Slamming my water down on an end table, I admit the truth. I went into her room prepared to abandon her before she said a word. I chose the version of events that protected me. I believed what was convenient. I stayed quiet when my voice could have mattered.
In my mind’s eye, I see her now the way she was then—standing in front of me, chin lifted, eyes too steady for how much I know she was hurting. She begged. She cried. She pleaded with me to listen. Then, she gave up.
She looked at me like she was memorizing the shape of my face one last time before she threw me out.
That expression has haunted me longer than any headline or injury ever could.
Because that was the moment I realized she was done. She forced me out. But because she didn’t give me an explanation I could accept, I convinced myself she was guilty. That her silence after was an admission of guilt.
Today, seeing her again, I finally accept I’m partially to blame. I can almost hear the echoes of my words wrapped around her like chains holding her true self back.
Then apologize,the voice that’s popped up every so often in the last eight years taunts me.
It’s not that simple. I need to make her understand what I’m actually apologizing for. I’ll never forgive her for her actions.My cruelty, yes. This can’t be a wholesale apology that absolves her of her consequences. Nor can it be the kind of apology that eliminates my purpose—of ensuring she knows I regret any damage I caused her.
I close my eyes, breathing through the pounding in my skull. She broke something in me that night in her dorm room. As I’ve learned, broken things don’t heal the same.
8
SLOT SHOT: QUICK RELEASE FROM THE HIGH-DANGER SCORING AREA
Standing in my kitchen where I attempted to hard boil eggs for the first time in my life, I realize two key things. The first is that I obviously slept through the part of my life where I learned to be self-sufficient and the second is living in Willow Creek might be good for the local economy if I can’t figure out how to cook.
Sneering at the leaking yolks pooled at the bottom of the silver pot, I mutter, “I should have paid more attention when people used to cook for me.”
Just that quickly, I recall Amy was the first person to care for me in that way. She was appalled at the amount of fast food me and Mark ate.
Mark moaned, “We’re pathetic in the kitchen.”
She laughed, a sound that once again sends shivers down my spine due to our recent interaction. “Yeah. You’re pathetic all right.” Then she went into the kitchen and made us chicken, sweet potatoes, and broccoli.
Remembering the love with which those meals were prepared, I’m reminded of the doubts I’ve been having about her since I saw her a few days ago. Frustration has me flinging the pot into the sink. Just like the first time we met, I can’t get her out of my mind. At that moment, my phone lights up with a text.
Mark:
How are things in the country?
Me:
Discounting the fact I can’t cook worth a shit?
Mark:
We knew that.
Mark:
Go to The Honeyed Hearth.
My certainty that he knows Amy is here is absolute. He, too, must have run into Amy there. My fingers hover over the keys. I hesitate in discussing my run-in with Amy with him, though I’m not quite certain why. Instead, I divert his attention.
Me:
If I eat there too often, I’ll need to work out constantly.
Mark:
Just don’t do anything to mess up your head.
