39. Now
Now: Valentine’s Day
T he hospital discharged me the next morning. Wendy had offered to take me home with her for a few days, but I politely declined. She’d already done enough for me. More than enough. Instead, I let Dad take me home.
At first neither of us spoke. Dad would look over at me every couple of minutes, as though he wanted to say something, but then he’d retreat back into his shell. Eventually he mustered up his courage. “What happened, Sweet P? Do you want to talk about it? I’m here for you.”
I mean, what was there to say? I just told the man I love that I killed his sister sixteen years ago?
The truth would crush my father, maybe more so than it had Denver. Denver… Denver is on my mind, and I can’t stop replaying our last conversation in my head.
I’m sorry I ever met you.
His words had stung badly, they still do. The doctor had returned shortly after he’d left, along with Wendy. Wendy could tell something had happened between us, but I wouldn’t tell her what that was. Whoever said “the truth will set you free,” is a liar. It didn’t set me free. If anything, it did the opposite. I’m forever a slave to the truth I’ve held captive all this time. The truth robbed me of the one shot I was ready to take when it came to falling in love, and now I was suffering the consequences. Suffering bad.
But I saw this coming. What good had I possibly imagined coming from this? You don’t easily get over this sort of thing. What if the roles had been reversed and Denver had told me about something terrible he’d done to someone I’d loved? What then? Would I have it in me to forgive him?
The truth? I don’t know. But Denver had sixteen years to process the loss of his sister. If I said something to my dad now, I would be blindsiding him. Yet, he deserves to know the truth about that day. As much as I can muster up the courage to tell him. It’s a secret I’ve been holding onto for half of my life, and it’s time I let it go. I promised myself no more running. It’s time he finally knows the truth about his daughter.
I waited until we got home and he parked the car before bursting into tears. The dam had broken open, and I couldn’t stop myself. After I calmed down a little bit I started at the beginning, relaying the details of the past I’d kept hidden from him for over a decade. At first he just listened, his eyes wide with concern, nodding here and there. It wasn’t until I started crying again at the mention of finding Mom in her room that day, and what had happened with Genny that he lost it and a few tears slipped down his cheeks.
He didn’t reprimand me, he didn’t scream at me like I’d pictured him doing a thousand times—he reached across the driver’s seat and held me. Held me like he had that day in my room when we’d both fallen apart and needed one another. This moment had been no different… we needed each other. Life is hard, but being alone is harder .
We both had been trying to go through life carrying the weight of our own grief, alone, when we could have held onto each other this whole time. How did we not see that? Why didn’t I tell him sooner? I’m glad he knows now. It’s like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest.
When we finally pulled apart and dried our eyes on napkins stashed in the console, he looked at me with his big, shiny eyes and said, “I love you. I loved you then, and I love you now. ” And that was it.
That was all that he said to me, and somehow it was enough. It was something he used to say to Mom when she was having a hard day. There’s a deep comfort that resonates in me hearing him say the same thing to me. Because I know what he’s saying without having to say it. He will always love me, no matter what. No matter what kinds of terrible things I’ve done in my past, and what kinds of mistakes I’ll make in the future. He loves me, and that will never change.
This time when one of the doctors wanted to prescribe me something to help with my blackouts, I said yes. I don’t think it’ll solve all my problems, not even close, but maybe it could help take away at least one of them. I can’t keep doing this on my own, and I’m done trying to.
My book is still scheduled to release next month and I’m not sure if I’m ready for it now that it’s almost here. Even though it’s barely been a week, Wendy has been the sweetest. She comes by every morning, and she lives clear on the other side of town. It’s not exactly a quick drive over for her, yet she makes being here for me seem so effortless. Because for her, it probably is. She wants to be here for me, and as much as I can muster, I let her .
She always brings me coffee and a treat for later. Today, knowing how hard this day is for me, she brings me a little more than usual. Today she shows up with a mocha raspberry latte, chocolate-covered strawberries that look divine, and a new romance book I haven’t read yet. She’s too good to me, and I don’t deserve her kindness after what came to light a week ago.
She stays for about an hour and then says she’s meeting with a client and can pop back in later if I’d like. I thank her for everything, and she heads out.
I pop a strawberry into my mouth and then put the rest in the fridge to snack on later. Dad has a day planned with Deb. He asked me at least a thousand times if I was sure it was okay with me that he go out today. I reassured him a thousand times that I was fine. I know he’s trying to be extra sensitive to me today, especially after I broke down to him recently, and I appreciate it.
But it’s been sixteen years, and he’s finally dating someone again. I want him to be happy, and I don’t think that will happen if he stays here all day with me. Besides, I’ve noticed a change in him. Physically and emotionally. There are less bags underneath his eyes and his eyes have transformed from a dull-gray back to a shiny nickel. Dating has brought him back to life, he isn’t simply going through the motions, he’s out there living again. He deserves every bit of this.
Especially since I’m already in a funk. Not only because of what happened with Denver but because of what this day means to me. A constant reminder of what’s missing. Who I’m missing.
They say that memories can fade with time, and I do believe that to be true. There are things I don’t remember. Like learning how to ride a bike, or the time I broke my arm hanging upside down in a swing. And then other memories that won’t ever fade no matter how much time has passed. They become a permanent part of you. A core memory. Wherever you go, they go. That is how it is with the memory of my mother.
Most parts I don’t want to erase. Like all the times we’d spent together laughing, dancing, and acting like fools in our kitchen. In this kitchen. All of our day-camping trips and all the other holidays. Before she’d forever ruined this one for Dad and me. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s still ruined for him. It’s not something we bring up or talk about. Not anymore. For a while, it seemed like it was all we’d talk about. It was all-consuming. But then, one day—like Dad moving her chair in here, the very mention of her name was not a part of our conversations. Like my name had stopped being a part of mine.
Phoenix died when my mother died, and she won’t be coming back.
Dad, unfortunately, didn’t get this memo and still calls me the nickname they both used often, Sweet P. I hate it and I love it, but I’m at a point now where I’ve decided to leave it alone. I don’t want to take anything else away from my dad. I lost my mom, but he lost the love of his life. Well, maybe they weren’t soulmates, but he did love her. I do know that.
Since Dad isn’t here today I curl up in his spot on our couch. I snuck one more strawberry because they are just too good, and decided to start reading the novel Wendy had brought me. The front cover is super cute. It has an animated-looking couple holding hands with flowers and a bakery in the background. I’m sure it's a romantic comedy, but it’s probably what I need right now. She knows me so well.
I’m barely finished with the first chapter when there’s a soft knock on the front door. What in the world? Is Wendy back already? I told her I’d be fine today, and if I wasn’t I’d text her. I’m not great, but really, I’ve been worse.
The knock comes again, this time a little louder. Okay, okay! I’m coming.
“Coming!” I shout as I find something to mark my page. I close my book and climb off the couch, making my way to the front door.
A blast of chilly air greets me in my flannel sweatpants and 90s band tee shirt. I haven’t showered today, and I probably look hungover. I am not, by the way, but to the outside eye, you’d never be able to tell the difference from first impressions.
The person standing before me is every bit the opposite of how I look and feel. She’s wearing a bright red sweater dotted with pink hearts all over, and light pink leggings to match. She looks like she walked out of a greeting card.
It takes me a moment to realize that it’s Marvel. Standing here on my porch. What is she doing here?
“Oh, Marvel. Hi. I’m sorry,” I say, shocked and confused. Did Denver send her here to remind me to stay away for good? Did I invite her here while I was still in the hospital? Parts of it are still a blur from that night. She’d been there with me when I’d passed out.
She folds her arms across her chest and softens her gaze. “No, don’t be. I am sorry for barging in on you like this. I didn’t have your number, but I found your address on our fridge. I hope you don’t mind. Can I come in?”
Oh right, where are my manners? Still shocked at the sight of her, I wordlessly wave her in, and she gladly obliges. She takes her white, fuzzy boots off at the door and I peer outside. Sure enough, she drove here in her little white Sedan.
I offer to make her some coffee and she politely accepts. After I make both of us drinks, I bring them into the living room and sit with her on the couch.
She brings the warm mug to her lips and smiles. “Mm, this is good. What kind is it?”
“Oh, thank you. It’s just a vanilla latte with a drizzle of honey. Nothing much,” I say, chewing my lip. It’s a drink I’ve started enjoying in more recent years. I can no longer smell the scent that my mom used to wear, but somehow, whenever I make this drink, it comforts me.
“Oh.” She takes another sip. “Well, it’s tasty. I like it.”
I smile back at her. I don’t know why she’s here, but I’ve missed her. She’s so easy to be around, and I thoroughly enjoy her presence. Even if she reminds me of her dad, who may be off-limits permanently.
“Sorry,” She says again, setting her mug down in her lap. She stares at it for a moment and then looks up at me.
She’s sorry? What for?
“I should be asking you how you’re doing, not about this delicious coffee! Sorry about that. How are you, Nicki? I mean, really?” she asks me, her voice soothing and gentle.
My first reaction is to wave her off like my mom used to do with me, but I stop myself. Instead, I pause. I want to answer her honestly.
And, honestly, I am feeling a little better, despite everything. At least the truth is out now.
“I am doing okay, I think. I mean, right now I am. After you leave that might change, but for now? I’m okay,” I tell her.
“My Dad told me what happened,” she says, our eyes meeting.
He did? How did that go? Does she hate me now, too?
I don’t say anything in return. I turn to my drink, I need something else to focus on. But I’m still listening.
“And I don’t think it’s entirely your fault,” she continues.
I must not be hearing her correctly, because it’s absolutely my fault. My life may have been wrecked that day, but my mistake could have been avoided if I hadn’t been so reckless myself. If I had only stayed home and waited for Dad to get there. Or, if I’d never gone to school at all that day. Spent the whole day with her, maybe she wouldn’t have ended her life. Maybe she would be here with me sipping vanilla honey lattes. Maybe…
“What do you mean?” I ask, still not making eye contact.
“He said you’d mentioned something about running away from something that day. Don’t think he missed that, Nicki. He heard every word you said.”
Every word? This time I look up at her. I’m frustrated, but not at her. She wasn’t a part of this, and none of this is her fault. “But he still walked out. He left. He’s done.”
“Yeah, he did. He was,” she admits.
She’s brave for coming here, but I’m not sure what she wants from me. What does she hope to gain from any of this? The damage has already been done.
“It took him time to admit it, but he also realizes that something is missing from your story. Something you didn’t say.”
She’s right of course, but she doesn’t know that. That part of the story is in the past, it doesn’t matter anymore. She’s gone.
“Well, there’s nothing to say. What’s done is done,” I say into my cup as I take another long sip. The hot beverage usually calms my nerves, but this is getting me amped up. My blood is pumping as if I’m on a sugar high. Maybe I am.
“I think that’s where you’re wrong. We all have a story to tell, whether it’s good or bad. I believe there is more to your story than you shared. Just like I know he wouldn’t have walked out if he had only decided to share his full story with you,” she says, looking me directly in the eyes.
Her crystal blue eyes pierce my dull pennies. They do not shine today, but she has me intrigued. There’s more to the story? About him or his sister? What did he not tell me?
I’m assuming that his daughter knows this story herself? Is that why she’s come here? To tell me the truth that her father has kept buried? Like I’d buried mine?
She must read this in my eyes, because she gently shakes her head no, finishing off her drink and placing it on the table.
“No, I didn’t come here to tell you his. That’s not my story to tell. It should come from him. But I want to hear the rest of yours first. Why were you out that night, Nicki? What were you doing out in the middle of a blizzard?” she asks, point blank.
This girl sure knows how to throw punches. She has guts, more than I do.
No running .
I turn to face her completely and tell her the rest of my story. Every little detail. Starting with my mom’s birthday, to my complete and utter devastation when I’d found her at home, after walking home from school in the snow.
I broke in that moment. That day I lost not only my best friend but the only friend I’d ever truly had. In a matter of seconds, my entire world had split wide open. And when things break, so do I. I have a bad habit of trying to run when something goes wrong. So, I ran. Like I have plenty of other times, not knowing that this one time would be the one that I’d regret the most.
By the time I finish, we are both in tears. She leans across the couch and hugs me. I don’t give out hugs freely, but right now I long for her warmth—her embrace. I let her arms wrap around me, just like I used to do with my mother on her really bad days. If only I had seen through those bad days and known then what they’d meant. I hadn’t paid enough attention to the signs of her depression to know how serious it was, until it was too late.
I was too late.
She’s the first to pull away. She reaches for a tissue on the coffee table and hands it to me. I blow my nose, unashamed, and look back at her.
“Nicki, I don’t know how many you have told that heartbreaking story to… but I need you to hear this. I don’t think you’re a terrible person. You made a bad mistake, but we all do. Seriously, who hasn’t? Don’t—let me finish.” She holds up a hand, and I swallow my arguments and let her continue.
“I realize not everyone’s mistakes cost somebody else's life, I get that. But listen to me. You were only sixteen, Nicki, my age. You had witnessed the worst thing imaginable and did what you thought was best at that moment. And yeah, it turned out it wasn’t. But it was an accident, Nicki. They said the storm was really bad and there were all kinds of accidents that day. His sister was not the only one… I can’t imagine losing a parent like that. And I won’t try to. But I don’t think you can blame yourself for he r death. She made that choice, just like you made the choice to drive away. Nicki, I forgive you.”
She what? Did she not hear anything I just said? How can she after what I’ve done? The pain I’ve caused him and his family. And I tried to run from it. Who does that kind of thing? Me, apparently.
Coward. That’s what I am. My mother ran away from her own life, and I ran away because of what she’d done. I’m not that different from her.
“I forgive you,” she says again and takes both of my hands in hers. My hands are trembling and the tears I’d previously wiped away have returned.
“How? How can you? After everything?”
“Because we are human. And I think you deserve a second chance. Half of your life you got to spend with your mother, and the second half of it you’ve spent beating yourself up for a mistake you never forgave yourself for.”
How could I possibly begin to forgive myself for this? What I’ve done can’t be erased. It’s too much. I cost somebody their life… all because I’d lost someone in mine. However, she is right about it being an accident. A horrible one at that, yet it had never been intentional. If I hadn’t been out in the first place, and if I hadn’t been trying to answer my phone… I don’t even know how to forgive myself. Where would I even begin?
“I think Denver needs to hear this. Give him a second chance, and I think he will let you back in. Slowly, but I think he will come around.”
I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Just when I’d gotten my hopes up about mending things, everything came to a crashing halt. One I don’t think is fixable. I don’t think my heart can handle another person walking out of my life. He’s already done it once. I walked away first when he tried to fight for me, but I didn’t let him. I should have though. Doesn’t he deserve the same from me?
“He’s never going to let me speak to him again,” I say. Hoping that isn’t true, but I don’t see how it couldn’t be. I dashed all hope of that away with the truth.
“I think once he hears the rest of your story, he will be more open to sharing his. Look, I’ll try talking to him, but the monthly G&G meeting is next Thursday night. It’s the last one he will be going to this year. I’ll even give you a ride if Wendy can’t. Give him another chance, and I think he’ll do the same.”
“And what if he doesn’t?” I ask.
“Then at least you know you tried.”
She’s got a point there. She hugs me again and thanks me for sharing my story with her. I end up giving her the rest of the chocolate-coated strawberries before she leaves. She gladly takes them and promises to share them with her dad. I’m not ready for her to leave, but at the same time, I’d like some time to myself.
I close the door and turn off all the lights. I light a candle for Mom, her favorite vanilla scent, and I curl up in a ball on the couch and cry myself to sleep.