I feel nauseous. This whole conversation has me tied up in knots. It’s those questions you need to know in a new relationship, but are afraid that knowing will ruin it before it has a chance to blossom. I’m sick with anxiety and am glad I didn’t eat tonight or I may have lost it all when I asked him my first question.

I’m trying really hard to be an adult and listen objectively. I’m trying to take it all in and form an intelligent opinion. Googling him is not an option. That would be an injustice to the truth, and the news can be so biased at times. I don’t want to play games with him. He’s a human being and deserves my focused attention and honest feelings.

The look in his eyes when he confessed that it was me on his mind when we made love, tore me up. I want to believe him with every fiber of my being. I think the smell of my shampoo and perfume might have overwhelmed him and brought her to his mind. I won’t change my scent though. It’s too great of a childhood memory for me, and apparently him too. We’re simply going to have to figure out how to get past it.

I honestly don’t want him to forget her, but damn it...I want to be his first thought at any moment in the future to be of me. Maybe that’s selfish, but I think any woman wants to be the first thought of their love.

I must be crazy for wanting to know all of this, but he’s opening up to me and for that I am grateful.

“I wear honeysuckle because it reminds me of my grandmother and her garden,” I explain, blurting out my thoughts so that he’ll understand I don’t torture him on purpose. He takes a final sip of his whiskey and I know he understands.

“Will there ever be an appropriate time and place for you to tell me how she died?” I ask. He runs his finger around the rim of his empty tumbler, probably praying for the bar to reopen.

“I killed her. That is enough to know,” he seethes under his breath. His anger is rising.

“Frank, I’m an intelligent woman. You probably think I don’t pay enough attention to the real world, being caught up in love details and wedding lace, but even I know that had you killed her— you’d be in prison. So tell me what happened? Don’t make me Google it.”

His face raises to mine in surprise. “It happened too long ago for that,” he insists.

“The media archives their files on the Internet, Frank,” I explain. “No news is too old for the cloud.”

He pulls out his phone and starts typing in the search box. I can’t make out what he’s searching for, but the look on this face is crushing the minute he gets his results. He closes the browser and blacks out his screen. Tears form in his eyes and his shoulders slump in defeat.

“There is practically nothing you can run from nowadays,” I inform him. “I know you live in a small community where everybody knows your business from the time it happens, but the Internet isn’t biased itself. It doesn’t forgive and it doesn’t forget. You might as well tell me what happened. I want to hear your version and not some tainted story skewed by opinion.”

“What’s going to change if you know?” he asks.

I shrug in quick defense for I simply don’t know how to respond. Will it change how I feel about him? If I trust him? How I respond to him, physically and mentally? I can’t say until I know.

“I honestly don’t know,” I reply, ”but I’m pretty damn sure it’s not going to be negative like you think it is.” He drops his head in defeat, shaking it almost violently.

“Bella, it’s like a piece of jewelry that is very special to you,” he says solemnly, taking a deep breath. “It’s beautiful and brings you joy to have and look at, and you take care not to break it or get it dirty. Until daily wear causes it to tarnish and it becomes ugly. It’s been a part of you for so long you’re pretty damn sure you need it to function, so you continue to wear it, wondering what you could have done differently to stop the tarnish. But you’d also be happy as fuck without the weight of it dragging you down or people staring at you wondering why you keep such an ugly thing so close. You finally give in and take it off. You try to leave it behind until time passes and you realize you’re lost without it. So you pull it back out and try like hell to shine it back up with daily rituals and special things to bring out its rich luster. It starts to shine again, but just a little bit, and so you keep at it. Holding onto it, remembering those feelings and you realize that you’ve found a small amount of joy again. But you’re so fucking afraid of the tarnish coming back you run and hide, not wanting anything to hurt it. I’m simply afraid.”

“Frank, please let me in,” I beg. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I grab his hands and squeeze them tight inside mine. His tears splash down on the table and the sound of silence between us makes my heart beat wildly. I feel his panic rising up. He won’t give in, but I won’t give up. “Damn you, let her go.”

“Famous last words,” he whispers. “I simply can’t.”

“God damn it, Frank,” I cry, slapping my palms on the table and making our glasses rattle. “You aren’t even trying. I want to love you. I want to fall into you with everything that I have. I’ve never felt this way about anyone and I’ve seen love on a daily basis. This feeling has to be it for it’s strong and it’s overwhelming. When we fall, it’s going to be beautiful, but you have to let it happen. Tear down your walls or let me climb them. Or stop dragging your feet in the dirt, and step towards me. Take an actual step. Fucking run if you have to, but move.”

“I wasn’t paying attention and she died,” he sobs, taking in deep breaths and sniffling his nose. He wipes his face on his shirt sleeve, not even bothered or embarrassed by his feelings on display. I grab his hands and hold them when I see them shaking.

“What were you doing, Frank?” I ask. “Tell me. It’s like ripping off a band-aid. The quicker the better, Frank.”

His hands tremor violently inside mine, but I’m holding him tight. My thumbs caress the tops of his knuckles slowly and steadily. We sit in silence for a long moment as he collects himself and I figure out how to get this man to understand I want to love him deeply.

“We were coming from my tuxedo fitting,” he shudders, taking in a ragged breath. He wipes his eyes that are now bloodshot and red-rimmed with overwhelming emotions. Instead of holding my hands again, he shoves them under this thighs beneath the table. “She was teasing me about putting sponsor stickers on my vest, just like my race car.” He laughs at the memory and I smile. I’m sure I would have enjoyed that conversation in hearing it. She sounds delightful.

He suddenly flinches and I know he’s picturing the scene in his mind. “Stop it, Frank. Don’t picture it,” I say emphatically. “Just erase the images and use words.”

“You started this roller coaster ride, Bella,” he says. “You can’t slam the brakes on now that we’re coming up the hill. This is the ride you asked to be on.”

“Alright. I’m listening,” I say.

“We were laughing and teasing each other,” he says again, smiling at the good memory. “You know, making up funny bumper stickers for the back of her wedding dress. If I was going to be sponsored for marriage, so was she. We were laughing so hard, we both had tears in our eyes. I know my light was green. I know it like I know my own fucking name. I’m a professional driver, and I don’t fuck up on lights.” He says soberly. His smile is gone and he sits up straighter in his seat, squaring his shoulders to finish the story.

“Bright headlights slam into her side of the car, and I slam on the breaks. I’m helpless because the car won’t stop. We’re being pushed and I have absolutely no fucking control, and we finally end up against a tree. My side is forced against the trunk of the tree, and I can’t get out. The car that hit us is tangled up against her side. He drove us right into the tree,” he describes the scene in horror. “The acrid smell of burnt rubber, hot brakes, and sweet coolant filled the air.”

“Take a break, Frank,” I beg. “Just take a moment to take a damn breath. You’re shaking like a leaf.” Droplets of sweat form on his face and the veins in his forehead are starting to pop as his anger rises at the driver.

“My whole fucking world was gone in less than ten seconds,” he whispers. “A fucking drunk driver who was dying a slow death of liver cancer wanted to go out on his own terms...and slammed into us.”

“Frank, you didn’t kill her. He did,” I plead with him to understand what I’m saying.

“No, Bella,” he murmurs, shaking his head violently again. “I killed her.”

“No! You didn’t,” I scream at him.

“We lay there broken and bruised,” he says. “I couldn’t move my legs. I was so woozy with a concussion and broken ribs, I was seeing double. I undid both of our seat belts and she slumped forward. I pushed her back, calling her name, but she wasn’t responding. I could see her chest moving and I pulled her wrist to my chest feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but her heart was still beating.”

I get up from the opposite side of the table and move to sit next to him. I wrap my arms around him and lean into him, giving him what little warmth I have left. His chilling words have left me cold and haunted.

“We were left out there for God knows how long. I think the police report said forty minutes since he pushed us onto private property and no one saw the wreck actually happen,” he says. “I must have passed out, because the next thing I know, the car is being pushed backward to free my door from the tree. His car had already been pulled free. Lights from the tow truck and fire trucks and ambulances were all around, blinding me. I reached for Olivia, to keep her steady while the car was moving, but I couldn’t hold her. I heard her neck crack, and I screamed. I.killed.her. I should have left her fucking seat belt on.”

He breaks down crying and shaking. His shoulders convulse as his cries wail out his grief. He’s a broken man tonight and it’s all my fault. Why didn’t I stop pushing him?  I tackle hug him, laying my body over his to get him to calm down. I whisper his name over and over again, shushing him like a mother would a crying baby, but he’s silent in his guilt and grief.

I get up and go to the makeshift bar looking for napkins or tissues, but find none. I rip open the stacked boxes that are packed away one by one, finding glasses and bottles of alcohol at first. Finally, I come across some napkins, grabbing a handful for Frank. When I turn around, he’s gone. I drop the napkins where I stand and watch the breeze blow swirl them up and into the air, floating across the mezzanine, carrying them away in the bay breeze. I race down the stairs, tripping and sliding several times and having to grab onto the banister to stay upright. I stop on the second floor and undo the straps quickly, kicking my heels up and into the air, before running barefooted after Frank.

I get to the front entryway and push open the main doors, only to watch the Moore Flowers van speed away.