“He’s retiring when he gets home.” I twirl around Bree in the dance studio, sliding seamlessly through the steps I’ve been practicing for the past year. It’s my coping mechanism. I might be falling apart inside, but I keep moving, keep dancing. “I just need to be patient.”
And trust him. I trust Cole more than anyone on the planet.
“I don’t understand why he couldn’t retire before he left.” Bree crosses her arms and stares at the ceiling. “It’s the silence that concerns me the most.” She sighs. “Danni, you must be asking yourself… What if he doesn’t show up for the wedding? It’s only a week away.”
I lose my footing, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are closed, as if that could hide the worry on her face.
“Can you at least try to move through his steps?” I grip her shoulders and wait for her gaze to find mine. “I want our first dance to be perfect.”
“I’m not the one who needs to practice. Even if he showed up today, how will he learn this routine in a week?”
He was supposed to be home a month ago. Something’s happened. I feel it like a gaping jagged hole in my gut, but I refuse to examine it. I can’t. I need to focus on the wedding. It’s the only thing keeping me from crumbling.
“Let’s run through the song again.” I walk toward the sound system.
“No.” She blocks my path and places her hands on my face. “I’ve been humoring this…this cloud of hope you’re floating on long enough. We’re at T minus six days, and your groom is nowhere to be found. You haven’t heard from him in months—”
“Four months.” I turn away and walk toward the wedding dress hanging in the corner. “Four months, ten days, twenty-two hours.”
That’s the last time I received an email from him. Over the past year, we talked on the phone five times. Short calls. The connection was horrible with a frustrating delay. But he sounded well, if not tired. We exchanged several emails in the first few months. Then they became more sporadic, with longer and longer stretches between his responses. Until nothing at all.
“He promised me he’ll back in time.” I run a hand over the white tulle skirt of the dress. “We talked about the wedding in every message. He picked the date.” My voice thins. “He said he could learn the dance in a month.” And make me orgasm in awe of his skills.
My chest squeezes painfully. Why is he a month late?
Every day away from him is an eternity in hell. But the last four months of silence, not hearing a word, not knowing if he’s okay is like a poison, dripping into my organs, spreading toxins of doubt, and making me ask all the questions Bree has finally worked up the nerve to voice.
Why didn’t he say fuck it and break the employment contract?
Why did he leave me?
Why hasn’t he emailed me?
What if he doesn’t show up for the wedding?
What if he never comes back?
When he stopped emailing, I called the government building downtown. No one would connect me with his department. They wouldn’t even acknowledge his employment there. When his one year came and went, I waited a week before I showed up at the building. The armed guards wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t ring his boss—whoever that is—and they definitely wouldn’t let me inside.
I have no way to reach him.
No way to ease this soul-gutting desolation.
I straighten my spine with the reminder of his promise. He loves me, and he’ll do everything within his power to return to me.
For the next two hours, Bree and I chill on the couch in the front room, sharing a bottle of wine. She’s been spending more time with me recently, her concern for my mental state growing more blatant with each visit.
“I need to go, Danni.” She glances at her phone. “Or the family won’t eat.”
“Thanks for coming.” I stand and follow her to the door. “You don’t have to, but I really appreciate the company.”
“I know you do.” She hugs me, breathing into my hair, “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She opens the door and falters. “Oh, sorry. Umm…”
“Danni Angelo?” A middle-aged man in a dark suit looks past Bree to gaze unerringly at me.
“Yes?” I step next to Bree. “That’s me.”
“I’m Robert Wright.” He clasps his hands in front of him.
His expression’s warm, friendly, but there’s a trace of something else in his eyes. Intelligence? Rigidness? I can’t put my finger on it, because there no emotion there at all.
“As a representative of GAO, U.S. Government Accountability Office, I’d like to speak to you about your fiancé, Cole Hartman.” His nose twitches with a soft sniff. “May I come in?”
A simple update on Cole’s whereabouts could’ve been done over the phone. A house visit brings ugly news. The most vicious kind of news.
My stomach caves in, and Bree grabs my hand, clutching tightly.
“Yes, come in.” I move on numb legs as the hole in my gut fills with harrowing dread.
“Can we sit?” He gestures at the couch, already lowering in the chair that sits perpendicular.
Bree and I perch side by side, and I clutch her hand like a lifeline. A lump of ice lodges in my throat, freezing my voice and shredding my breaths. Time stands still.
“There’s no easy way to say this, Miss Angelo.” His eye contact is firm, his face composed. “There was an accident at the…”
A low keening sound crawls from deep inside me, and blinding pain bursts behind my eyes.
Bree wraps her arms around me, her voice thready. “At the oil terminal?”
“Yes, the oil terminal. An explosion killed several contractors.” He sits taller, adjusts the drape of his tie. “I’m sorry, Miss Angelo. Cole didn’t make it.”
I blink rapidly as his words sink in and suffocate the life from me. An uncontrollable, sobbing meltdown works its way to the surface, but I deny it, swallowing over and over to clear my voice.
“When?” I ask hollowly, barely a whisper. “When did it happen?”
“Four months ago. His remains were exhumed from the wreckage, returned to the States, and identified.” As Robert stands, he seems to make an effort to soften his voice. “His body was cremated and his financial assets will be transferred to you, per his request. Someone from our office will be in contact to help you make funeral arrangements.”
Bree untangles her hand from mine, crying quietly as she walks him to the door. They exchange words, details about the death, contact information, but I can’t make sense of it over the ringing in my ears and the brutal shaking through my body.
That’s when the wailing starts. Like a spout busting loose, the pain shoots from my vocal cords and doubles me over. I don’t hear the door shut, don’t feel the couch beneath me, don’t taste the tears flooding my face. The agony is all-consuming, crippling my body, twisting me into something unrecognizable, and spiraling me into a shapeless, hopeless place.
Bree’s arms come around me, and that’s where they stay. She holds me through the funeral. Through the burial of his ashes on my wedding day. Through Mom and Dad’s visit from Florida. She doesn’t leave my side until summer ends and school begins, and she’s forced to return to work.
I heard once that hardship brings the true nature of a person to light. If that’s true, I’m a deeply angry woman, seething with hatred and resentment. The rage is powerful and incapacitating, like a beast roaring and pacing inside me and pointing blame.
He left me.
He broke his promise.
He lied.
He’s not coming back.
As the bitterness threatens to smother me, I welcome it. I climb into the darkness, lugging a bottle of hard alcohol with me. When the booze doesn’t numb, I break things. Like the mirror I just shattered with an empty fifth of whiskey.
Two months after Cole’s funeral, I lie on my back on the floor of the dance studio, stinking to high heaven and staring at the broken image of my reflection. I look like a monster with jagged teeth protruding out of my sunken, miserable face.
I’m drunk. I haven’t showered since…whenever. I closed my dance school indefinitely. I canceled life, my future, everything.
I’ve been okay with checking out. Until now—staring at my splintered self in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman reflected back at me. She’s hideously sad and pathetic and weak. I hate her, because she’s not who I thought I was.
My inebriated brain sparks with life, and I sit up, swaying with disorientation.
Fighting hurts. Living without Cole hurts. But nothing’s as painful as hanging onto the broken pieces of a dream. Doesn’t matter what I choose—stay here or move forward—he’s gone. Giving up on life won’t bring him back.
After several failed attempts, I climb to my feet and stagger toward the shower. Every step is small and laborious, but I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I focus straight ahead and allow myself a grain of hope.
Hope that one day I’ll look back and appreciate the distance I covered.