Maybe Someday

His little black book. It was his prized possession, his true love. As far back as I could remember, he’d carry it with him wherever he went, sometimes taking a peek inside, a soft smirk dancing over his face. I used to be jealous of that book, pocket-sized with an elastic to hold it closed. The first time I met him at a cafe in Manhattan I saw him looking at me walking towards him as he was scribbling in the book.

At one point he said to me “I have to tell you something,” his eyes, a glassy shade of blue that gave him the appearance of being on the verge of tears. “I bring this book with me everywhere I go and it’s the only thing I can’t be without.”

I remember his face getting slightly flushed as if he just had admitted a bad habit that would possibly turn me off.

“Can I see what’s inside?” I asked in an attempt to ease the tension.

“Maybe someday” was his answer as that same smirk appeared on his face; a famous smirk that could disarm even the fiercest of warriors.

I remember in the beginning I would try to pry it away from him, while he was asleep with it under his pillow or when he would take a shower and leave it on the bathroom sink, but he never let me get away with it. He would always say “Maybe someday.” I eventually understood that the contents of this book mattered so much to him and I stopped trying to see what was inside. We carried on with our life together, living together, getting our first pet, and finally marriage. I remember on our wedding day seeing the book sticking out of his suit pocket almost as an extension of his heart, or a reminder that it was there first.

On our wedding night I asked him once more, “can I see what’s inside that book now?” to which he simply replied “maybe someday.”

I became frustrated, pleading, “How much more do I have to do to prove to you that you can trust me?!”

I remember seeing fear in his eyes similar to the first day he told me about the book. It was deep, a fear that came from rejection and shame from his childhood no doubt. I buckled.

“I mean, I just want you to know that I’m never going to hurt you,” I said.

“I know,” he replied, “and I promise you that someday you’ll see what’s inside.”

We lived a comfortable enough life, I had always wanted to pursue my master’s degree but couldn’t afford the tuition. He used to promise me that someday he would earn enough to send me to grad school, but I never held him to that. How could I? It wasn’t his responsibility, and surely if I couldn’t afford it myself then I didn’t deserve to go. Still, he used to always say to me that he would find a way to make it happen. His promise was enough for me. It let me know that I was a priority in his life, that he was constantly working towards me.

The day of the blizzard was one I would never forget. He insisted on going out to get some last minute things before the snow got too bad while I begged that he stay home, that we had everything we needed right here. Never being able to change his mind on anything, I let him go. One hour passed, then another. I saw the snow become blinding to the point of only being able to see white, until hints of blue and red appeared, closer and closer, till I saw clearly a police car pulling up to our home. I knew what had happened but didn’t want to acknowledge the reality. I met the officer at the door and had my worst fear confirmed. He was gone.

In his will I found that he had a secret bank account set up in which he was depositing money every week to go towards my graduate schooling. So far it had accumulated $20,000. He was a man of so many secrets but never did I expect this. He wasn’t just making empty promises, he was actually investing in me, in my future. While the money was a welcome gift, it didn’t replace him, and it didn’t come anywhere near the next gift that found its way into my possession.

At his funeral his mother came to me and said, “he wanted you to have this” as she handed me his little black book, with a folded piece of paper on top.

As the light hit the paper I could make out that his handwriting was on it. I looked to her with tears in my eyes and asked if she was sure to which she replied, in as simple as a manner as her son would have, “I couldn’t be more sure.”

I headed home and sat on the corner of our bed, where we used to hold each other so tightly, laughing and listening to our favorite music. But this time there was no music, only memories. I took the note in my hand and opened it.

The note said “If you’re reading this, today is someday.”

I could feel my heartbeat stop, like the moment when you’ve jumped from a diving board and you’re waiting to hit the water. I always imagined that I’d be with him when I was finally able to see what was inside the book, that he’d hold me in his arms as we flipped through the pages together. But this wasn’t the dream I held in my head for so long, this was someday. I carefully held the book in the palm of my hand, gently pulled the elastic from its cover and cracked it open.

The first page read “a history of true love” and before me were pages of hand-written accounts, carried out through each generation, of the names and details of each relative’s true love. His grandmother’s, dated from 1935, all about his grandfather, his mother in the 70s about his father, and then I saw his page. 2010, and my name, dated on the day I met him at the cafe in New York. He had never written a single word in that book until that day, until he saw me walking towards him at the cafe. He was scribbling my name down in his book because he knew then. Love at first sight.

If the world fell out from beneath me and I was floating in space I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what the stars looked like or how cold it was. I was lost in the pages that stared back at me, the mirror of my life before me. All of the times that I asked to see inside the book, and I didn’t have to look further than the smirk that would appear on his face when he looked at me, the way in which he knew I was the one for him. After sitting with the book for what felt like days, I closed it and kissed the cover. I now knew why he cherished this little black book so much, why he always kept it close to his heart, and why I would always keep it so close to mine.