Page 84 of Just Ten Seconds

“It was just a dream.”

“It was more than a dream. It was a memory,” I say.

His hand rises to my chin, and he pulls me into him. His kiss is soft enough to soothe my fears yet firm enough to let me know this is real. Where we are, what’s happening between us, is the present, not the past.

His hand runs along my cheek as he holds my head, weaving his fingers through my hair. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay. Guilt, confusion, happiness, relief … it’s okay because I’m going through it too. We’re in this together.”

I grip his hand and find myself swimming in a newfound emotion.

Fear.

I didn’t think I’d ever find it again, but I am very well on my way to falling in love with this man. And it’s frightening.

Frightening because I know that I very well run the risk of losing him.

Dean pulls me down into the bed, wrapping himself around me and cocooning me into the crook of his arms. I grip him tightly, feeling the heat of his body and breathing in his scent, etching every part of him into my memory forever.

As he kisses the top of my head, I close my eyes and hate myself for loving him.

Hours ago, I was making love to the greatest man I’ve ever known.

Now, I’m dreaming of the worst.

As hard as I try to run away from my past, to erase the pain, and distance myself from the hurt, I can’t.

Because as much as I try to hide it, there’s one truth I can’t escape.

My husband’s not dead.

And I have no idea how I’m going to tell Dean.

“Faccia bella,” Rita chimes when she sees me outside.

“Good morning,” I say, heading up her path on my walk of shame.

She eyes me with a mischievous gleam to her otherwise stoic face.

I walk over to the mailboxes and check the mail. First, I check Rita’s box, but she’s already brought her mail in. Next, I look in mine and grab the three envelopes inside. My credit card bill, a flyer for a local baseball camp, and a letter from Fishkill Correctional Facility.

“You want to talk about it?” she asks as I walk up the path. She has a hoe in one hand and shovel in the other. “You’ve been so busy lately; I haven’t gotten a chance to talk to you.”

My shoulders slump. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a terrible tenant.”

She pushes the air in front of her away as she shushes me. “You go out with your friends and live a good life. I’m here when you need a talk. And, now, it looks like you need a talk.” She uses the staircase banister to help her get on her knees beside the flower box.

“Can I help you with that?” I ask as she adjusts her housecoat so her knees aren’t pulling it.

“No. But you can sit and keep me company.” She points her small hoe toward the wooden steps of her front porch next to the mums I purchased for her at the market. “You have a package.”

I look by her front door and the large brown box that’s sitting there. It’s addressed to me, from the woman who raised me. I lift the box, move it to the edge of the steps, and take a seat with the box beside me.

“It’s from my mother,” I say, inspecting the size of the box. It’s pretty big but not that heavy. “She’s sending me memories.”

Rita doesn’t look up as she starts to dig a hole. “Memories are good.”

I play with the corner of the cardboard box. “Some are meant to be forgotten.”

“True. Like bell-bottoms. They didn’t look good on anyone in the sixties and should never come back.”