A Missing Heart by Shari J. Ryan Page A

event that evidently happened right in front of my eyes. That doesn’t just happen .
     

CHAPTER SIX

TWELVE YEARS AGO
    IT’S BEEN EIGHT weeks and three days since Cammy told me that she and her family were leaving Connecticut. She didn’t know when, how quick or slow the process would be, but her parents made her miss the last two months of school, as well as graduation.
    I’ve been sitting on the back bleachers, away from the crowd—away from the parents with cameras, and my classmates who are signing each other’s caps and other memorable tokens from our high school days. I’m here and I did my thing, for Mom and Dad. That’s all I’m giving though. It didn’t feel right receiving my diploma the way I know Cammy dreamt about receiving hers. She shouldn’t have been forced to miss this. I took pictures for Cammy and kept her on the phone during the speeches so she could at least listen. She’s a glutton for punishment and wanted to hear the ceremony, so I helped her do that.
    When Principal Valler yelled, “Congratulations!” to our class, Cammy disconnected the call. I don’t know how she listened as long as she did. When I’m finally alone, with a moment to breathe air that isn’t being shared with my three hundred classmates, I call her back. The phone rings a number of times but she picks up, hoarse voice and all. “Hi,” she says quietly into the phone. “Sorry—”
    “You have nothing to apologize for. This isn’t fair.”
    “It’s not just that, AJ,” she says, though my name is hardly audible with the increasing weakness within her voice.
    “What is it?” I ask her what’s wrong as if I can’t list a hundred things that could be upsetting her right now. Although there are probably more than a hundred things upsetting her.
    “They sold the house,” she says. “We have three weeks to pack everything up and leave.” We knew it was coming, but I convinced myself it would take all summer due to the decline in real estate right now, or so I’ve heard Mom and Dad talking about.
    “We have three weeks,” I tell her, trying to sound positive regardless of how I feel.
    For the last eight weeks, we’ve talked a whole lot. We patched over our broken hearts with a common understanding of loss. I forgave her for hiding the decision on what to do with our daughter, since I understand it was out of her control too. The anger I felt for her at that moment was the same anger she had been feeling toward her parents for months. We’re together in this, no matter what. We both have broken hearts—hearts that will never find where they truly belong, even though we try to say we did everything we did for a good reason. I think that’s bull, and if it makes me less of a man or less of an adult to think that way, it’s because I’m seventeen.
    Our relationship has changed. It changed when we found out she was pregnant. It was less about the number of kisses I could steal before her father would turn on the porch light and almost catch us on the side of her house—less about the quietness of my shoes hitting the porch roof below her bedroom window—less worry about my raging need to be with this girl in every way humanly possible. I took part in ruining our lives, and I’ve punished myself every day for it. I did what I could to convince her that she looked beautiful every morning at school. Even though I noticed the swelling in her face as well as the rest of her body, she was still beautiful to me. I spent my time reassuring her our lives would be okay, even though I was pretty sure they never would be again. I spent the days and months falling in love for the very first time, and it was all about the girl I wanted to be with, not the girl I wanted to get with. It was different, and maybe that’s why guys my age don’t usually know what love is—they’re too busy trying to explore new interests, feel new sensations, experience the thrill of danger and stupidity. Yeah, it’s all stupidity.