EVEN IF YOU DON’T
RUE
Eli woke up at dawn, cursed softly, and gently disentangled from me.
I didn’t pretend to be dead to the world, but made the semiconscious choice to keep my eyes closed and drift back to sleep. The last thing I remembered was his weight dipping the edge of the mattress. He lingered, perhaps looking at me. Then he pushed a strand of hair behind my ear and leaned forward to gently kiss my forehead. Tired, comfortable, maybe even a little happy, I dozed off once again, lulled by the rustle of Eli pulling his clothes back on.
I didn’t wake up until several hours later, when I stumbled into the kitchen and pawed around for a mug and the coffee maker, then stopped in my tracks when I spotted the note, written on my latest unopened IRA envelope.
He’d circled my middle name on the address box (Chastity, the bane of my already plenty-baned existence), and placed three exclamation points on its right, which made my eyes roll and my lips curve. Underneath, he’d written:
Call me if you need me.
And then, right below, scribbled more hastily, as though he’d decided to add something when he was already halfway out of the door:
Call me even if you don’t.
My heart thumped, and I allowed myself to think about the previous night. I waited for the shame to catch up and crash into me, a wave of pure mortification, but it never came. I’d told Eli my worst story. And he didn’t seem to care.
A magnetic pen that read kline in blue letters and usually resided on my fridge sat next to the envelope, reminding me of what I’d have to do today.
I called in to work again, this time to take a day off. I got dressed for the record heat, grabbed my car keys, and headed out.
