I don’t even know why I’m here. Never mind, I’m lying to myself. I know exactly why I’m here. Her letter— it shredded me. I can’t believe it took me two weeks to see it.
To be honest, I never go in that room. NEVER. It shames me and has for years. My heart feels empty when I walk in there. Maybe empty isn’t the right word. Bitter is more like it. The cold seeps into my skin and burrows deep into my heart and I come out really angry, a little depressed, and more lonely than when I went it. I avoid it as much as I can. I even walk around the block to check my mail.
Had the lawn care guy not pounded on the front door this morning, I wouldn’t have gone in there for months. He wanted to inform me that whoever had parked in my driveway was losing a lot of transmission fluid. He was concerned about someone having to shed out thousands of dollars in repairs. He was being kind and generous, and I thanked him. Then my worry drove me insane and I had to see her.
Which is why I called Isabella’s business today and lied about “my” delivery schedule getting screwed up and needed to know which wedding location my “flowers” were supposed to be delivered to. Then I called my sister and asked if I could borrow their delivery van for a trip into the city, which required more white lies when her curiosity got the better of her and the questions started rolling off her tongue. I love that she owns a flower shop that perpetuated my little white lies today, but I recognize the fact that I may burn in hell for them too.
I’ve lied more today than I have my entire forty-five years on this planet. I’m a very private person, and I just don’t want anyone to know my business until I know for sure that it’s going to work out. What if she won’t talk to me? What if she’s already moved on? What if I’m the fucking idiot and read too much into her letter? These are the things that have my stomach doing flips and churning acid.
“...I don’t look like her so why would you call me by her name?” That one sentence haunts my soul. When did I call her Olivia? I don’t recall doing it, and I am damn sure it was Bella on my mind when we were hot and heavy in the moment. I wish I could play back my memories of that night like a movie for her to watch. She would know for sure that she was the one in them. Every thought, every moan, every pleasurable moment was with her.
She accuses me of the one thing I feared doing the most. I’ve tried thinking it through all day today. Am I forcing my great memories of Olivia into my time with Isabella? My brain is having trouble separating the two, and I think it’s because they both make me feel the same way. They both smell the same way. Bella is right though, they look nothing alike.
She looks even more beautiful this weekend than when I last saw her. How is that possible? But she isn’t as happy. She’s distracted and has been lost in thought many times since I’ve been watching her. Her eyes are dull, sad almost, and her smile only appears when someone approaches. It’s one of those half smiles of acknowledgment and not the overtly friendly kind she usually gives.
“Hi, Sir,” the bride and groom approach me from behind. “Are you having a good time?”
“Yes, thank you,” I say. “It’s a beautiful wedding. What a gorgeous facility.” I throw in to appear friendly.
“Yes, it is. Thank you,” the bride smiles in reply. “Are you a friend of my father’s?”
“No, actually,” I say. “I’m a guest of the wedding planner. I’m just here to view the facility and her processes to see if I want to hire her.” Fucking great, another lie. I may be in hell before the night is over at this rate.
“Oh, how exciting! She’s amazing to work with,” the bride squeals and gives me an excited, congratulatory hug while the groom shakes his head in agreement and pats my back.
“Yes, she even went out of her way to make sure I felt included in the process saying it’s my wedding too,” the groom says gesturing to himself. “I really appreciated that. I just want this to be the most special day for Julie.” And they kiss each other quickly on the lips and rub noses together.
You can tell he’s enamored with his bride, and that’s the way it should be. I’m sure had Olivia and I made it to our day, we would have been the same way— crazy in love, and god willing would still be that way.
The DJ calls for the bride and groom over the microphone for their first dance, and away they go, practically spinning to the dance floor. The crowd parts for them, and we all form a weird kind of oblong, circle around them with so many guests. They dance to “Say You Won’t Let Go” by James Arthur and by the end of the song, the crowd is singing to the bride and groom.
The photographer eventually moves from inside the circle, and my eyes lock on Isabella. Her eyes round over with surprise to see me on the other side of the crowd. I can’t tell if it’s a good surprise or not, her face is unreadable.
My foot moves toward her, but I suddenly hesitate. My brain wants to go to her, but my heart isn’t sure she wants me. We both stand motionless for what feels like an hour when she turns and runs. I watch her push people to the side to get out of her way, and I freeze wondering which way is she running to get to me. But it finally dawns on me— she’s running away.
I pull out the nearest chair I can find and stumble into it. I rub my chest to ease the pain that is piercing it. My breath shudders as I try to breathe deeply to calm my pounding heart. What the fuck just happened?
Everyone around me continues to dance to the music while others talk amongst themselves in small groups gathered in circles. Others stand in line at the bar ordering or waiting for their drinks to be made. Life continues on while my fucking heart breaks.
Song after song plays and a few guests stop by the table I planted myself at. No one says a word, they simply gather their personal possessions and find another empty table to rest at.
I look out across the room, peering into every dark corner to make sure she isn’t hiding from me, but no, she isn’t in view. I mistook her letter. I must have. I came to apologize and beg for another chance. One that promises I will be more open, but maybe I waited too long to walk into my damn living room.
What does it take to turn back time? I’ll fucking do it. I swear to God almighty above I will. I shift in my seat and my keys fall out of my pants pocket. I scoop them up off the floor and push my index finger through the key loop. It appears that fate is telling me it’s time to go.
Without a goodbye to anyone, I leave this magnificent old building. I hope it’s kind to the only piece of my heart I had left. She left it there on the floor when she ran.