Roads Not Taken
DAN
Hints of a cranberry bog, sweet and tart, cling to my hands from bracing Johanna—strongest on the finger that touched her skin for the first time in decades.
I’ve seen her. Touched her. Talked to her.
She’s everything I remember and, yet, so changed. Still the graceful girl who danced into my heart and never quite left, no matter how hard I tried to forget her.
Greater poise. Her wit narrowed to sharp points wielded with care rather than rough edges still smoothing over. She’s more self-contained.
More fragile, too. That last because of Max.
Possibly also our surprise encounter.
The alpha that lurks within me, a coil of frustrated wishes and desires, eases when I’m close to her, just as it did long ago. She always had that effect on me and him, helping us find fragments of peace in an unsettled world. Something I lost when she turned away—no, when Iforcedher to make the choice that turned her away.
I can’t go back and unwind the years, though I’ve stared back, wishing I could, more often than I’d like. I used to be full of fire and fury, but life has forced me to confront my own rough edges. Finding ways and developing habits that favor control and caution took a long time.
We make mistakes, we make amends where we can, and regardless, we move on. Life is an accumulation of mistakes, regrets, amends, and roads not taken.
For all I’ve been and done in the last thirty-odd years, Johanna ranks among the top of my ‘roads not taken.’ Hell, roads dug up and pitted with boulders.
Scorched earth.
My fault, that. A mistake for which I’ve never made full amends, though by some measures, it cost me far more than it did her. That’s guesswork, though, as we’ll never know.
I follow the trio through the halls and foyers. The dwindling crowds from the memorial service and usual hotel customers provide cover. I’m just another person among many wending their way—and hardly the only one who gives them a second or third glance or outright stare. Even draped in unrelieved black, Johanna’s lush curves make watching her walk a pleasure.
She never looks back.
Corin Shallot notices me following, as does his daughter.
Neither shares many features with Max, at least the Max I remember, or images of him in the subsequent years. Somewhat similar about the eyes and the tilt of their heads as they watch the world. They’re clearly father and daughter, both alphas, complete with flashes of arrogance and entitlement—though we all stay on our best behavior and subdue any tendency toward establishing relative dominance.
According to my children, I’m well-supplied with arrogance and entitlement, too, no matter that I’ve tried to show them how faces and facades often lie.
As I walk through the exit doors, vents in the entryway blast warm air charged with neutralizers. I tuck my hand against my chest to preserve the last, lingering whiff of cranberry.
Outside a cool fall breeze carries a host of natural odors. Falling leaves. Fresh baked bread. Exhaust flows from one of the last gas-powered cars hanging on, a big beast that lurks on the far side. Instead of heading for it, Shallot guides Johanna to a smaller, but still luxurious town car with solar panels on the roof and a discrete placard in the window identifying it as belonging to a local for-hire company.
Shallot gives me a final nod before getting in with her.
A whoosh in the distance marks the passage of a tram along the street near the hotel. The doors chime as it comes to a stop at the corner, and some mourners hurry down the walkway to catch it. Most folk travel by tram or hired solar car, but I live in a twisted corner of a suburb in the city heights.
Papers tucked in my coat pocket crinkle as I retrieve the ticket for my car. I hand it to a waiting valet. No need to return to the hotel; I’ve seen what I came to see, spoken with her, touched her.
It’s not enough. I want to meet her again. To deliver an apology, if she’s willing to hear it.
Shallot’s daughter doesn’t leave in the car. She stalks straight over, giving me a thorough examination with clear signs of disapproval.
Back when I was young, when I first knew Johanna and Max, a look like that would’ve resulted in raised hackles and hard words. No need now, though, to puff my chest and prove my dominance. I wait for her to finish, and then, when she doesn’t speak, I wait longer to see if she’ll break the silence between us first.
She tries to stare me down, but the valet returning with my vehicle interrupts our interaction. My electric zipzap is a far cryfrom a luxury solar town car. It’s basically a motor, four seats, four tires, and a protective shell, earning a tiny nod from her, but she still neither speaks nor leaves.
I tip the valet and turn to her, car waiting. No sense prolonging things. “Is there something you need, Ms. Shallot?”
“Father asked me to check whether you’re coming to the meeting Tuesday. You haven’t confirmed.” Her voice, light and mild, holds no hint of censure, merely a request for information.
