knowing those moments are now nothing more than lost ghosts of the person I was. Of the people we were before it all went to hell.
All of the memories are a cocktail that infuses into my conscious thoughts as I listen to my keys clink while I unlock the door to my sedan with a low beep that fills the practically vacant lot. From the time I entered the grocery store to now, a mere fifteen minutes at that, the sun has decided to set, casting a shade of red across the dark tree line of thick forest beyond the store parking lot and stealing the light that was here only a moment ago.
The leather seat groans and the door shuts with a loud thud. All I can do is sit here, my purse now on the console. My keys in my right hand, resting against my lap with the metal digging into my palm since I’m gripping them so tight. My breathing comes in faster and faster although I’m doing everything in my power to stay calm. He’ll be here soon.
When I hear the click of the back door opening, the one behind my seat, I close my eyes. He didn’t make me wait long.
He enters the car accompanied by a chill from the evening wind and the car rocks gently until he’s seated behind me and the door is shut. His scent fills my lungs first and as it does, I remember that I’ve been told that smell is the sense that holds the most memory. Maybe I read it somewhere, but I’ve never known something to be truer than that fact is now.
When I open my eyes, his chilling gaze is on mine in the rearview mirror and my treacherous heart chokes me in an attempt to escape. It hovers at the base of my throat, pounding viciously in protest.
I did always love him. There wasn’t a moment that I didn’t love him.
He knows that. He has to know that I still love him; we just simply couldn’t be together. We decided. We decided together.
“You said you’d let me go,” I whisper, speaking over my strangled breaths.
My gaze never leaves his, even as tears prick my eyes. Not until he answers me.
“I changed my mind.”
Delilah
Two years before
I’m not crazy, right?
My phone buzzes with my sister’s text at the same time as another glass of chardonnay hits the small bar-height tabletop in front of me. The round table has a two-foot radius if that; it’s meant for two people max but my purse takes up half of it. Making the point quite clear: it’s my table.
“Thanks,” I say and offer the waitress a smile from where I’m perched on the stool. With a small nod, the all-smiles, petite brunette in a short black dress keeps it moving. She’s cute, young, and damn fast on her feet. Plus, Sandy has a good memory. Taking a sip of the chardonnay, I know she told the bartender to make sure he poured my favorite brand. Sandy’s table is my go-to every Wednesday. Apps are half-priced so this place is packed on Wednesdays… but it’s packed with the right people. I plant my ass in this seat in the far corner of the bar where I can see everyone else, and Sandy keeps the glasses coming.
As I told an old friend from law school once, this waitress is the only hero I need after a long day in court.
The music is easy, the lights dim, and the lemon scent from whatever they use to polish all the dark wood in here is my heaven after spending every fucking day in hell. A.k.a. Judge Malden’s courtroom.
I only get a single sip of the smooth wine before my phone buzzes again, vibrating against the menu beneath it that effectively takes up the other half of the table. With most of my light coming from the simple white candle on the table, I read the text, the bright light of my phone’s screen hurting my tired eyes for just a moment.
They make me feel like I’m crazy.
Swallowing the harsh truth, that our parents do that to me too sometimes, I answer my sister quickly. My dark red nails fly across the letters on my phone: It’s just the way they handle things. You aren’t crazy. It happened. They just want to pretend it didn’t.
Returning to my wine, my gaze flutters from the filled glass to the front entrance as it opens. The two wooden doors