DANI
Iawake before the sun rises, and the sins from last night still cling to me. Sleep doesn’t come after what I did. It wasn’t a choice, it was a compulsion—a need to help her when no one else would. But it drags up memories I try to keep buried of the night I covered up Vic’s father’s murder. He was a monster, one who got away with murder and cruelty. He deserved what came to him, yet holding Vic afterward, feeling the scales of right and wrong tip in my hands, reminds me how convoluted everything is, how a man like Vic can be inherently good, yet harbor such a dark side. Now, in a similar situation, having played jury and executioner myself, I ache for Vic, for him to hold me, to whisper that everything is going to be okay, even though the darkness that I’ve fully embraced tells me otherwise.
I don’t know if Vic has called. That night, when I heard Chloe pick up his phone, something inside me snapped at the intimate way she called him “baby.” I powered my phone off and tossed it into a box, locked away with all our memories. A black ribbon tied it shut, a symbolic ribbon to be cut only in emergencies—my own personal Pandora’s box.
The next day, I bought a new phone. I had a new number. And a chance to start a new life without him. But in the end,I couldn’t do it. When the sales associate asked if I wanted to trade in the old phone, the one still crammed with our texts and voicemails, I shook my head. I couldn’t sever him from my life altogether, even though it felt like I already had. I needed a return path, however slim the chance might be. I kept the phone and the number active, keeping that lifeline connected to a past I refused to let go. It offered a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, a miracle was still possible.
That night after delivering my version of justice to that man, I came home desperate for someone who might understand. I lifted the single framed picture of us and placed it reverently on my nightstand. The phone went on the charger, while the rest of the box’s contents lay scattered across the floor. The black ribbon is discarded there in tatters. This will force me to see him every day. To remember him every day. But why does it torment me so much?
I have no idea. Perhaps it’s punishment, my penance for never telling him the truth, for letting him believe my disinterest was anything but exhaustion from caring for my mother, working, and attending school. And now, what do I have to show for it? I am alone, surrounded by wonderful friends, yet they have their own lives and families, leaving me with my solitude.
That’s how I find myself here, clutching the box that holds my past. One foot propped on the bed, I rest it in my lap, hesitant to open it. Once I do, there’s no turning back.
“Fuck it.” I rip the top off, letting its contents spill freely on my freshly laundered sheets. The first morning rays peek through the blinds, but I’m not ready for them. I rise and shut them tightly, shrouding the room in the illusion of night. My dim lamp's glow casts a warm, intimate presence over the scattered memories as I lift the first photograph, feeling the weight of all my choices.
And my heart shatters. Memories of us come flooding back as I lift every photo from the box, reliving each unforgettable moment frozen in time. I retrieve some tape from my desk drawer and begin the tedious ritual of affixing each picture to my bedroom walls. Once it is done, I finally step back and take in the shrine I created for Vic. Everywhere I turn, I’m surrounded by him, by the man I still love, and will likely love until the end of time. I collapse onto my bed, tears flowing freely down my face. For the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to mourn. I mourn for my mother, for the boy I once loved, and the man who continues to reside in every corner and consume the entirety of my heart.
Finally, I pick up the phone and power it on. One by one, the voice messages ping, each a fragment of the past I tried to ignore. Countless messages went unanswered, and yet I see that it's only been a few months since Vic last reached out. I hit the arrow button.
I graduated today from medical school and am now starting my residency program in Boston. Another four years of nights spent buried in books. Mornings running on fumes. I thought the moment would feel like a victory, but the only thing I felt was emptiness because you weren’t there to share it with me. I kept looking, hoping that by some twist of fate, I’d look up and see you in the stands. But now I know that you're never coming.
I tried to find you, you know. I went to your house, but you no longer lived there. I even hunted down Brandon, but he wouldn’t tell me what happened. I wished for any breadcrumb of information.
Where did your mom go, Dani? Where did you go?
I need you to know that I’m genuinely sorry. I should have stayed. I should have fought harder for us. That Halloween, when I came down to surprise you because I just missed you sodamn much, I saw you outside with him. I saw the way he held you, and I thought, "How could I be so easily replaced?" But Brandon told me it was never like that. That he was just helping you out and selling the house. I kept replaying that night, watching you in his arms, and it broke me. I’m not a good man, Dani. And now all I have are the ghosts of us, and the life we could have had.
The call ends abruptly, and I sit there stunned. I look back at all the times he called, each message a testament to his continued persistence. I was never aware of all the calls. I grasp the phone like a lifeline to Vic himself. After I’ve cried until I thought there was nothing left, wading through self-pity and despair, I decide to take a shower. Tears continue to fall, and my body shudders with tremors I can’t stop. This must be what dying of a broken heart feels like.
After all this time, he thought I cheated on him. Why would he believe that? I never gave him the whole truth, and I will forever regret that decision. It has caused so much unnecessary pain. I thought I was doing the right thing. As I replay the voicemail, the realization hits me. Vic would have stayed behind. I loved him, so I let him succeed, knowing he wouldn’t have graduated from his residency this year if I hadn’t. My sacrifice and silence were done to give him that chance, yet the cost to us has been detrimental.
Dressed in a pair of pajama pants and one of Vic’s old sweat shirts, I step out of the bathroom and scream, clutching my hand to my chest. Emerald green eyes track me as she lounges in my chair, legs crossed beneath her.
She whistles. “Dang girl, I would’ve never thought.” Her gaze sweeps over the hundreds of photographs plastered against every inch of sheet rock, and for the first time, I see how stalkerish it looks. “This shit makes Evie look tame,” shechuckles, rising from the chair, walking toward me. “How are you, sweets?”
I plant a hand on my hip. “Are you for real right now?” I fling my other hand outward. “What are you doing in here?” But then maybe, she is here to tell me I need to run. Oh, God. Have the cops found out? Are they looking for me?
As if sensing my wayward thoughts, she snaps her fingers in the air. “Hey, girlie. Where’d you go? You’re fine. Everything's fine,” she says coolly. She flicks her long blonde hair calmly over her shoulder, tucking it neatly behind her ears.
Her actions are a stark contrast to my increasing agitation. So I restate my question, now that the feeling of dread is gone, knowing that I’m safe. “What are you doing here, Em?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” She chuckles. “I came to see you, silly goose.”
I stare in disbelief. “Obviously.” My face crinkles in confusion. “But how did you get in here?” I ask suspiciously.
She shrugs, casually picking imaginary lint from her shirt. “The door was open, so I came in.”
I know for a fact that I locked it, but I’ll give her this, deciding to let it go. Maybe I don’t really want to know. It may be harmless or not, but after last night, I think we all have our issues.
“Right,” I mutter, neither buying nor arguing about it. Then she beams at me, knowing she’s won.
“So what’s all this?” she asks. Her hand slowly sweeps around the room.
I cross my arms over my chest and huff. “How long do you have?” I counter, my voice edged with defensiveness.
“Oh. Is it going to take long?” She seems totally unbothered by this admission, and almost, do I dare say, excited? “I should let Gus know he can leave.” She plucks out her phone, sends a quick text, then pockets it just as quickly. “Do you have wine?”
I glance at the clock and then back at her, measuring how much patience I have left after a night of no sleep and now this.
