My mom and dad gave me everything I could ever want or need growing up, and I spat in their face for it, blaming them for my own mistakes and choices. Life came easy to me because they put me in a position to make it easy. That’s what you do for your children.
And I blamed them for my cowardice and fear.
Strangely, though, hearing Sophie tell me—without hesitation—that she would never choose me again cracked something inside of me that desperately needed to break. When I asked that question, I already knew the answer. It burned, but it also freed me. I could finally let go of something I was holding ontodesperately, unnecessarily. Hope. For her to take me back. For her to see that I was a better man.
In its place came clarity.
My therapist's words ring true. I cannot hinge my healing on anyone but myself. And I think, in the last few years, I’ve made good progress on recognizing my avoidant tendencies.
Rebuilding from the ground up was difficult. When I arrived in Maybrook, I didn’t know anyone besides my boss, Lori, but it seemed like a place for me to lay my head while I rebuilt.
And I did—very slowly. I worked at City Hall, attended all my therapy sessions, had late nights at the gym, and spent evenings alone in my small but safe studio apartment.
Rinse. Repeat.
I’ve kept in touch with Brian and Chris, even attending their weddings, which—thank God—were not here in Starling Cove. Brian and Maude moved to Manhattan for her job. While Chris and Adriana stayed in Starling Cove, he married Adriana in her hometown in Pennsylvania.
We still meet up when we can, and Maude no longer looks like she’s imagining ways to kill me. It helps that Chris and Adriana’s kids now steal everyone's attention.
I’ve kept up with my therapy appointments, putting the techniques I’ve learned to good use when I wake up from a nightmare and want to collapse in one myself. I’ve learned that healing isn’t linear, and sometimes progress looks like breaking down in your shower when your feelings overwhelm you.
The last time that had happened was when I was unpacking my things in my new apartment. My bag had overturned as I tried to shove it into my one closet, and it had spilled out some random items, or so I thought.
As I was picking up random papers, documents, and phone chargers, my hand froze when I saw Sophie’s engagement ring and the Polaroid I had kept of her—the one of her blowing me akiss. I don’t even remember shoving them in his bag, though my mind wasn’t really running at full speed during those months.
It’s probably been in there since... that day. Or it was the universe taunting me. My karma.
My legs gave out, and I collapsed to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably as my grief exploded out of me. The ring still sits in the bottom of my sock drawer. Pawning it seemed wrong, and throwing it in the ocean like the old lady from The Titanic seemed worse.
So it stays with my socks, buried deep in the drawer, a reminder of the worst day of my life. A reminder of my enormous fuck up.
Every once in a while, I see it and break it into pieces. Every break is less and less frequent.
I’m stronger now than I was before, and that counts for something.
Now, I stand in the heart of Starling Cove’s Harvest Festival and take it all in.
My mom brought me with her today, wanting to grab some baked goods for Thanksgiving on Thursday. I said yes to coming along, curiosity winning out in the end, of my wanting to see the town again, the familiar faces, and hopefully, time has allowed them to either forget or forgive.
The Harvest Festival stretches across the familiar field near Wilkins Stables, just like it has every year since I was a kid. Mr. Wilkins brings his ponies over for the kids to ride and leads them around a fenced path. The scent of fried dough and cinnamon from the food stalls drifts to my nose, making my stomach growl. Endless booths of residents selling handcrafted jewelry, knitted scarves, Christmas ornaments, and homemade baked goods.
It’s packed, the sunshine and mild weather bringing pretty much everyone from Starling Cove out on this Sunday before theholiday. The hum of laughter, of conversation, of pure happiness makes me smile as I absentmindedly walk from stall to stall.
I’m looking at handmade soaps for my mom when I hear someone shout behind me.
“Sophie!”
The name hits me like a lightning bolt. My entire body tenses and then moves on its own, whipping my head around to find the source. It’s a young girl, probably twelve years old, bouncing up to a familiar dark-haired woman whose back is turned to me. I don’t have to see her face, I already know who it is.
Sophie.
The little girl chattering away pulls a book out of a bag and shows it to her, and Sophie says something that makes the kid laugh. Then the girl turns and bounces away, and the woman turns too, just enough for me to see her profile.
I’m frozen in place as I get my first look at her in six years.
Six years.
I spent six years with Sophie. And now six years without her.
