I smile faintly. “Sounds familiar.”
She huffs out a laugh.
“I’d already been hurt,” she continues. “So I told him it wasn’t going to work. Made damn sure we didn’t even get lift-off before I could get my heart broken again. I didn’t think I could handle it.”
I shift slightly. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
She looks at me. “And let me tell you something. If I could do it again?”
My heart thumps in my chest.
“I’d love to give it a go. Even if it meant I had to get my heart ripped out.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Because at least I’d know I tried.” She smiles thinly. “I don’t get my heart ripped out these days. I have the shop, my dog and I live a quiet, happy life. I enjoy it. I’ve stopped having regrets. But there was a time when I wondered what could have been.”
Silence settles over the shop, and I look down at the letter in my hands.
Then at my journal, and at my phone.
But unfortunately, none of it feels like the answer I’m looking for.
That night, I decide it’s time.
The boxes have been sitting in my basement since the move—half-forgotten, half-avoided.
Not anymore.
I throw on some Zach Bryan, bring them up to my living room, and start digging in.
It’s the kind of stuff we all keep.
Little artifacts of a life that doesn’t quite exist anymore.
A plane ticket to Barcelona from Evan and me, early on, when everything still felt easy.
I turn it over in my hands for a second.
Then toss it into a new pile.
Burn.
A wooden trinket he bought me on that same trip.
An eagle.
I never even liked it. Just kept it because that’s what you do.
Burn.
A couple of books Evan gave me.
Inside covers full of notes that used to mean everything.
Burn.
