I remember one of my favorite dates with him, at a small, cozy bistro downtown, that Dak convinced the owner to close early for the night so we could be alone. I remember our battling forks. He insisted on tasting my spaghetti carbonara. The mingling aromas of garlic and herbs seem so real, the flickering candlelight and the sound of our laughter painfully vivid.
“Let me taste it,” he teased, knowing full well he was talking about more than the food on my plate.
“Nope,” I laughed. “It’s too good to share.”
My heart aches as I think of the day Dak tried to teach me how to throw a football in Central Park, autumn leaves blanketing the ground, and Butters by his side instead of mine. His arm was around me, his body pressed against my back, guiding my arm. I can almost feel the firm press of his chest against me, his muscled arm wrapped around mine. The memory of the kiss that followed is so vivid, so real. It brings fresh tears to my eyes.
Each memory stings more than the last, knowing those moments are now remnants of a past we can’t reclaim and a future we’ll never have.
Now, everything has fallen apart.
One misunderstanding and zero trust brought us to this place. Dak believes I’ve betrayed him and while the proof is damning, he never gave the benefit of the doubt, which tells me everything I need to know.
A solitary tear slides down my cheek, hot and bitter. My heart feels as if it is shattering into a million pieces. Other than when my parents died, this is the darkest moment I’ve ever faced. I never even felt half the pain I’m feeling now when Aaron died.
I set my cold coffee mug aside, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to hold the broken pieces together. While I long to turn back the clock, to correct the misunderstandings, to plead my innocence again, I know it would be a waste of time.
I shot myself in the foot when I decided to have an affair with one of my clients. I made my own bed and now I have to lie in it.
Pat: Can I call you?
Me: I don’t want to talk right now. Maybe in the morning.
Pat: I haven’t seen your pretty face in weeks.
Me: You must think I’m dying. You never call me pretty.
Pat: Your nephew wants to talk to you.
Me: That’s playing dirty.
Pat: He wants to show you his new Lego set. Should I tell him you don’t feel like it because you’re moping around the house?
Me: I’m not moping around the house. I got a new job. I’m busy.
Pat: See, I didn’t even know that.
Oops, did I forget to tell her?
Pat: Maybe you should call him, Trina.
This conversation sounds so familiar.
It’s like déjà vu.
Me: What good would come from calling him? He believes I wrote and sent that letter. There’s nothing left for me to say.
Pat: He’s definitely a dick, but you care about him in a way I’ve never seen you care for a man before.
Me: Yeah, but people let go of things they care about every day, Pat.
dak
I standat the edge of the rooftop bar, the city lights spread out below me like a dazzling sea. The skyline is beautiful but hollow, like a beautiful painting missing its most vibrant color. All I can think about is Katrina.
Her smile.
Her laugh.
