They are celebrating her, but what? I can see the way their eyes were fixed on her, a mixture of adoration and love. These are clearly her people, and I have no idea who they are. My gaze scours the picture until I click on the caption. It says,Good luck, Dani!Then I see it buried in the hashtags. #Boston. The word stabs me through the heart—the feeling of shock and then excitement.
I drop my phone and snatch it back up. I knew it. I fucking knew she was here. My little angel has been following me. She’s been here. At least now I have proof that I’m not losing my mind. I hadn’t seen her that day, but I felt her presence. This small electric jolt always crackled between us, the pull of two opposite ends of a magnet aching for each other until they finally snap, bringing each other into its polar field of attraction. That’s always been us.
Dani and I were always in sync. I used to lean out my window across the way, and find her staring out hers, searching for me the same way that I ached for her. Years pass, but the thing we have doesn’t fade. It hardens into insistent longing, a hunger that will not be soothed. A craving for what is gone and the memory of what could still be. It isn’t nostalgia, it’s fate, and I can’t pretend it is anything else.
With that thought, I make up my mind. I need to keep a closer eye on things. I go to the closet and pull down the box. The one I swore I would never open again—my box of Dani. One by one, I draw out the photographs, setting them around the apartment until her face surrounds me. The picture on the nightstand has been the only one I allowed myself, the only reminder I could bear to keep in plain sight. The rest I buried, the loss too great. At the very bottom rests a small velvet box. I lift it carefully, almost reverently. The small hinges creak in protest when I open it, stiff from years of sitting idle, waiting for her. Inside, the diamond ring still waits, a half-carat stone in total, small by any standard measure, yet once bought with all my love for her. For us.
I purchased it for her when I left for college. A promise ring, not an engagement one, although in my heart it meant more than either. I never found the courage to give it to her before I left. By the time I returned, on the night everything in my life shifted, I thought I would finally place it on her finger. Instead, I left that night with a shattered heart and broken promises.
Now I laugh under my breath, bitter, yet strangely amused. What I could afford today makes this little stone almost laughable, and yet at one time it felt priceless. The cut is flawed, the quality imperfect, but it was bought with everything I had and with every intention of giving it to the only woman I have ever loved.
I slip the little box back into the drawer, closing it softly this time, and return to the glow of the phone screen. I fall further down the rabbit hole of her friend’s socials, then friends of friends, chasing every tagged photo, every possible glimpse of her. Hours blur together, my eyes burn, and the apartment is dark with night. Still, I scroll, caught in the chase, my pulse thrumming with the thrill of the pursuit, as I follow her throughthe endless maze of posts that might somehow close the distance between us.
By the time my phone flashes a red 1%, the sky outside is dark, and the moon is high. I put the phone on the charger and drag myself to the kitchen. The silence in the apartment seems louder than before. I pour a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid catches the dim light of the crystal glass, shooting a thin prism across the wall. I take a long, slow swallow, anything to calm my racing mind and the heartbeat in my chest, to quiet the surge of excitement from seeing her on my phone screen. I tell myself this drink is to decompress, but I know better. My mind won’t rest until I have her with me once again.
TWENTY-SEVEN
DANI
I've been at my job for about a week now. Too many close calls with Vic in the emergency room have left me grateful to be away from that chaos. The whole reason I moved to the Boston area was to reconnect with him, yet I still haven’t managed to do so. I keep finding excuses, telling myself it’s not the right time. But deep down, I know the truth. I’ve been a coward.
I didn’t confess before he left, thinking I was doing the right thing. But all I did was make us both suffer. It doesn’t seem like he has moved on either. From the few glimpses I’ve had, watching from afar, he has almost become detached from all emotion, and in a way that makes him nearly untouchable. I was the only one to experience his softer side, and he hasn't shared it with anyone else. No girlfriends. No partners. There are no traces of a life someone his age would lead. No public social media. No distractions either. Just work, a grueling schedule, as though he’s drowning himself in it to keep everyone away.
Today, my coworkers from the ED are here for department continuing education. They must maintain their trauma credentials because we are a Level One hospital, designated to receive patients with the most severe injuries, supported by thenecessary facilities and skilled staff to meet those demands. As a per diem nurse, I’m not required to attend. I’m due to meet them for lunch in about thirty minutes, and I’m excited to catch up. My full-time job is going well, and I’ve settled comfortably into my new office space, although I can’t bring myself to let go of my per diem work.
I have a plant in the small window, a motivational sign, and three pictures that hold deep significance on my desk. The first is of my mom. She represents my past. The photo was taken on the day we moved out of my childhood home, which we shared with my dad. After her divorce, she told me that we should never look back on what we’ve lost. I have since learned that it isn’t true. If I could change the past, I would in a heartbeat. I would have her with me, recognizing how she hid her sickness because she was all I had, forced to keep working instead of taking care of herself. Most of all, I would change how I handled everything with Vic.
The middle picture represents my present. It’s of my found family, the guys and gals who have become everything to me. They know my past, yet they still love me, darkness and all. They saw the parts of me that no one else did, applauded my efforts, and never thought I was crazy.
Lastly, there’s the picture of Vic and me lying in bed. I snapped it one morning, the sun just beginning to spill across the room. I stare at the phone while he snuggles into my neck. His dark trestles hang over his eyes, but it's his smile that gets me. His lips pull up in a smirk as he pretends to be asleep. Even though this photo belongs to my past, I cling to the hope that it will still be my future. I raise a hand to my lips, then lightly touch the frame that rests front and center on my desk, reminding me every day of the memory and longing that remain.
I glance at the time. Only fifteen minutes left until I meet the girls in the deli downstairs. It’s a small place tucked into the main floor, serving sandwiches, soups, salads, and Starbucksproducts. We agreed on noon, their lunch window, and I’ve been looking forward to it. I gather my tote, ready to leave when a soft rap of knuckles draws my attention to the door. It isn't fully closed, just as Samantha used to keep it, slightly ajar. That way, it was always open for anyone who might need her. Only now, it’s Samantha standing there.
“Hey!” I stand, walking over there with a grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be retired?” I narrow my eyes at her playfully.
Her hand lifts in mock surrender. “Yes, I am. Believe me. I have no intention of ever asking for my job back,” she laughs brightly. “I just had to meet with human resources, and I thought I would stop by to see how you’re settling in.” Her smile is radiant, and her face is soft and well-rested.
I glance around the room. “I’m settled. I love this job.”
“I’m glad,” she smiles warmly. “It’s good to know that someone truly passionate about end-of-life care has taken over.”
I grab my bag off the chair, about to suggest she take a seat, when she cuts me off with a slight shake of her head. “No, I just wanted to drop this off.” From her bag, she pulls out a metallic envelope, the weight of the paper evident before it even touches my hand. I look up at her, curious, and she flicks her finger toward it. “Go on. Open it.”
I tilt my head, studying her expression before sliding a finger beneath the seal and looking at her. “Okay,” I murmur, unfolding the ornate cardstock inside. The embossed lettering catches the light as I begin to read the invitation aloud.
“Admittance for one:Masks Under The Stars Masquerade Ball…” My voice trails off as I look at her quizzically.
“What’s this?”
Samantha’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “I thought it was self-explanatory,” she chuckles.
I tilt my head, weighing the card in my hand. “Well…yes and no. What am I supposed to do with it?”
She steps closer. Her hands come to rest lightly on mine, still holding the invitation. “You go and have fun.” She gives my hand a firm squeeze before letting go.
I nod, watching as she retreats toward the door, only to turn back suddenly. Her eyes glint with playfulness. “Who knows,” she teases. “Maybe you’ll find a charming doctor to chat up.” She waggles her brows, and then she’s gone, leaving the room quiet as my thoughts are roaring. I look down at the invitation, the metallic shimmer, making it appear magical, and my thoughts slip to Vic, wondering if he’ll be there. A smile curves at my lips as I begin to imagine how the night will unfold. Just then, the alarm from my bag chirps, where my phone is nestled in the pocket, reminding me that I need to leave if I am going to make it to lunch with the girls.
Walking into the hospital deli, I immediately spot the girls in line. Not wanting to cut, I give them a little wave, letting them know I’m here before heading straight to the to-go counter for my online order. I find a table big enough to fit all of us, Bethany’s ego included, before settling in. Unwrapping my chicken teriyaki special, I pair it with the Green Monster smoothie that Shioban swears tastes like grass. A wry smile tugs at my lips. Moments later, the girls flitter over, each collecting their own carefully labeled order. I shift in my seat, sliding over to make space for her to sit beside me.
