Heaving and gasping, he pushed his way through the front door of his house, and barely managed to close the door behind him before the blackness closed in around his periphery, and he pitched forward into weightlessness.
In his weightlessness, he is catapulted backward through time and space. He lands somewhere dark, cold, and excruciating, and he hears Liza’s panicked, desperate voice, and she is asking him questions for which he has no answers.
“What do you mean, you can’t do this anymore?”
“I’m sorry, Lizzie.”
“What about everything we had planned?”
“I’m sorry, Lizzie.”
“What about me moving there?”
“I’m sorry, Lizzie.”
“What about you saving up for your own place and then coming to get me?”
“I’m sorry, Lizzie.”
“This isn’t when you get to decide that you can’t do this anymorebecause we have a big problem.”
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,and he wants to ask what big problem they have, but his lips are no longer under his control, and they are hell-bent on proclaiming a lie that he doesn’t want to tell but knows is necessary for him to protect her from a life that would only disappoint and hurt her.
The last thing he ever hears her say is a breathless, tear-filled,“What?”
And then he gives her one more,“I’m sorry,”before he severs the thread that had bound them; the one he had believed might stretch or tangle but couldn’t break, at least not on its own, and it isn’t fair to her.
No, it isn’t fair that she should be bound to the likes of him. An adage from his childhood days in a church warned him of the perils of being unequally yoked; that for two partners to succeed with each other, they must be able to bear the weight of life equally.
And he can’t. He would only drag his feet behind her as she propelled them forward, and she deserves a life throughout which someone walks with her, or better still, has the ability to carry her.
And that’s not him. No matter how desperately he wants it to be.
So he hangs up the phone, and he never hears from her again.
* * *
An alarm blaredon Connor’s phone, jolting his body and propelling him off the floor to his feet. He swayed and stumbled as he rubbed his eyes and staggered to the couch, turning off the alarm.
It was 6:00 a.m. on Sunday, and the alarm informed him it was time for his morning run, but the stiffness of his body indicated trying to run again right then was a pipe dream. A pipe dream not all that dissimilar from the hope of finding a way to right the wrongs of his life so he could pursue the one thing he wanted more than anything. There were things in life that were simply irreplaceable. Such as his brothers who lost their life to combat, whether that was on the battlefield of a warzone, or the battlefield of the tortured mind they received as a parting gift in exchange for their selfless commitment to serve.
Connor collapsed on the couch, absently rubbing his thumb across the sleeping screen of his phone, and maybe he couldn’t get back any of that. But unlike his brothers-in-arms, Liza was still there. She was out of his reach, but she was there. Part of her was still available to him, even though it wasn’t the part he ached for.
But he would take what he could get, and it would require a conscious effort on his part to secure it.
* * *
On Monday morning,Connor woke an hour earlier than usual so he could finish his run and be at the label house, showered and put together before anyone else arrived. Tucked away in his bag was an olive branch of sorts; one Liza probably didn’t need given the nature of what she’d said on Saturday afternoon, but Connor was going to offer it anyway.
After he was dressed, he peeked into the center hall of the house, finding it still empty at 8:15 a.m., and set a small bag of red-and-white peppermint candies on her desk. He pulled a post-it note from the yellow block, stuck it next to the bag, and scribbled a note.
Peppermint helps an upset stomach. Just in case things get stressful.
C.
He made his way into the kitchen and brewed the coffee. Timing this would be a challenge. He filled a saucepan one quarter full of whole milk, then set the burner on the stove to low, and listened for the front door.
Luck was on his side, and one little bubble surfaced just as he heard the door open and close, followed by the sound of high heels on the hardwood. Removing the milk from the burner, he simultaneously poured it and the coffee into a cup, and then added one and a half pink sugars.
