Chapters of Heart (Chapters 5 and 6)

[Music] Welcome to Concepts and Conversations where life begins and you can relax again. [Music] Chapter 5, Ghosts March 2002, Teresa was different after Raymond's call, distracted, distant. She still showed up to our Tuesday divided by Thursday sessions but her mind was clearly elsewhere. She'd stare at her textbook without really reading. Check her phone constantly, sometimes she'd excuse herself to take calls on the stairwell coming back with red eyes. I didn't push. It wasn't my place. So watching her pull away hurt more than I wanted to admit. One Tuesday, she didn't show up at all. No text, no call, nothing. I waited until 4 p.m. then packed up my stuff and left. That night around 10.30 she finally texted, "Teresa, I'm so sorry about today, lost track of time, me, no worries, everything okay, Teresa, yeah, just a lot of my mind, me, wanna talk, Teresa, not really, but thanks. I stared at my phone wanting to say more but not knowing what, me, I'm here if you need me, Teresa, I know, thanks David, Thursday, March 14, 2002 she showed up on Thursday but she looked exhausted. Black circles on her eyes, hair pulled back in a messy bun. She was wearing sweatpants and an old Georgia state hoodie, the universal uniform of someone who'd given up on appearances. Rough week, you could say that. She pulled out her laptop but didn't open it. Can I ask you something, sure. How did you know Carla wasn't the one, like what was the final thing that made you realize it was really over? I thought carefully. She chose someone else. That was it. I realized that if I was really what she wanted she wouldn't have been looking elsewhere. Teresa nodded slowly, that makes sense. Why are you asking? She was quiet for a long moment, staring at her closed laptop. Raymond and I have been talking a lot. She finally looked at me. He keeps saying all the right things that he's sorry, that he's changed, that he's been in therapy, that he wants to make things work. My chest tightened. What do you want? I don't know. Her voice cracks slightly. Part of me wants to believe him. We were together for three years, David. We were going to get married. That doesn't just disappear. No, it doesn't. But every time I talk to him, I feel raw, like I'm trying to force something that's already broken beyond repair. And maybe it is broken. But what if I'm just scared? What if I'm letting a good thing go because I'm too afraid to get hurt again? Or what if you're listening to your gut telling you he's not right for you anymore? She stared at her hands. I don't know what to do. Yes, you do. You're just afraid of the answer. She looked up at me and I saw tears forming in her eyes. You're right. She wiped her face. I need to end this. For good this time. Are you sure? Yeah, I'm sure. She took a deep breath. I'm going to call him tonight and tell him it's really over that I've moved on. Good for you. Thanks for being honest with me. Most people would just tell me what I want to hear. That's what friends do. The word felt hollow in my mouth, but I meant it. Because right now, she needed a friend more than anything else. Friday, March 15, 2002, my phone rang at 11 p.m. I was half asleep, trying to finish reading a research paper for Professor Herrigan Seminar. To rest his name, lit up the screen. Hello, I did it. Her voice was shaky, but strong. I told him it's over. How do you feel, relieved, sad, terrified, all at once? She laughed, but it came out watery. He didn't take it well, kept saying I was making a mistake, that I'd regret it. Do you think you'll regret it? No. I think staying with him would have been the real mistake. She paused. Thank you, David, for being honest with me, for not judging me while I figured this out. That's what friends are for. Yeah. Another pause. I'm going to take some time now. Focus on me for a while, figure out who I am without being someone's girlfriend or fiance or whatever. That sounds healthy. It does, doesn't it? She laughed for real this time. Okay, I should let you sleep. I just wanted to tell you, good night, David. Good night, Teresa. After we hung up, I sat in the dark for a long time. She was single now, officially done with Raymond, but she just said she needed time alone to focus on herself, which meant this wasn't the time to tell her how I felt. Not yet, so I'd keep waiting. Late March through April, 2002, something changed after Teresa ended things with Raymond. She seemed lighter, freer, more like the confident girl who'd handed me a flyer six months ago. She showed up to the library on time. She laughed more. She stopped checking her phone every five seconds. I feel like I can breathe again, like I've been holding my breath for a year, and finally remembered how to exhale. I'm glad me too. She looked at me. I know I was kind of a mess there for a while. Thanks for sticking around. You weren't a mess. You were figuring things out. Same thing. She smiled. But seriously, thank you. A lot of people would have bailed when it got complicated. I'm not going anywhere. When I meant it, April 2002, spring in Atlanta meant dogwoods blooming, pollen covering everything, and the realization that the semester was rapidly ending. Teresa was in full senior panic mode job applications, capstone project, graduation preparation. I was drowning in my thesis, teaching responsibilities, and comprehensive exams looming in the fall. But we still made time for our sessions. One Tuesday in mid-April, Teresa practically bounced into the library. I got a job offer. That's amazing. Where? Los Angeles? Her eyes were shining. It's with a small music PR firm they work with. In the artist, some bigger names too. It's entry level, but it's exactly what I want to do. My stomach dropped Los Angeles. In Atlanta, not even somewhere close, the other side of the country. That's incredible, Teresa. Congratulations. Thanks. Her excitement faltered slightly. It's far, I know. But this is my dream, you know, working in music in LA. When do you start? June. So I'd move out there right after graduation. She looked at me. We'll stay in touch though, right? I mean, phones exist, email. We can still talk, of course. But we both knew it wouldn't be the same. I'm going to miss this, our library sessions, late night diners, all of it. Me too. We sat in silence for a moment and I felt the weight of everything unsaid, pressing down on my chest. This was it. My window was closing. If I was going to tell her how I felt, it had to be soon. But looking at her excited face, talking about her dream job, her fresh start in LA. I couldn't do it. I couldn't be the person who complicated her happiness with feelings she probably didn't share. So I swallowed the words and smiled. LA is lucky to have you. Thanks, David. She reached a cross and squeezed my hand. You're one of the best friends I've ever had. I hope you know that. Friends. You too. Thursday, April 25th, 2002, two weeks before finals, Teresa showed up with a favor to ask. So my capstone presentation is in a week, right? The big one. Yeah. In front of 50 people, professors, students, industry professionals from Atlanta's PR firms, she looked terrified. I'm freaking out. You'll be fine. What if I'm not? This is my entire college career summarized in 15 minutes. And these industry people could be future connections. I can't mess this up. Then let me help. We'll practice until you can do it in your sleep. She looked at me like I'd offered her a lifeline. Really? Yeah. We spent the next week preparing. day after classes. We'd meet at the library. She'd run through her presentation and I'd give feedback pacing, slide transitions, body language, how to handle tough questions. By the fifth run through, she had it down perfectly. You're going to kill it. You really think so? I know so. She was quiet for a moment. I don't know what I would have done this year without you, David. You would have been fine. No, I wouldn't have. She looked at me seriously. You kept me grounded when everything was falling apart. You didn't judge me for going back and forth with Raymond. You just showed up every single time. My chest tightened. That's what friends do, even though the word was starting to feel like a cage. Yeah, she smiled. Best friends. Best friends. It should have felt like a victory. Instead, it felt like a door closing. Tuesday, April 30th, 2002 Taresis capstone presentation was on a Tuesday at 2 p.m. in the main auditorium. I rearranged my office hours to be there. The room was packed exactly as she'd feared, industry professionals and suits taking notes. Professors with evaluation sheets, students fulfilling attendance requirements. I found a seat in the back and watched as she took the stage. For a moment, she looked terrified. Her eyes scanned the crowd and when they found mine, she relaxed slightly. I gave her a small nod. You've got this. And she did. She was flawless, confident, articulate, professional. She handled questions from the panel with ease and even made the audience laugh twice. By the time she finished, half the room was taking notes on her presentation itself. When it was over, people swarmed. Her professors congratulating her, industry professionals handing her business cards, a hungback watching her shine. She finally made her way over to me beaming. So you were incredible. Really? Really? I'm pretty sure you just got offered three more jobs. She laughed. Maybe, but I already know where I'm going. Los Angeles, the word hung between us, unspoken but heavy. Thank you for everything, for helping me practice for being here today for everything this year. You're welcome. I mean it, David. You're one of the best people I've ever met. My throat felt tight. You too. We stood there for a moment and I wondered if she could see it. Everything I wasn't saying. But she just smiled and hugged me. See you Thursday? Yeah. See you Thursday. As I watched her walk away, surrounded by people congratulating her, I realized something. I was running out of time. And I still didn't have the courage to tell her the truth. Chapter six. Endings in unspoken words May 2002 finals week came and went in a blur of exams, grading, and desperate all-nighters. Teresa had three finals in a portfolio to submit. I had two exams, 40 papers to grade, and a thesis chapter that Professor Harrigan wanted revised before summer. We barely saw each other that week. But on Saturday, May 11, 2002, Teresa Maria Rodriguez walked across a stage in the Georgia Dome and received her bachelor's degree in public relations. I sat in the bleachers with thousands of other people. And when they called her name, I clapped louder than I probably should have. Afterward, I found her with her family in the crowd. Her mom, Carmen, was crying and taking pictures with a disposable camera. Her younger brother, Carlos, looked bored in his suit, constantly checking his pager. And Teresa was beaming. "David!" she pulled me into a hug. "You came, of course I came." "Mom, Carlos, this is David. The friend I've been telling you about. Carmen pulled me into a hug before I could protest. Thank you for being such a good friend to my Teresa this year. She talks about you all the time. My face flushed. She's been a great friend to me too. You coming to dinner with us, right? We're going to Marguiano's in Buckhead. Oh, I don't want to intrude on family time. You're not intruding. Teresa linked her arm through mine. You're practically family at this point, right mom? Absolutely. No arguments, David. So I went and sitting there at Marguiano's, listening to Carmen telling embarrassing stories about Teresa as a kid, watching Carlos tease his sister about her nerd friend. I felt something shift. This felt right, comfortable, like I belonged. But it was also bittersweet because in three weeks, Teresa would be gone. Sunday, May 12, 2002, the day after graduation. Teresa and I met at our usual diner, the majestic, on Ponce de Leon. It felt like the end of something. So three weeks, then I'm gone. That fast? Yeah. I need to find an apartment in LA get settled before I start work in June. She looked at me. This is really happening. I'm actually moving to California. You excited, terrified, excited both. She sat down her fork. I'm going to miss Atlanta though. Miss this. This, you know us, our library sessions, late night food runs, having someone who actually gets me. My chest tightened. I'm going to miss it too. Phone calls, emails, all that. Of course. But even as I said it, I knew it wouldn't be the same. Long distance friendships were hard. People drifted apart. Life moved on. David, can I tell you something? Sure. She hesitated choosing her words carefully. This year meeting you. It saved me. I know that sounds dramatic, but it's true. After everything with Raymond, the accident, all of it, I didn't think I'd ever trust anyone again. But you showed me that good people still exist, that not everyone's going to hurt me. I'm glad I could be there for you. You were more than just there. You were. She trailed off, then squeezed my hand across the table. You're one of the most important people in my life. I don't want to lose that. You won't. Promise? Promise. But as we left the diner and said goodbye in the parking lot, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was making a mistake, that I should tell her right now before it was too late. The words were right there stuck in my throat. I have feelings for you. More than friendship, I think I'm falling in love with you. But looking at her excited face, her bright future ahead of her, I couldn't do it. I couldn't be the person who complicated her fresh start with feelings that might not be returned. So I swallowed the words and hugged her goodbye. Good luck with the move. Thanks. I'll see you before I leave, right? Of course. I watched her drive away in her red Honda Civic and I felt something break inside my chest. May 15th, 2002, I called Uncle Devon that night. She's moving to Los Angeles and you still haven't told her how you feel. No, why not, boy? Because the timing's not right. She just got out of a serious relationship. She's starting her dream job. The last thing she needs is me complicating things. Or maybe the last thing she needs is to move 3,000 miles away without knowing how you feel. I can't do that to her. Uncle Devon, he's side, long and heavy. Son, I've told you before, you can't spend your whole life being a scared baby goat. Sometimes you got to step out of that pen and take a risk. I know, but not like this. Not when she's about to start this huge new chapter. Then when I didn't have an answer, let me tell you something regret is a heavier burden than rejection. You can recover from someone saying no, but wondering what if for the rest of your life, that'll lead you alive. Maybe? No, maybe about it. I've seen it happen. His voice softened. Your daddy will tell you the same thing. He didn't wait around when he met your mama, told her how he felt the second week they knew each other. And look how that turned out. He died and left her alone. The words came out harsher than I meant them. Uncle Devon was quiet for a moment. Your daddy dying young doesn't mean he was wrong to love her. They had eight good years together, eight years of real honest love. You think your mama would trade that away to avoid the pain of losing him? I didn't answer. Life's too short to play it safe, son. Trust me on it. After we hung up, I sat in the dark of my apartment, thinking about my father, about the piano that sat silent in Uncle Devon's living room, about the part of myself I'd locked away because it hurt too much to remember. Maybe Uncle Devon was right. Maybe I was a coward. May 20th through 30th, 2002, the next two weeks passed too quickly. Teresa was busy packing, saying goodbye to friends, making arrangements for her move. We saw each other a few times coffee on Tuesday, helping her load boxes into a U-Haul on Saturday. One last dinner at Margiano's two days before she left. Each time I told myself I'd say something, and each time I'd chickened out. On Thursday, May 30th, the day before she left we met at Piedmont Park one last time. It was a beautiful evening, warm but not too humid. The kind of Atlanta spring day that made you forget about the brutal summer to come. We sat on a bench, overlooking the lake, watching joggers and families with dogs. I can't believe I'm actually leaving tomorrow. How are you feeling, nervous, excited, sad? She looked at me, mostly sad, honestly. We're going to do amazing things out there. I hope so. She pulled her knees up to her chest. I'm going to miss you, David, like really miss you. I'll miss you too. Can I ask you something? Sure. Do you ever think about what would have happened if we'd met at a different time? Like if I hadn't been such a mess this year, if I'd been, I don't know, in a better place, my heart started racing. What do you mean? She looked at me, and there was something in her eyes I couldn't quite read. I mean, sometimes I wonder if we could have been more than friends, if the timing had been different. The air left my lungs. This was it. The moment. All I had to do was tell her the truth. I think about that all the time. The timing doesn't matter to me. I have feelings for you, real feelings. The words were right there, but then she looked away and laughed, soft and sad. I'm sorry. That was weird. Forget I said anything. Teresa, no, seriously. I'm just emotional because I'm leaving. Don't mind me. She stood up. We should probably head back. I still have so much packing to do. And just like that, the moment was gone. We walked back to the parking lot in silence. She hugged me goodbye long and tight. Thank you for everything this year, for being you. You're welcome. She pulled back and looked at me one more time. I'll call you when I get to LA, okay? Okay. I watched her drive away, and I felt like I was watching my chance at happiness disappear with her. Friday, May 31, 2000, and to Teresa left for Los Angeles on a Friday morning. I didn't go to see her on. She'd said goodbye to most people the night before, and I didn't want to make it harder. My phone rang around noon, her number, hey, hey, I'm at the airport boarding in 30 minutes. How are you doing? Freaking out a little, but in a good way, I think. She paused, "I just wanted to hear your voice before I left. I'm glad you called." David? Yeah? Thank you. For everything. For being my friend when I needed one. For never giving up on me. You made this year bearable, Teresa. Graduate school would have been hell without you. We made a good team, huh? Yeah. We did. Okay. I should go. I'll call you when I land. Okay? Okay. Good luck out there. Thanks. Bye, David. Bye, Teresa. The line went dead. I sat on my couch staring at my phone for a long time. And then, for the first time since my father died, I walked over to the keyboard. I kept covered in the corner of my apartment. I pulled off the dust cover, sat down, and started to play. And as my fingers found the keys, all the feelings I'd kept locked inside for months came pouring out. By the time I finished, I had the beginnings of a song. A song about timing and mischances, and loving someone from a distance. A song no one would ever hear. Or so I thought.