The Moon He Could Never Reach

The footage was dark, but clear enough. Jordan Gilbert reached out and took a girl's hand, and a moment later she pulled him into her arms.

It was that same day.

When he came out of the haunted house, he looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, his voice breaking as he tried to steady it. "Carrie, I finally know what it feels like to be alive."

But the woman who held his hand inside that place was me.

I have a panic disorder. For him, I forced myself in, swallowing triple my dose beforehand.

I was afraid the story beats would be too much, that they'd make his condition worse, so even choking on my own fear, I went in to stay beside him.

But I was afraid of wounding his pride, so the moment it ended, I hurried back out.

And let Penelope Pruitt take my place.

I never imagined I'd been sewing a wedding dress for someone else all along.

In the few short minutes it took me to watch that video, he'd said Penelope's name at least ten times.

"Could you please stop saying her name?"

My voice cracked.

Jordan paused, and his eyes went hollow again. "What's wrong? Did I do something wrong again?"

That line again.

Six years, and every time we touched anything close to feeling, this was all he had. Like he used his emotional disorder to trap me, to force me to drop the subject every single time.

"Jordan, who is your girlfriend, exactly? What has a mute girl like Penelope ever done to make you happy? All of that was a script. Do you even understand what a script is?"

He looked at me, and for once something surfaced in his eyes.

"Caroline, when did you get so cruel?"

I thought he'd fight with me.

But after two seconds of silence, he picked up his coat, opened the door, and walked out.

An hour and a half later, Robert Bishop messaged me. "Why'd your Jordan show up in the middle of the night?"

"Oh, right, you still haven't sent me the new script. He's stuck running an old one tonight, so no promises on the effect."

I wrote back, "Okay. Is Miss Pruitt still with him?"

A thumbs-up came through from the other end.

"You called it exactly. No wonder you're our top-selling writer!"

I let out a faint scoff and turned the screen dark.

It isn't that I can predict him. It's that I know Jordan's nature too well.

Six years ago, when we first met, I'd already heard about the famous Golden Boy Gilbert, and especially about his condition.

He looked like some finely carved statue, and inside he was cold to the point of emptiness.

After we got together, I thought love could fill those hollow places. But it turned out a hollow man isn't a man without feeling. His heart simply refused to beat for me.

"The penthouse suite you reserved at the Lakeview Hotel is ready. Seven o'clock tomorrow evening."

When the text popped up, I froze for a second.

I'd already guessed Jordan meant to propose at tomorrow night's anniversary. I just never thought he could be careless enough to leave the confirmation linked to my number in the app.

So the message came straight to me.

Even before that, I'd been getting a surprise ready myself.

Two red lines I'd found half a month ago. I'd meant to announce it on the anniversary.

To tell him, too, that there wasn't nothing between us. That there was at least one life we could bring into the world.

But now it all felt pointless.

Did Jordan actually care?

The year I met him, I had a speech disorder. I was a "little mute" too.

No one in class wanted anything to do with me. Even talking to me seemed like too much to ask. Only he did. Everyone called him cold, yet he was the one who stepped in when I got cornered in the stairwell and nearly bullied.

He looked out for me for half a semester, until I transferred away.

Later, when we met again, I fought my way back to speaking, and I was certain of the warmth underneath his silence.