Silencemet my ear and I wished she’d say something, just to keep those tears fromflowing into my pillow with the distraction of words. But she stayed silent,until I asked if she was still there and then she replied, “Yeah, honey, I’mhere. I’m just relieved to hear you say that. And you know, you’re right; I dodeserve to be happy.Sodo you.”
Andthen, there was the guilt of walking away.
?
Three.
Thatwas the number of times I tried calling him after my phone call with my mom. Ieventually got the point and gave up, just as Brooke rounded the coffee shop’scounter, with her bag slung over her shoulder.
“Stillno answer?” she asked, looking at the phone in my hand.
Ishook my head.
Acouple of weeks ago, I had confessed the whole thing to her and Trent—the truthof the trip, the changes, the fight. After years of holding in the pain fromanybody but Devin, I’d finally had enough.
Theywere confident that things would work themselves out, but I had shaken my head,playing the martyr. Yet, deep down, I hoped they were right, but now? My hopewas running out.
“He’llcall,” she said encouragingly.
“Orhe won’t,” I offered with a small smile.
Trentcleared his throat from the table he sat at and Brooke announced, “Okay, Iguess we’ll get out of here.” She flashed me a concerned look. “Ky, you’re sureyou don’t want to go out with us tonight?” she asked, the reminder of herengagement, glinting away on her ring finger.
Inodded, picking up a rag to wipe down the wood until it shone dark and cleanunder the dim lighting. “Yeah, I’m sure. I might just go home and watch a movieor something.”
Trentthrew his hands into the air. “Whoa, watch out! Wild night going down over atyourplace! Might have to stop by with some Yahtzeelater on.”
“Ha-ha,”I said with a dramatic roll of my eyes.
Brookereached out to playfully flip the ends of my hair around her fingers. “Okay, ifyou’resure, but you know, I’m worried about you. You haven’t doneanything but come to work and hang out in thatfreakin’apartment for the past few weeks and I just don’t think it’s healthy.”
Shewas worrying about me too much, forgetting that I had already been to hell andback. I could do it again.
“I’mfine,” I said. “Or, I will be.”
Shesighed, looking back to Trent. “Should I be worried?”
“Babe,if she says she’s fine, she’s fine,” he confirmed, nodding. “Although, I don’tknow how the hell you could even pretend to get over Devin. There’s no movingon from perfection. It runs in the family.”
Withanother roll of my eyes, I stuffed the rag into my back pocket. “Get out ofhere. You’re going to miss your reservation. Bring me a piece of cake orsomething.”
Brookepulled her coat over her shoulders and stepped under Trent’s arm. “Okay, but youpromise to call if you feel even thetiniestbit lonely? I’ll come rightover.”
“Ohmy God,” I groaned, throwing my head back. “I promise, okay? Now, get the hellout of here.”
Aftera few more protests, Trent eventually coaxed her from the shop and I was alonewithall ofmy dead poets. I thought about my absolutefavorite poem from Edgar Allan Poe,Annabel Lee. The tragedy of loveafter death, after letting go. One line filtered through my melancholic mind asI rounded the counter to box up the leftover pastries.
“‘Weloved with a love that was more than love,’” I recited to the empty room and toMr. Poe, sitting on the shelf some feet away from where I stood. My liptrembled with the words, becausedammit, I knew how that felt. To loveso deeply, it surpassed physical connection and spoken confirmation. And I hadthrown it away out of fear and the need for self-preservation.
“ButAnnabel Lee was dead,” I said, reminding myself that it wasn’t the same. Devinwasn’t gone. He was out there, now traveling to Texas for a show in Dallas, andalthough he wasn’t answering his phone, I wondered if maybe he was waiting forsomeone to save him. Just as he’d saved me more times than I could count.
“Ineed to go to him,” I decided, making up my mind and chasing away the residualsof poetry and sadness. Just like that. It was the only thing I could do, tomake myself okay and to make sure he was too.
Iwalked into the store room, to put the pastries in the freezer before headinghome and packing a bag, when the bell above the door chimed and I groaned.
Itwas always my luck that a customer showed up just as I was finishing up for theday. That was the curse of owning a store, I’d convinced myself over the years,and I stuffed the box hastily into the freezer, shutting the door. I wiped myhands on my apron, holding tight to my plans of finding him as soon as I could,and I pressed my palms to the door.
Andthen, there came the strumming of guitar strings.
