Yuri POV

 

April 12th, 2011

 

 

I honestly don’t think I have ever been this nervous in my whole life.

 

I’ve taken practicums, I’ve held people’s lives in my hands.

 

Hell, I’ve held my own life in my hands.

 

So, as I stand here before my closet in the early morning light, it’s daunting that I’m nauseated by the options before me.

 

There isn’t a moment in my life where a choice has meant so much.

 

Beside me, my standard outfit, my cheerleading garb, is sprawled on my bed.

 

I wonder what would it mean if I wore it?

 

If I walk up to Jessica in my uniform, painting her vision in the red and black that has tormented her for so long and say soft words, will it have more impact than a different outfit?

 

Will it be bad?

 

I peer into my closet again and with careful hands I pull free a pink flowing shirt with an empire waist.

 

I twist my fingers in the colored material.

 

It will show off my curves, what few I have.

 

My pre pregnancy body is much leaner and unfamiliar to me.

 

I know Jessica likes this look, likes the airy version of me, the softer Yuri.

 

While she always admitted she liked my tight sporty ponytails and sleek elegant dresses, I know she love my tumbling hair and flowing clothing.

 

I smile and leave the cheerleading outfit in its place.

 

Dressing like this for her is ritualistic.

 

It makes me remember all the times she was set to perform and I donned gowns, primping myself to ridiculous levels of beauty, to see her.

 

As I slide on a pair of capris, I feel a stop gap in my memories.

 

I know I’m lying to myself.

 

I didn’t dress like that just for her.

 

I dressed like that so when people looked at me, they would see someone worthy of being with her.

 

I never realized how emotionally fragile I really was.

 

I recognize it now as my hands shake while I fasten my pants.

 

It’s frightening how as a grown woman I relied on her for validation.

 

If I looked good in her eyes, I was okay with how the cards fell in my life.

 

I go through the motions now, slipping into shoes, sliding into my top.

 

I apply dustings of makeup, highlighting and lowlighting the color of my eyes, the lines of my lips and the apples of my cheeks.

 

When I’m done, I pray it’s enough, soft enough to disarm her and put her at ease.

 

If it isn’t I can’t imagine what that would mean or what it would do to me.

 

I give my reflection a final examination, critically eyeing it before I sigh and release the lip gloss I’m crushing in my grip.

 

I don’t look at my parents as I slide down the stairs.

 

They don’t acknowledge me either.

 

I’m their invisible child unless they need something.

 

When they want to reaffirm their social status through my poise or beauty, then they will come to me.

 

Other than that I might as well not exist.

 

Right now, that is perfectly fine by me as I grab my keys and backpack, practically running down the driveway.

 

I’m also happy it will never hurt me again.

 

My little red subcompact roars under my hands.

 

It’s cute and sporty.

 

It’s exactly the type of car one would expect to find someone like me in.

 

It might as well be an extension of my body, with its flash, self importance, and its need to draw attention.

 

That is who I am at this point in my life, after all.

 

I flip on the radio and tune in to my favorite station, but it doesn’t exist, so I find anything that is not a religious sermon or talk.

 

Talk radio annoys the hell out of me, not because it’s boring, though it is that too, but it irritates me because I could have easily seen myself doing something like that, chattering about my views and performing ego ion to the sound of my own voice.

 

It irritates me that it could have been me, without Jessica.

 

Well, no, not just Jessica.

 

If I hadn’t fallen and broken my knee, I never would have quit cheerleading or have embraced the idea of working in medicine.

 

That moment of clarity in my depression and pain is what led me to becoming a doctor.

 

After all of those things happened, then it was Jessica that made it possible, pushed me to study, brought me coffee, and hugged my tiredness away.

 

I flip the radio off, but my nervous excitement has me talking to myself, practicing what I’m going to say the first time I see her.

 

“Hi Sica,” I whisper sweetly like my lips are pressed to her ear.

 

Nope, creepy as hell.

 

“Hey, Sica.” I say it nonchalantly pretending that when I say her name it isn’t ripped from my heart.

 

“Good morning, Sica,” I whisper it under my breath and silently thank my wife for being overly talkative and giving me the keys to her heart.

 

I know it’s important to say her name.

 

So far in this lifetime, when I addressed her it’s always been a slur.

 

In my previous life it was, too, and Jessica once told me the day everything changed was when I finally called her by her name.

 

That had been the dividing line between when things were cold and when they weren’t.

 

It wasn’t until college, but it can’t hurt to start now.

 

It can’t hurt to try to win her heart now.

 

My Jessica.

 

My stomach lurches when I see the school and I thread my fingers around the steering wheel to keep from losing control of the car.

 

I can’t believe it’s here and I can’t believe it is exactly the way I had always remembered it.

 

The chain link fences with banners and ivy are the same.

 

The buildings, squat and trimmed in red, are just as I pictured they would be.

 

I turn onto the small campus, negotiating my way past a security guard and one of the bungalows.

 

I glance at the clock when I see the parking lot nearly empty.

 

I’m a full 50 minutes early, and I sigh a shaky breath.

 

I find my spot, the one that was always mine due to popularity.

 

It’s right at the edge of the basketball court, the perfect location for me and my friends to lean and flaunt for the jocks that play at lunch.

 

I shift into park, and before I realize it, I have my backpack in my hands.

 

It’s amazing to me how the human brain remembers, does things, let’s muscle memory take over.

 

I lift my eyes from the strap in my hand to the campus.

 

There, nestled at the other side of the parking lot, is Jessica’s car.

 

It’s centered in my view and I’m so shocked by it that my eyes burn with tears.

 

I don’t think I can move and I try to no avail.

 

She’s alive.

 

She’s here.

 

I swallow and blink the heat of surprised tears down my face.

 

My Jessica is here.

 

It literally takes all my strength to turn away from the white Mazda and check myself in the mirror.

 

“You can do this,” I tell myself as I wipe away my tears. “You can walk right up to her and say hello.”

 

I cry harder which is the exact opposite reaction I wanted from this pep talk.

 

It isn’t lost on me that I didn’t cry about heaven.

 

I didn’t even cry about the thought of going to hell.

 

I only cry about reality, and Jessica being in it.

 

It takes what feels like an eternity for my tears to stop.

 

Finally, when I feel like the very idea of seeing her isn’t going to make me fall into a weeping mess, I clear my throat and regard my reflection again.

 

It’s not as good as it was before my breakdown, but it will have to do.

 

I pop open the car door.

 

Debating one last time if I would look better with my hair up or down, I slide my backpack on and head toward the main office.

 

I let my hair fall back into place as I try and think of a lie to get my schedule reprinted.

 

I don’t remember my classes and the diary was of no help.

 

Honestly, I don’t actually care about attending any of them.

 

However, if Jessica is here, I’ll go through whatever motions I have to so that we can stay together, even if it’s reliving trigonometry.

 

As I pass Jessica’s car, I stare at it, slowing a little.

 

It’s just like I remembered, with its smiley faces and decals.

 

Little gold stars and Broadway bumper stickers litter the back end like scattered dreams.

 

It’s precious, because really her whole future is printed right there.

 

I wish I had seen it before.

 

I look around before I trace my finger over the trunk.

 

I feel the cold metal under my fingers and it renews my faith to know it’s real and concrete.

 

More tears threaten and I clear my throat valiantly, fighting them.

 

Propriety intact I resume my walk.

 

I cut past my future microbiology class, moving with purpose down a long hall flanked with lockers.

 

I had forgotten that high school smelled like waxed floors and an amalgamation of cheap perfume and too much cologne.

 

It makes my nose tickle and I clear my throat with the way the smell sticks to the back of my tongue.

 

I don’t even notice the young boy beside me until he makes a sound under his breath and practically crawls into his locker to get away from me.

 

I had forgotten that I ruled this world.

 

It catches me by surprise how when I look back at him he is focused on his locker intentionally avoiding eye contact.

 

I can’t believe how much people feared me.

 

I remember being cruel and mean, I remember taunting people, but this... this level of fear from someone I haven’t met makes me feel guilty.

 

I must be a terrible person.

 

I open the double doors on the other end of the hall and as I breeze into the adjoining hallway I see the choir room door slam closed.

 

I freeze mid step looking back over my shoulder.

 

I don’t know why I look around, but I do.

 

There is hardly anyone here and there is only one person I can think of that would be here 40 minutes early to practice.

 

It has to be Jessica.

 

Just being this close, knowing that my best friend and lover is 30 feet from me has my knees trembling.

 

I glance toward the office and instead change direction.

 

I pause outside the choir room, hands trembling.

 

I don’t know if I can do this.

 

I don’t know if I can see her again without falling apart.

 

Before, in the car, that was just the cusp of what I feel.

 

Even now, I feel my emotions give, walls crumbling as I try to barricade everything back.

 

I listen to a soft lingering chord, melancholy pouring through it.

 

It reminds me of how Jessica used to practice at home.

 

How I would silently watch as she hummed her scales and finally sang.

 

It’s breathlessly painful when I hear her through the door.

 

I hear that first silver coated note and literally something breaks inside me, making me move forward without thought or volition, and open the door.

 

 

 

 

I push open the studio door and glance around before slipping into the sound room.

 

I see my wife almost immediately in the recording booth, hair tousled and messy.

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