We have been here before. I am doomed to repeat the mistakes of my past. My father would be ashamed of me. What would my mother think if she were alive? Would she understand? Would she have broken all the rules to be with my father? I’ll never know.

I am sitting on my front porch in one of two white Adirondack chairs. A sweet tea sweats on the table next to me.

Aurora’s vehicle is large. A white suburban. I expected this earlier. I wonder how their auctioned off date went. I haven’t heard from Bryan since then. He is avoiding me and I am avoiding the truth of what they are. The king and queen. His crown may have fallen, but that means nothing. He will find it again.

His queen has pale hair – it’s nearly white now – and tan skin. She has a pink dress on. Typical.

I stand and walk to the edge of the porch. I clutch my glass to my chest. I need something to keep my hands busy. When she makes it to the halfway point of my walkway she looks up, and she smiles. It looks strange on her face. I’ve never seen her smile aimed my way. It’s not a full-mouthed smile. It’s not even a real smile, but it’s a smile. I don’t mistake it for an olive branch. Sometimes predators laugh before they eat you alive.

“Hi.” I offer a smile of my own. It feels unnatural on my face. I back up when she ascends the stairs, brushing past me. Her purse smacks into my thigh and I smile a real smile. This feels right.

She takes a seat, sets her purse on the porch. I follow her eyes, staring at the school. I wonder if Bryan is watching. If this is for show or if she really has something she wants to say to me. I walk back to my seat, lower myself down slowly, to my fate.

“I’m sorry to just drop by. But it’s not like I have your number or can find you on Facebook. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“It’s okay. I figured it would come to this eventually.” We don’t have an audience. My friends aren’t here to stare through a grimy restaurant window. My only friend left here is now her friend. I have lost.

“Again.”

“Again.” I feel ashamed. Again. Mistakes repeated and my face lacks remorse. I hide it deep down.

“I’m sorry about your father.”

“Thank you.” My hand comes to my throat. I feel red and raw. This, I was not expecting. I expected the old Aurora. But she seems different, where I am the same in many ways.

“I know you didn’t come here for what you’ve found. But you found it, again, nonetheless.” There is exhaustion there. She wrings her hands and I wonder where their daughter is. If she is with her father.

“Yes, I did.”

“Why? Why is it always this? Why always him? And then you wrote about him and it was humiliating. Do you have any idea how it felt? We moved on and we built something. Then that movie came out and it was a reminder. A reminder of everything here. That he cheated on me and I was the idiot who forgave him. And it wasn’t like you wrote me in a favorable light.” Her voice is rising.

I am glad Sasha is already gone. At the home. I am supposed to join her soon. “Everything is exaggerated in writing.” It’s not a lie. I made her character crueler. Stupid. A caricature of her.

“You made me a ditzy blonde asshole.” She isn’t wrong.

“You WERE a blonde asshole who slammed me into a locker once and hissed at me. I know your friends, at your demand, wrote ‘Severin is a Slut’ on Britt’s car after prom.”

“I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t come up with that idea.”

“But?”

“But I didn’t discourage them when they said they were going to do it. What did you expect? I was eighteen. You were eighteen too and had no problem fucking my boyfriend.”

“I never fucked him.”

“But you are now. You’re fucking my husband. Does the fact that you wouldn’t give it up back then still make you feel good?”

“Yes. It does, actually.”

“Does the fact that you’re fucking a loser make you feel good?”

“And how is he a loser? Pick a side, Aurora.” I’m suddenly angry. Angry at her for talking about him that way, and I know it’s unfair. Bryan can blame her for trapping him here. For giving him a child, something he too often equates with chains. Yet, I feel anger over her unkind words for him. I regret it. My knee jerk defense of him.

“He can’t even drive.” She stands, pushing the chair back against the side of my house.

“What are you talking about?”

“He got a DWI. Like two nights before you showed up. He can’t drive.”

I hear ringing in my ears. My vision goes dark, then light. I grip the armrests. My knuckles go white and I find myself putting my head between my knees. I hear movement. Aurora retreating. When I look up she is standing at the edge of my porch, one foot on the steps. She is facing me and her temple is leaning against one of the large beams holding the roof of our porch up. She doesn’t look happy, or smug. She looks resigned. Resigned to loving someone who strays, who makes mistakes. Who lives in a black hole.

“Thank you.” She knows what she is telling me. She knows the damage. She knows what can and cannot survive this. She can survive this. They can. He and I, we don’t have a chance. He doesn’t have a chance with me. With her words, I felt my heart crack open.

The past has a funny way of finding us. It should be no surprise. When you run wildly into your old mistakes, you’re bound to get hurt.

I watch Aurora turn. I watch her walk down my driveway, to her vehicle. I watch her drive away, because I need to focus my attention on anything that is not the school sitting across the street. My eyes flutter and I blink into the summer sun. The blinds of Bryan’s bedroom window move, sway. Or maybe I’m swaying again.

My cell phone starts ringing in the house. I ignore it, pinching the bridge of my nose. I don’t believe he will walk over here. He never does. Because that is the way of us. I go to him. I bend for him. He remains still, letting us break all over him. It must be so easy. To be unmoving.

He is following in the footsteps of a fool. I hate him. I hate him and his ignorance.

That afternoon, Ben shows up on my doorstep just as I am leaving to see my father. He asks to come with me, and I accept. I won’t avoid him because of the kiss. I won’t avoid him the way Bryan is avoiding me.

When we arrive I do not find my sister. I find the staff staring at me with blank faces. I reach into my purse and grab the phone there. The one on silent. I see missed calls from my sister and my aunt. My knees buckle and before I can hit the floor, Ben grabs me.

“Whoa. What’s up?” he says, pulling me up.

I stick my phone into his hands, grip his wrist. He takes it from me and thumbs through my text messages. There is nothing there I care to hide.

I feel his hand on my elbow. I do not feel my feet and legs beneath me. I do not feel my body and my knees bend, as my head ducks. I do not hear the passenger door of my car shut behind me. I do not hear the engine start. I do not feel the pressure of Ben’s arm behind my seat as he backs my car up. The miles between Burlingame and Topeka are nothing today. They are nothing and I feel nothing inside of my chest. My hands are numb. They do not grab my phone. My mouth does not voice the question I need answered. The question I do not want to ask. Is he dead? Is this over? Is my life now before and after?

We reach the hospital and I feel like seconds have gone by. I stay still, and Ben gets my door. He takes my hand, pulls me up. This is care, and I note it, in my stupor. When we get inside he takes care of everything. He knows my father’s first name. He knows what to say and my fingers are interlaced with his. He leads me down the hallway and when I see my sister, he passes me off. Not because he wants to be done, but because he knows what I need. Sasha embraces me and I feel it then. The tears. White hot and blinding. I let myself go, no longer worrying about the pieces she will have to pick up. I feel more arms around me. My aunt is there, too. We lean against the wall. Huddled and holding on.

“He’s gone.” My sister says and I wish she didn’t. I wish for silence and this moment to go on forever. But you cannot run from things. My father taught me that. I just never listened.

When I see his face, his eyes are blue, the lids so full of veins and coldness. He had a stroke. This morning. While I was wallowing in bed, telling Sasha I would be there soon. He had a stroke and died while I was dealing with drama and my messy relationships.

I take his hand and feel some warmth. I feel warmth and the heavy presence of the other people in the room. Ben does not come in. I do not want him to. It’s as if he can read my mind, in the heaviest moments. Maybe he is better at all of this, better than I am, and he can teach me.

My cross-body purse is cutting into me and I feel a vibration. I reach into my purse and pull my phone out. I see Bryan’s name and I feel sick. I do not want to see him. I do not want worry that comes too late. I do not want apologies that come too late. I do not want his sorrow and his bullshit. Everything he thinks runs and ruins his life, is a blessing. If only he would see it that way.

I throw my phone across the room and I wish then, that I didn’t have a heavy cover on it. My sister yelps and my aunt curses, startled.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I am startled by my voice. It sounds foreign. I don’t know what I am sorry for. For feeling? For showing it?

Later that night I ask my aunt about my mother and father. “Were they in love like the movies?”

“What do you mean?” My aunt turns, the dinner plate in her hand covered in soap. She cleans when she grieves. When she is sad and has nothing to say.

“That all-consuming love? The kind they write in novels.” I am eating ice cream. I haven’t eaten all day and I feel dizzy. I need sugar and comfort. My sister has locked herself in my bedroom. I told her I would take the couch.

“I guess.” Her answer deflates me, she reads my face and sighs. “I’m sorry. It’s been…what is it you’re wanting to know?”

It’s been a long day and although we all knew it would come to this, we didn’t think it would be so sudden. We expected more of the same. The slow fade. I don’t know which would have been worse. “I don’t know. I just wish I had soaked up more, when he could tell me more. It wasn’t enough. And then I was scared. Scared to make him relive it. I just wish I knew what a love like that felt like.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“I was in a relationship once.” The words fall out. A default answer.

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t know. And that’s an answer, huh?”

“Yes, it is.” She finishes with her plate, then wipes her hands on her apron. The sound of our old wooden chairs being dragged across the linoleum is the only sound in the room when she comes closer. “Your father and your mother had a great love. One filled with ups and downs, like any couple. When it’s real, you weather the storms and not everything is the kind of thing you find in the movies. It’s brutal and terrible at times. It’s steady and comforting. It’s everything, and I’m lucky your father married a woman I considered a sister. I’m lucky my brother found his other half. Because so many don’t. When you find that, you’ll know. It’s this thing that hits you deep in your gut. You don’t outgrow it and you can’t outrun it.”

“All-consuming.”

“You’re going to have that.”

“I’m not worried about me. I just think I’ll worry about my dad, forever. Even now that he is gone.”

“Don’t you worry about him. He lived a full life and he loved fully. He loved you and he was loved and not every person has that. We need each other now and every piece of his past we can offer, you and I both know, he was grateful for it. Even when he couldn’t say it or didn’t remember us.”

“How do you stop worrying about the people you love?”

“You never do.”

“Did you ever have a love like that? All-consuming?” My aunt never married. Never had children. She traveled after the devastating breakup, the night we don’t speak of, taking photos of beautiful places I wondered if I would ever see. I loved when she would come by when she was back home, in Kansas. We would gather around the table in front of me. She would fan photos around, a kaleidoscope of color and a window I desperately wanted to crawl through.

“Yes.” She smiles, the wrinkles around her eyes are beautiful to me. And she is the kind of woman who would agree. Who sees the beauty in all the miles we walk. “I’ve been in love with the world since I was a little girl. I loved changing schools every year or two, unlike your father. I met a man in Spain. Before you were born. Back when I logged a lot of miles.”

“Short lived?”

“Yes.” She reaches for my hand, squeezes it. “And all-consuming.”

“Who left?”

“I did.”

“Do you think he forgave you?”

“Yes. And whoever you’re going to leave. They may not forgive you. But I know this. You’re not meant to stay here. You don’t have roots, not in the traditional way. You want to paint the world. And to give that up for love, is to give up the love you have in your heart, for yourself.”

“I think that’s one of the biggest tragedies in the world.” I wring my hands together, stare out the kitchen window.

“What’s that?”

“Two universally different people, with vastly different desires, falling in love. Because you can break yourself apart trying to fit into a mold for someone else. You can sacrifice your soul and barely notice until it’s too late.”

“Do you know how lucky you are? To know that? You’re ahead of the curve. You know something about yourself that many people take years to figure out. That many know, but push down, because they can’t give up their addiction to someone else.”

I flinch at the word. Addiction. “Maybe they aren’t all bad?”

She reaches through my vague words. “I don’t know. Maybe not all addictions are bad. Maybe they are. That’s for you to decide.” She pauses. “There is so much of your mother in you. The good and the bad. The empathy, the open mind, and the ears that are always listening to the other side. And your sharp tongue. I see it in your writing, in the women you write.”

“I’ll never lose that.” I vow it. I vow to always be the challenge. To my own detriment, if I must. Just to never give it up.

“Good. And never stop looking.”

“For?”

“The other soul you’re missing. The one who has no desire to place chains, to put out fires.”

“Maybe you should be a writer.”

She laughs at my reply, throwing her hands up and rolling her eyes. “I tell my stories through pictures, with my camera. That’s my pen.”

“It’s a lovely one.” I look over her shoulder, at the framed photo of my parents on top of a mountain in Ireland. My aunt was there. She was there. She caught that moment.

After everyone goes to sleep I walk outside, hoping Bryan will somehow be there. By magic. Or maybe he can feel my mourning. I want to tell him I know what he has done and what that means. Instead, I find Ben. And all my anger and pain is a tight knot in my gut.

He is standing on the sidewalk, staring at the moon. It is white and I feel hot. I walk to him, turn, and stare into the sky. He tries to take my hand and I pull away. I look up at him and he looks wounded, so I walk away. To town. To the city limits sign. I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to leave his presence if he wants to give me his pain. Because I have no room for it. We kissed, yes, but that doesn’t mean he can take my hand. Make this into something.

I hear him following me, so I address him over my shoulder, never stopping. “You think I care that we kissed?”

“Yes. You do. It made you unsettled.”

“Maybe I like being unsettled. Maybe that’s what I need in life. To be unsettled. So I have something to write about.” Ben catches up with me, his fingers graze my elbow, and I stop.

“Don’t freak out. I’m sorry. I wanted to take your hand because that’s what friends do for their friends when a parent dies. And they hug them and they are there for them. I know maybe you need to be angry right now. Or you need to fight. And honestly, if that’s it, then fine. Fight with me.”

“Do you know how it feels to have every memory with someone stripped away? To watch their eyes and search for recognition, and find nothing? I need him, and he can’t lift me up. He can't help me with this. Because the thing I need help with is mourning him. He was there for me the last time I mourned. He was there when I didn’t know what to do with myself and he let me decide, when I figured it out. He didn’t argue. His silence and steady presence got me through it. What do I do now?”

“Let’s get drunk.” Ben says it simply. Not as a joke.

And it is the best idea I have ever heard in my life. I stare into his eyes and my mouth starts to turn up. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

“No cars.” I purse my lips. Try to keep it out.

“Never,” Ben replies.