I sit there for hours, sifting through every memory and every photo. I hadn’t wanted to do this because the memories are too painful. I miss Vic so much. The ache in my chest burns, and thesilence of his absence torments me. What could have made him give up on us? Did he find someone new?
That thought alone makes me spring upward and grab my phone. I bite my lip, imagining him with someone else. No one could ever share a love like ours. The very thought churns my stomach violently. And the idea of him fucking someone else—it forces me to remember him, the way we were together, and how good it was.
The darkness he carried wasn't a result of sadness or anger. It was a pulse of primal desire. The way he gripped me, wrapping his fingers around my throat as we collided, bending me over, thrusting into me with an unrelenting pace, leaves me sinking to the floor, clutching the picture of us that we took after his father died. That was the moment he fully embraced his darkness, and I joined him.
He was uncontrollable in bed, and I was insatiable for his violent nature. I craved him as fiercely as he craved me. But even in our most dangerous throws of passion, there was a pull to each other we couldn’t resist. It made every look he gave me and every touch he offered feel like molten fire on my skin. We were a collision of need and pain, morphing into the rawest form of love. His inner turmoil spilled over, dragging me down with him. It was suffocating, dangerous, and thrilling all at once. And I’d never felt more alive.
I was addicted to him as much as he was addicted to me. Our shared madness teetered on obsession because loving him meant embracing our darkest parts, and that’s what scarred me the most. Acknowledging that I had them, too, was the most brutal truth to accept. I imagined living with him, and sometimes I pretended that our shared memories, even the blood and the pain, were what made our home. It could never be tainted because our love was the road that led us there, not a physical place. But that dream was fleeting. After graduation,we spent that last summer together, desperately clinging to everything except the reality of the time we had left.
It’s with that thought that I do what I know I shouldn’t, but rational thought is long gone. So I grab my phone and dial his number. It rings and rings, and with each chime, it chisels into my chest just a little bit more. Just when I think it will go to voicemail, someone answers. At first, there's only silence. I pull the phone back, wondering if the call ended. When I see it hasn’t, I call out, “Vic?”
But then I hear it. A small, feminine voice answers, “Hello.”
I blink, disbelieving, until I ask, “Who’s this?”
Her voice grows louder and a little bolder. I hear a huff. “Who’s this?” she counters.
My stomach drops. I collapse to the floor, clutching my chest. I hear a toilet flush, and then a door open.
“Baby, are you okay?” Her muffled voice asks who I can only assume is Vic.
“Chloe, do you have my phone?” he asks, confirming my worst fear.
Then the line goes dead. And so does my heart. The road I thought would always lead to Vic is gone, and I’m left standing alone.
FIFTEEN
DANI
Four Years Later
Age 22
Sighing, I rise from my chair in the auditorium that has been my world for the last four years. I glance around one last time, committing the familiar rows and faces in them to memory, before picking up my test and making my way to the front of the class. I pause for a moment, letting the weight of my accomplishment settle in, savoring this fleeting victory.
Although I wasn’t able to attend Dartmouth, I did my best under the circumstances. Soon, I will become a registered nurse upon completing my boards, and I am excited about this new career path. Working as a technician in the emergency department has allowed me to learn on the job and has prepared me for the next step in my career. It gives me the chance to give back and advocate for patients like my mom or those who seek care because they don’t have a primary care doctor and lack the financial means to access better healthcare.
My lip twitches as I place my paper face down on the desk for the last time at this school. I walk out feeling lighter than I have in weeks. Taking long strides, I push open the door and make my way toward my car in the crowded parking lot. Our class will hold a ceremony for those who passed the nursing program, and then it’s on to the boards, where I’ll earn my RN license and move beyond my patient care tech pay. I am beyond excited and more than ready to make it happen.
I open the door, place my tote on the passenger seat, and retrieve my phone, which I then power on. As I start the car, a flood of messages and voicemail notifications pop up, forcing me to put the car back in park to see what’s going on. When I see it’s the nursing aid who stays with my mom, calling repeatedly, my anxiety spikes. I call her back and rush home.
She answers on the second ring. “Angeline?” I don’t even wait for her response before my words tumble out. “What happened? Is Mom okay?” My voice rises as I speed through traffic, my heart pounding as I rush to get to my mom. Luckily, it’s still early, and the city hasn’t reached its late afternoon chaos yet, leaving the streets mercifully open.
“Dani,” she whispers into the phone, “your mom has taken a turn for the worse. When I couldn’t reach you, I called the hospice line. A nurse from Horizons Hospice is here now, waiting.” I gasp, the words slicing through me.
“I was finishing up my exam,” I say apologetically, my voice breaking at the poor excuse. “I didn’t know….my phone was off for the exam.”
“Dani. This isn’t your fault,” she replies, her tone comforting, yet firm, trying to break through my downward spiral. “It could have happened any time. We knew this was imminent. It is nothing short of a miracle that she has lasted this long.”
Of course, I know she’s right. But knowing doesn’t soften the blow. If this is true, then the moment I’ve been dreading has finally come.
“She is on the couch,” she continues cautiously, “and the nurse placed a Foley catheter to drain her bladder and make her comfortable.” My vision blurs at the onslaught of sudden tears. I let out a shaky breath as the inevitable reality I’ve tried to postpone finally arrives.
“Okay,” I manage to force out the following words. “How long do I have?” I veer off the freeway, taking the next intersection too sharply, as I make a beeline for the apartment complex that has been our makeshift home since leaving our real one behind. “Almost there,” I mutter into the phone, though the words feel more like a plea than a statement, as I wait for her response.
“She received some medication to make her comfortable, but I think it may be soon, so please hurry.” With that, I end the call.
Ten minutes later, I slam the car into park and sprint toward the apartment. The door flies open, my bag slipping from my shoulder and hitting the floor as I rush to the couch. And then I see her. My mom lies there so still, and the gravity of the situation crashes down on me. This is it. I was given more time with her than I thought possible, but now the moment has come, and I don’t know if I am strong enough to let her go. My knees hit the floor, and I clutch her hand in both of mine, making promises into the void to anyone that would answer, letting her stay just another day with me.
