gardner st.

You thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you.

He may as well as have been dead. You wish he were dead. Had been wishing it since May, when he left without a goodbye. It’s just like him, to return with the changing of the leaves. 

He calls your name as he exits the taxi. You’ve been staring at him from the sidewalk, trying to affix your eyes to the reality of him. Here. As if no time has slipped through the cracks. It is comforting and horrifying all at once. The desire to abort this moment blares through your mind like a siren. 

He moves toward you, an effortless stride, and panic awakens your legs and you scramble to the front door of your building. With ungraceful limbs, you balance the paper bags in your arms, wrestling for the keys in your pocket. The bag with the eggs starts to tilt dangerously to the right and you await oncoming splatter of eggshells and yolk; a necessary sacrifice in your flight. 

But then there’s a hand that takes away the weight. You blink and find him close to your side. He’s flushed, strands of blonde hair loose in front of his eyes. He had always reminded you of a mix between David Bowie and Joel Kinneman, could imagine him clad in trench-coat noir, heavy rain and mystery swallowing you both into oblivion. A new tattoo peeks out from the collar of his shirt and you turn away before you stare for too long, fumbling the key into the lock. His presence was always like a crashing wave, unavoidable and fierce; his eyes a riptide, pulling you under into a depth of feelings, of colors you had never known. 

“Maggie,” he says as you push past into the hallway. The door nearly shuts him out, but he catches it with his foot. There’s a pained grunt from behind you, but still he follows you up the creaky spiral stairs to your second-floor apartments, limping slightly. “Maggie, I know you can hear me.” He’s impatient. Your lungs are searing. 

You place the bags in front of your apartment and shakily unlock the door with the lopsided twelve nailed to its peeling exterior. Your hand hovers over the knob, remember he’s holding one of your grocery bags captive. 

You turn back to him, ignore the eager look in his eyes that fall when you pluck the bag from his arms in a callous swipe. You cut him off from speaking. His voice alone is chipping at the walls you’ve spent five months rebuilding. 

You're shrinking into the bag, as you stumble away from him, almost use it as a shield between you both. You push your door open with a force that slams it hard into the wall, the sound echoing down the hall. It startles you both, and with red cheeks, you drag in your groceries, ignoring his halting words. You disappear behind your door without another word. 

Once inside, you listen for the sound of luggage rolling away, the click of a closed door. 

Slowly you pull off your shoes, tossing them on a random section of floor. They clatter against the wood, and you walk forward, leaving the grocery bags stranded without a second thought. 

Five months, you think to yourself, almost laugh. 

You flop on your bed and scream into a pillow. 

After a sad excuse for dinner, you curl up with a book and will the weekend to fade away into its pages. Instead, your mind wanders to him. The fact that he’s back. Walking around. Cooking dinner. Watching TV. Reading one of his god-awful paperbacks. 

You read the same paragraph twelve times before exasperation rattles you. You toss the closed book to the foot of your bed, watch it slide off and hit the floor. You decidedly stomp into the kitchen for some ginger tea. 

You bite your nails as the kettle warms. You wonder what he is up to you, cursing yourself for even caring. 

And like time seeping through drywall, you think back to how it used to be, how it started. The courteous smiles in the hallway. For the sake of your heart, it should’ve stayed that way. But fate intervened by a knock on your door, when he brought you misplaced envelopes from his mailbox. After that, courteous smiles turned to quiet hellos and how are yous. To genuine interest. Turned to distanced smalltalk, leaning against doorways. To budding friendship, crossing thresholds, sharing stories on sunken couches. To late-night get-togethers on haphazard balconies, ciders littering the countertops and laughter echoing into the Allston air. Useless chatter. Or deep, drunken dives into past and pain, forgotten by morning. A language all your own. 

Maybe you let him in because of the ease in knowing he didn’t think of you as anything more. Figured that no matter how close you got to him, it was like you never met. You told yourself it didn’t bother you when he started offhandedly talking about the girls he was dating; the artist, the coder, the rock climber, the professor. You’d listen for the rusted moan of his door each time he brought someone new to his place. Awkwardly walked down the hallway as they kissed in front of his door; a stolen glance at his hands on their waist, their back, or tangled in their hair. Rolled your eyes when he called them “babe.” Ignored the twist in your stomach. 

You could see why all the girls fawned over him, like a moth to flame; a beautiful concoction of danger and poetry. He always had a paperback rolled up in his back pocket—you used this as a reminder of why a relationship with him would never work. You were proud of yourself for not being the same, like you were some evolved creature that could fend off his charm. 

But deep down you knew you’d ruin yourself just as easily to remain his friend. 

You could only go so long before some invisible string kept pulling you to him, a pang in your ribs each time he looked at you. He was yours to lose. 

And slowly, very slowly, the world began to tilt, until one night, underneath a rare, dotted night sky, you seemingly lost it all. 

You remember it clearly, bitterly. Could hear yourself playfully arguing with him about a show that you’d been watching together, challenging theories to make him more flustered. 

Lo-fi melted through thin apartment walls. From the balcony, you could look into other apartment windows. A mother cooking at the stove with a child on her hip. A young student studying at his desk, occasionally looking up the ceiling; a crowd of people were flooding into the apartment above. 

You don’t remember when he had stopped talking. Knew something was wrong by the way his forefinger plucked at the tab of his cider can. A soft, metallic cling cut into the air between you. 

After a long silence, he asked you if you’d ever felt lost in your life. 

Who doesn’t, you offered. 

He just nodded, taking a long swig of his cider. Had you given the wrong response? 

You opened your mouth to save face, but his voice barreled over your own. I think I’ve been lost my whole life. He looked unhinged, like a facade was caving in. He ran his hand through his hair. A breath before truth. Cassie broke up with me. 

You weren’t expecting this. You’d been with him through breakups before; but the look in his eyes—it was different. You’d never seen him so pained. 

When? you asked, realizing she hadn’t been over his apartment in a few weeks. 

He exhaled. A month ago. 

He waited a month to tell you; not that he had any obligation to. Still, you fought the punch to the gut. What happened? All you could do was ask questions, stay neutral. 

He explained it to you in detail, but you hadn’t really listened. Instead, you watched his hands as he talked, denial edging his words. 

It was a dance; him spilling out his heartache and you scooping up the pieces. 

I just wish I could find someone, he said eventually. 

You resisted, then, the temptation to pull apart the thread between you both. The question burned in your throat. If things were different, could he find someone in you?

Instead, you bit back at him in a walled critique, You’re chasing a fantasy. You regretted the words the moment they slithered out from your lips. 

So what if I am? He sounded angry. The tab broke off from his can, falling through the holes in the balcony. 

You rolled your eyes. Obviously, the method isn’t working. 

At least I try, he snapped back, a nod to your own dating life. 

I try, you counter unconvincingly. 

He scoffed. When’s the last time you even went on a date? 

No one interesting has come along, you answered, shrugging. 

You wouldn’t even give them a chance if they did. 

What’s that supposed to mean? You turned to him, surprised by the comment. 

I’m not the only one waiting on a fantasy. 

You began to pick angrily at the rusted metal. 

You ignore every guy that walks up to you at Great Scott. 

I don’t go there to meet someone. 

You’re not giving yourself a lot of options, Maggie. 

I have options. I’m just more patient than you. 

No, you just have impossible standards. 

You laughed, it was an ugly sound. You want to talk about standards? That’s rich. 

What’s so wrong about them? he asked. 

I don’t know, you lied. You wondered why he even cared. 

Bullshit. 

Stop being an ass and let’s talk about something else. Please. 

No, I know when you’re lying to me. His eyes landed on your fingers, still peeling at the rust. 

You hated how adamant he was; his persistence was grating. Figured it was the alcohol talking; knew it was his way of deflecting his own grief. You didn’t ask to be an excavation site. 

We’re done here. You got up to leave. You made to crawl through the window into your kitchen, but he caught you by the wrist. 

I don’t get what the big deal is, he said, standing as well. You felt trapped with him on the small balcony; angered and frightened like a cornered feline. 

You yanked your wrist from his hand. Just let it go, okay? I don’t give a shit about those guys and never will. They’re boring and they… they’re… Your mouth was going dry. Your mind felt dizzied. 

They’re what? 

You looked at him. Really looked at him. And you felt something open inside of you, against your better judgment, ripped open like a seam in the sky. 

They’re not you. You expected the words to come out in a breath, like dust blown off an ancient tome. But they were firm, final. 

It was like you shot him. 

You watched him stagger back. Watched as he grasped at straws, attempting to piece together your three words. 

You knew everything was dead then. Spoiled rotten. 

He had no words in return for you. His silence was earth shattering. 

He left you on the balcony, your shoulders brushing as he left. You merely stared at the ground, wishing it would swallow you up. 

And the next day he was gone.

You had to hear it from a neighbor when you knocked on his door a week later, a fresh paperback book in your hands—a peace offering. A desire to go back to what was. 

Another week passed, a month, then two. Slowly, he became dead to you, only appearing in dreams and then not at all. You watched the mail pile up and cascade out of his mailbox. You never hated a person more than him; not for what he did, but how he made you feel. 

And so you began to build up a wall between you and the boy in apartment 12A, to protect you from his crashing waves, should they ever return. 

The screaming tea kettle pulls you back to the present. Most of the water has boiled away, but there’s still enough for a small cup. 

You walk to the couch, cradle the mug in your cold fingers. You feel an inexplicable sadness. You blow soft ripples into the hot liquid. All this time, and you still wish he sat next to you, talking to you until sleep threatened to stop the conversation. 

A quiet knock startles you and you nearly spill tea all over yourself. You go still, collect yourself, and beg to question whether it’s him. Then second guess it. 

Still, you rise with shaking knees from the couch, placing the tea mug on the coffee table. You straighten your shirt and head to the door. Reaching up on your tiptoes, you peek through the little glass circle. 

And there he is.

You fight the thrill in your heart, settle it with bitter memories. 

He raises his hand to knock again and you pull open the door. 

He’s noticeably startled that you’re in front of him, arm still raised to knock. He lets it down awkwardly, doesn’t know where to put his hands. Stuffs them in his pockets. 

“What?” you ask, folding your arms over your chest, trying to look intimidating. 

“I need to talk to you,” he says, putting a hand to the doorframe. He’s absentmindedly peeling at the paint, looking down at you. 

“Maybe I don’t want to,” you say, turning up your nose to him. 

“You opened the door, Mags,” he says, and you can see a cautious smile tug at his mouth. 

You glare at him. 

“Just give me five minutes of your time.”

You study his face, question whether he should be let in. There’s a part of you that wants to hear what he has to say. If anything, it could give you closure.

“Fine,” you say stiffly, waving him in. You sit on the couch, curling the mug back into your hands. He moves to sit next to you, but you merely point to the small chair across the room. There is no way in hell you are allowing his magnitude anywhere close to you. 

He sits, taking a long second looking at the walls around him. “I missed this apartment,” he says, eyebrows knitting together. There's sadness in his words. “Still smells like ginger.” 

“Why are you here, Eli?” You haven’t taken a sip of tea. 

He looks at you, swallows. “I want to explain myself.”

“What makes you think I care?” You’re scrambling to mortar together defensive bricks in your mind. 

“You did once,” he says, and you both grow silent. 

You look down at the liquid swirling in your cup. 

He takes your silence, his words pouring out in cautious steps. Says he left to find himself. Cassie had ruined him; scattered parts of him he never thought could break. Called him a fool, blind; that she wasn’t enough to occupy his thoughts. He didn’t know how to handle it; allowed himself to become a godforsaken mess over her words. Until all he could do was run. Run away and keep running. However long it took to feel right again. To not feel so lost, to not feel so cut open. He purchased a plane ticket to a European country. No other plans, not even a return ticket. 

He found himself unable to tell you this for a whole month, scared of how’d you react to his decision. He didn’t want your judgment to get in the way. Says your eyes can be like daggers at times. He had been wounded enough as it was. 

He planned to tell you that night on the balcony. It was the night before he got on a plane at Logan. He hoped to drown it in cider, but the conversation went wrong. Says he’d never been so terrified in his life, hearing your words spill out to him. And so he ran. Away from it all. 

“But I regret leaving you on that balcony.” 

Your nails are scraping at the ceramic of the lukewarm teacup, fighting tears. You knew he wasn’t sorry for leaving, only sorry for leaving on a bad note. 

He says he was confused, thrown off by the reality of it—and by how it all, in its twisted way, made too much sense and ruined everything at the same time. And traveling somewhere new, where no one knew him, where he could be alone with his thoughts, seemed about the only chance he had to sort out a life without a compass.

But then he tells you, that even in a quest to find himself, he couldn’t stop thinking of you. That even miles apart, your influence was palpable. That watching the world from balconies alone just wasn’t the same. That he came to realize that the someone he’d always been looking for, had been you. And it was a slap to the face. 

So he returned on a foolish hope that he could see if these feelings were more than a dream-fueled hoax. 

Eli is in front of you now. Somehow he had moved to your side on the couch, gently taking the teacup from your fingers, putting it aside. 

You can feel his hands hold your own; their warmth melts away your fears. You look up into his eyes. “I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up,” he says, voice breaking. 

You collapse into him. Your fist beats weakly into his chest until his arms envelop you. You breathe him in. “I hate you,” you say in a whisper, holding him closer. 

He laughs against your hair. You can feel it rumble through his chest. 

And you let the tide pull you to him.