I mean, I didn't mean--."
I let the words fall. I'm sure Taylor understood what I was trying to say, that my problem really wasn't a problem at all compared to his situation. Mine was an opportunity.
Taylor nodded.
"I'd be in Toronto."
"Yeah," I whispered.
We just looked at each other, all the forms of love and pain and heartbreak we each felt out in the open. I was staring into his eyes so I saw the exact moment his gaze shifted down. I saw his head tilt and felt his hands cradle my neck and jaw. Then he leaned in...
And I didn't stop it.
I didn't stop it.
Taylor kissed me, his bottom lip grazing my top one. And then he really kissed me. And I kissed him back. My mind took turns screaming "This is right!" and "This is wrong!" and I didn't know which one was correct.
And then he stopped.
He stopped because he saw my mother before I did.
Oh shit.
Terrified, I followed his gaze to the five-foot-four woman in navy blue pajamas and wild hair looking murderous. I gulped. We would have been better off if my dad found us.
"Go to bed, Camille," my mom said. "And Taylor, please leave."
I was about to object but I thought better of it. She really only knew Taylor as a hockey player who broke my heart. She didn't know about his uncle.
Taylor nodded at her and looked at me for the briefest of moments before he left the house.
I was still on the counter when my mom addressed me.
"I'll talk to you about this tomorrow, okay?"
I nodded, because what else was I supposed to do, flip her off? As soon as she was out of sight, I ran to the window in the living room.
But Taylor was already gone.