The Open Door - Sean and Kaycee

26. One Last Time

Sean

Two weeks later.

I'm sitting in the café by myself, listening to the clock ticking in the corner. Tick-tock-tick-tock. It keeps a relentlessly constant beat even as my heart pulsates faster and faster. I drum my fingers on the wooden table, just so that my hand is doing something. Beneath the table, my foot is tapping restlessly. Together, the sounds and the rhythms create a cacophonous orchestra of anxiety that clouds my head. But beneath it all is just one tiny, nerve-wracking thought.

What if she doesn't come?

I wouldn't blame her if she didn't. After she told me the truth about what had happened to her, we were repelled by each other, like two magnets with the same charge. In class, we stayed on the opposite ends of the room. She wouldn't meet my eye.

I don't know why I didn't try to talk to her. Maybe I was too scared. Scared that I would say the wrong thing and it would shatter her into a million pieces.

But she's leaving tomorrow. It's too late to be worrying about wrong words. There's no time for any of that pretense anymore. It's now or never. And I choose now.

The door to the café keeps opening. Every time it opens, I feel the valves of my heart opening along with it. But it's never her. Just another flip-flop-clad sleep-deprived zombie seeking their daily dose of caffeine. Another young couple on their first date, holding hands under the table as if they were worried that their affection wasn't obvious enough. Another businessman talking into his phone who rushes in to get a cappuccino and then rushes out to catch his ride. Another mom with octopus arms, coraling a set of twins with one hand, pushing a stroller in another, checking her to-do list, and holding a cup of mocha.

Seeing all of these people who are not Kaycee makes my stomach ache. Because none of these people care. None of them are at all concerned that a girl named Kaycee Rice is leaving me tomorrow for good. None of them even look in my direction. When I look into their faces, I can tell that the doors have been locked. And I'm on the outside.

The world will keep spinning even after she leaves, I realize with a jolt. Why can't it stop for just a second? Just one second so that I can tell her that I love her? That I understand? That I wish I could turn back time and start over again?

The universe is a real bitch, that's why, I think to myself, chuckling sardonically.

The little bell rings again, and my heart dares to hope. Hesitatingly, I look up.

At the open door is a girl with frizzy, unbrushed brown hair. She looks casually dignified in sweatpants and a hoodie. Her big green-brown eyes shift nervously, as if they can't find a safe place to land. Hands in her pockets, she shuts the door carefully behind her, afraid of making a sound. She tiptoes into the room, flinching when the floorboard beneath her creaks and knocking over the salt shaker by accident. The grains of salt spill onto the table like a trail of dried-up tears.

And then her eyes land on me. Am I safe here? they seem to be asking. She hesitates for half a second before walking over to me.

I hardly realize it when she pulls up a chair and sits down right in front of me. Maybe I was too busy watching her every movement that I lost track of everything else. But seeing her this close after these two weeks startles me. It hits me: I had always viewed her through a heavy fog, and this is the first time that I've seen her clearly. The lines and the distinctions on her face. The birthmark under her left eye. The way that her nose slopes delicately. The way that her lips part gently when she starts to say something and then thinks better of it.

It's funny how much you notice when you take the time to look. When the fog clears, you realize how much you've missed.

"I know," she says, as if we were in the middle of a conversation. Her words jumble together awkwardly, like they do whenever she's nervous. "Spilling salt is bad luck. What was I thinking?"