When he was out of sight, Josie threw a few bills down, including a generous tip, and packed away her notebook. She slid from the booth, hastily making her way outside. When the rubber soles of her shoes hit the sidewalk, she breathed a little easier. Out here, she could disappear again. Out here, she was anonymous.
Josie turned to make her way home but was met by a familiar form leaning against the building. She sucked in the crisp air, almost choking, as his eyes worked themselves up from her feet. Even after all this time, he recognized her.
“You,” he whispered, curls of smoke escaping through his lips.
Tristan dropped his cigarette, crushing it under the toe of his shoe, before shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Before him stood a girl full of secrets and history, and he knew that she was alone in the world. He took two steps toward her, expecting she would retreat. He was wrong.
Josie trembled with some feeling that she didn’t recognize. Her head felt light and her legs became shaky under the weight of this moment. He moved closer, his beautiful face contorted in caution. She wasn’t afraid. Their long-awaited reunion outweighed any unease. Without thought, Josie lifted her hand toward him, wanting to make sure he was real. She had no doubt that her mind could invent his presence just to mess with her. She slid her fingers along his jaw. It felt like warmed stones and sandpaper. Eventually, Josie rested her palm against his face, and he let her.
Tristan leaned into her touch. Their eyes held firm, locked on each other in a battle for understanding. This bond, this connection was undefined yet all-consuming. In the familiar moonlight, their breathing had become synchronized and the rest of the world fell away. Tristan needed to say something but feared that it would end the fragile moment. He took the chance anyway.
“I’m Tristan.”
“Josie,” she replied.
A long, silent moment stretched between them. It remained comfortable and reminiscent of reunited lovers. Tristan’s brows dipped in confusion as her face morphed into a younger one in his mind, a smiling one. He considered the familiar eyes, measuring them against the dark and guarded ones before him now. Like a forceful blow knocking the breath from his lungs, he connected Josie to the girl who had haunted his memory for the past eight years.
“You look just like a girl I used to know. McKenzi Delaune,” Tristan said. “But that’s impossible.”
Josie, not having heard that name for so long, dropped her hand and looked down at the sidewalk. She didn’t associate with that girl anymore, she hadn’t for years. Fear clawed at her chest as she wondered how much she should say. Something pulled the confession from her.
“I used to be her,” she answered.
“I thought you were dead.”
2. Opposition
Two celestial bodies opposite each other in the sky.
This was Josie’s secret, the only truth that anchored her to a forgotten past. Her safety and her sanity deemed that she keep it locked away. Josie found herself ensnared by his statement: I thought you were dead. She almost laughed at his half-truth. Categorically, she’d felt dead for years. She’d survived the tedious clockwork of day-to-day living, physical pain, and emotional woundings. So many times, especially when she was alone in the quiet darkness of her existence, Josie had begged to abandon this life. She wasn’t sure if those prayers had gone unheard or simply unanswered. It no longer mattered, since she’d lost her faith long ago. These days Josie believed only in things she could see and touch. At this moment, she believed in Tristan.
“I know you,” he whispered.
Recognizing her face, not only from months ago, but years ago, Tristan continued to gape. Her touch was gone now, but his skin prickled with warmth where her hand had been. His brain felt overwhelmed and burdened by the connection. Quickly firing synapses struggled to keep up with his recollection of this woman as a child. So many questions formed lumps in his throat, choking the ability for even one to escape.
“You don’t know shit.”
Unable to handle the heaviness of the moment any longer, Josie turned to flee. She was too sober to deal with confessions right now. She knew it was cowardly; still, she clutched her messenger bag close as her feet shuffled away. Her retreat was silent. Long ago she’d perfected the art of carrying her bag in such a way that the paint cans didn’t rattle. She shifted her eyes down to the sidewalk, divided by lightninglike cracks in its surface. She wished they would swell open and devour her.
“McKenzi! Josie!” Tristan called out. Josie’s name, the word she’d been so desperate to hear from his lips, was now tainted by her cowardice.
After McKenzi had left him stunned on the sidewalk, Tristan raced inside and locked himself in the restroom. Barraged with conflicting emotions, Tristan gripped the edge of the sink just to stay upright. Sweat formed along his hairline while his pulse thundered in his ears. He felt nauseated and betrayed and relieved all at the same time. Facing his reflection in the mirror, he barely recognized the man staring back. His skin was pallid, drained of heat and blood. His eyes were dilated and unable to focus on one single spot for long. They burned with unshed tears as he bit down on his lips to keep them from trembling. He looked like a sickly version of himself, a stranger. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Hey, man, you okay?” a man asked from behind him. “You don’t look so good.”
Tristan met the man’s eyes in the mirror and tried to focus on his face.
“That’s because I’m trying to fight the effects of psychological shock. My blood pressure has dropped, making me feel dizzy. Also”—Tristan stopped and tried to take a deep breath—“my shallow breathing is leaving my body with a lack of oxygen.”
The man cocked his head to the side like a dog trying to understand human speech. His eyes became slits as though that would help him comprehend. Tristan dropped his gaze back down to the sink.
“Uh, okay. Well, I’m just going to…”
By the time Tristan looked up again, the man was gone. As smart as he was, Tristan’s brain was not always successful in navigating social situations.
He was an intellectual conundrum beneath his tough-as-nails veneer, a medical falsehood. His father had called the condition eidetic memory. Remembering had always come easy. There was no effort in regurgitating every detail of a photograph or every word of a novel. Grocery lists, dates and times, even names and faces just seemed to stick with him. It wasn’t a skill that he’d mastered after years of training or retaining information using mnemonic devices. It was something he’d been born with. It was part of his genetic makeup, like eye color or curly hair.
When he was old enough, Tristan had researched the term, trying to understand why his brain worked this way. With his nose buried deep in his father’s medical journals, he learned that his ability was swarming with controversy; some even regarded it as myth.
“A myth?” he’d cried.
Huddled on his father’s lap in the leather office chair, he’d begged to be normal like the other kids.
“Tristan, what you have is not a defect. It is a special ability. You’ve been blessed. Think of it as being bulletproof or having X-ray vision.”
“Like Superman?” he’d asked, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
Dr. Fallbrook smiled down at his son and nodded. In the amber-lit room, lined with shelves of books and family portraits, seven-year-old Tristan beamed as he pictured himself in tights and a billowing cape of recollection.
Eventually, Tristan resumed his post behind the bar, greeted with nothing more than an annoyed glance from his coworker. He used a clean towel to dry the whiskey tumblers, a thoughtless action built into his bartender automation. Tristan poured drinks and opened bottles, but his thoughts were set on McKenzi. From her painted black eyes down to her curves and endless legs, there was no doubt the girl he once knew had become all woman.