We Were Once

by Scott, S. L.

  “Open your eyes! Revenge against me, your life, what I’ve been able to give you. He may look away, but he’s always aware of what he’s lacking, what his father never gave him. He’s from a broken home from even more broken parents—”

  “I’m from a broken home!” I shout, frustration taking hold.

  “He confessed. Full. Stop.” A current of anger lies under his steady tone, his patience run dry. “What more proof do you need?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He would never confess to charges that aren’t true. He would never hurt me. He loves me, Dad, and I love him. If you don’t drop these charges, then you’ll lose me in the process.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you throw everything away when you’re so close to getting what you want?”

  I reach the window and whip back. “I want him!”

  The slamming of palms on the desktop startles me. He’s on his feet, anger burning through his unblinking eyes. “You don’t get him!”

  “You don’t have a say.”

  While his fingers dig into the wood, his gaze bounces back and forth between my eyes in an attempt to intimidate. “Do not insult my intelligence, Chloe. You will not threaten me in a childish tantrum to get your way with a boy who’s unworthy of you.” Parting the air, he shoves a finger in my direction. “And don’t ever act beneath the Fox name. You’ve been given every opportunity others only dream of having. Don’t throw it away in a shortsighted threat that could cost you everything.”

  Months ago, I would have cowered under his warning, done everything in my power not to disappoint my dad. I would have closed my mouth and left with my tail tucked between my legs.

  No more.

  Seeing the man I love with tears that I caused, standing on the other side of a wall that your father put there has changed me forever. I see through his lies, and I’m willing to let him call my bluff.

  Controlling my tone, I’m determined and unafraid. “If you don’t drop the charges and set him free, our relationship is over.” I walk to the door, the threat of me leaving is the only way to change his mind.

  “If you walk out that door, I won’t welcome you back.”

  I stop with the doorknob in my hand, caving in hopes of appealing to his softer side, if that even exists anymore. “Will you drop the charges? Will you help me? If not for him, for me, please?”

  “No.”

  I open the door. The finality of our conversation hitting my back, the end of our relationship only steps ahead of me.

  “This is your last chance, Chloe.” Hearing him say that, I wonder if he gave my mom a similar ultimatum. Was she forced to leave him, too?

  I look over my shoulder. “No, Dad. This is your last chance. You already lost Mom, and now you’re willing to lose me as well. Enjoy your name, your throne, and your wealth. Alone.”

  I reach the other end of the hall by the time the door to the office clicks closed. He doesn’t come after me. And I don’t wait for the impossible to happen. I get in the car and ask Kenneth to drop me off at a motel close to the jail.

  The day is already drifting away, the moon starting a slow slide into the sky. My call to Ruby goes unanswered, and there’s no reply to my text: I need you. Sitting in a dark room, my hope begins unraveling like my sanity as I try to remember the night of the accident.

  Making love in the afternoon.

  Purple dress.

  Trevor trying to ruin the party.

  My birthday gifts.

  Joshua—dark blue suit. Soulful eyes. Kindest heart. I love you’s shared in the middle of the night. That smile . . . the smirk that he still used when he wanted his way. He got it, every single time.

  Staring at photos of us on my phone does nothing to remind me of that night. Did I not take pictures? Not share anything on social media?

  Just after nine, my phone buzzes on the pillow next to my head. I sit up when I see who’s calling, frantically answering through my sobs, “Ruby, I need your help.”

  That’s all it takes to have her coming to my aid. She’s here before midnight, making calls that all go to voicemail but making the effort anyway. Comforting me the best she can, she tries to help me remember, but nothing works. “The kidnapping is a bogus charge,” she says, lying next to me on the bed. “He wasn’t drunk. They’re not going to drop reckless unless you remember otherwise.”

  “But reckless is minor compared to the other charges.”

  “And you don’t know who his attorney is?”

  “No.” I feel sick that he doesn’t have someone defending him who has Joshua’s best interest in mind. He’s another case. Another number. Just another . . . Not to me. He’s my everything.

  She turns to me, holding my hand. “We’ll go tomorrow. I’ll take the stand as a witness, and we’ll get the charges reduced. He’ll probably get probation, but that will be a win.”

  I try to find reassurance in her words, in her commitment that this will work, but doubt has a vise grip on my stomach as all the what-ifs play through my head. “If he gets probation, he’ll be free, and I get him.”

  “I hope all that happens for both of you.” Her gaze falls to her lap. “I’m sorry I misjudged him like the guys I’ve dated. I know he’s different. I just wish I could make it better for you, but I believe in my heart that everything will work out how it’s supposed to.”

  Daylight sneaks through the musty drapes, waking me. I don’t know when I fell asleep, but my body aches as much as my head, my eyes swollen from crying and chest heavy with the fate of Joshua today.

  Ruby is already dressed when I get up. She says, “Thought you could use the sleep.”

  “What? No!” I check the time. “Oh my God, Ruby. We have to go.” I refuse to let him go through this alone. I’ll stand by his side today and every day after.

  At the courthouse, we check in, nervously waiting in the courtroom for him to be brought in. I keep looking around, expecting to see at least one familiar face if not three. “Why isn’t Patty here? Or Todd or Bryant?”

  She side hugs me as we wait in the room full of strangers.

  I’m not sure how much time passes, but I finally stand between cases. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I want to check the docket.” She follows me out, and we find it hanging on the wall. Running my finger down the paper, it stops when I find his name . . . scratched out. “That’s not right.” I hurry to a nearby desk, and ask, “My boyfriend’s name is scratched out? On the docket? There’s a line through his name?”

  I don’t even know what I’m asking, but she seems to understand. “Yes, some cases were heard earlier this morning.” She smiles. “The judge’s wife is having a baby today.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, she is.” She nods politely. “It’s a scheduled delivery.”

  Tapping her desk, I lose my patience. “No, I mean, what happened to him, to my boyfriend. Joshua Evans.”

  She starts typing, staring at the computer screen. “It’s a matter of public record. He pleaded guilty.”

  “But he’s not. I’ve been here, waiting. I’m a witness. Ruby’s here as a witness as well. He’s not guilty.”

  The shrug she gives isn’t cruel, but it feels as hopeless as I do. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. The plea was entered on record.”

  That’s what is wrong, what I felt deep inside. Clamping my eyes closed, I can see him so clearly in my mind. Why would he do this? Why would he confess to something he didn’t do?

  Why can I only remember chasing the moon?

  I take off running, but don’t get ten feet before I feel faint. I’m still recovering, and my stomach’s empty. Dropping against the wall, Ruby wraps her arms around me. “You can’t run, Chloe.”

  “I have to.” Holding the side of my head, I say, “I can stop this. I can stop him from going to jail. We just have to tell them what we know.” Looking into her tear-filled eyes, I beg, “Help me get there.”

  Hobbling together, we cover the
block and push into the jail. I’ve become familiar with the routine of signing in, submitting my ID to be checked, and the process of entry to the visitation room. That hour doesn’t help my anxiety. It makes it worse, not sure how he’s going to react to me.

  As soon as I’m seated on the other side of the booth, what little adrenaline I used to get me here begins to dip, my heart beating out of my chest as fear courses through me.

  The shame I saw in him yesterday is now fully owned on my side of the barrier. I’ve failed him, but if there’s a way . . . if it’s not too late, I’ll help him however I can.

  When he enters the other side of the room, neither of us rushes to pick up the receiver. Instead, our hands press together. Despite the small gesture, I don’t get his tenderness or reassurance. I get detached, everything we used to be, gone in an instant.

  “I’m sorry,” I say through shuddering cries and thick glass. I know we’re over before his hand slides down, and he pulls back. Wishing never did me any good before, but I wish we could have stayed in our own little world, the one we built together. I look into his eyes, and just like the memories that escape me, we’re already in the past.

  He stands. “Don’t come back, Chloe.”

  My arms collapse to my sides as his words sink in. No. Please God no. I try to reach him once more before we succumb to our fate. “I’m sorry.” He turns his back on me and leaves.

  That was the last time I saw Joshua Evans.

  33

  Chloe

  Chasing the moon.

  The ethereal phrase still floats around like a figment of my imagination.

  Even after six years.

  Fortunately, it’s easy to avoid moons and stars inside an ER, especially working the overnight shift. It’s taken me years to learn, but I now pocket my emotions. It helps me to deal with the pain I see on a daily basis.

  A bonus side effect to the past trauma—I don’t cry anymore. I lost enough tears over the years to last me a lifetime. One day, they just stopped flowing. It was around the same time I stopped counting heart beats that seemed to only flutter for one man.

  That same man once told me love is found in contentment. I believed him because we were young.

  We were naïve.

  And we were so in love.

  These days, I live by another phrase of his—Love isn’t real—but we were once . . .

  34

  Chloe

  “Are you up?”

  Peering at the glowing digits of my watch, I quickly close my eyes again not wanting to awaken more than necessary. I shift the phone to my other ear. “It’s only one, Mom. I thought it was the hospital calling.”

  “I thought you were off night shifts this month?”

  “I was, but I volunteered because another resident went into labor. And Friday the thirteenth is as bad as full moons in the ER. I didn’t want to leave them short-staffed.”

  “You’re running yourself ragged, Chloe.” Concern coats her statement. She stopped beating around the bush a few years back when it came to tiptoeing around my feelings. I had tortured myself mentally for far too long.

  A therapist taught me to grieve. Then I learned to forgive my role in how things played out. The only thing I never did was make amends. I couldn’t. There was no way I could ever see him again. Not after he broke my heart like he did.

  I find exhaustion better than living with the emptiness. At least, I feel something. That feels like progress.

  “It’s just this week,” I say, rubbing the corner of my eye. The room is still dark, though the sun is fighting to break in and rob me of sleep. Blackout curtains are the best money I ever spent. “Then I’ll be back to my normal rotation.”

  “That’s good to hear. Have you heard anything more about being brought on after your residency?”

  “Mom, I’m tired. I’ve only had four hours sleep. You know I love to hear from you, but I have another long shift tonight and I’d really like a few more hours, if possible.”

  “Okay. Okay, honey. Call me when you have some time off, or the minute you hear anything. Love you.”

  “I will. Love you, too.”

  Setting the phone back down, I close my eyes again, my lids begging for more rest, but my brain kicking into gear, wide-awake. I roll to my other side and pull the pillow over my head. Snuggled in, I exhale, sinking into the couch cushions though I’m not finding the same satisfaction.

  Turning over, I lie on my back, adjusting the pillow under me to give it one last solid effort, but aggravation starts setting in. I sit up and punch the pillow as if it’s the cause of my sleeplessness. It’s easier to blame than the schedule I personally agreed to. I know getting up now will make the night feel like it’s lasting twice as long, but I might as well make the most of the day.

  I shouldn’t find as much pleasure as I do when I open the curtains each day, but when I see Frankie and Hemsworth, I can’t help but smile. Bending down, I say, “Good afternoon. How are you today?” I give each of their trunks a little stroke and then dip my finger into the pot to check the soil.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Frankie, but you’re a little on the dry side, and I think you’ve outgrown your pot. Again. You’re almost as tall as Hemsworth and he’s standing straight up.”

  Carrying the two plants to the sink, I let them share their weekly soak. Since bringing them together six years ago, they’ve been inseparable ever since. Mainly due to the fact that they’re plants and have no choice but to humor me with their presence. But I don’t dwell on negativity, if I can help it.

  After I get them sorted out, I double knot my laces, and I’m on the treadmill before I have time to second-guess if I should try sleeping in my bedroom instead. I blow that idea off. I haven’t slept in there for months. Drowning out the noise after a long shift is best done in front of the TV. Any movie will do and I’m out before the first commercial break.

  I increase the speed and run. I run so hard that when I cross forty minutes, I’ve almost covered seven miles. I slow the belt down and hold my sides that ache with a cramp. Memories of my broken rib come back, and I’m swift to move my hand. No good will come of me revisiting memory lane. I hit the stop button and step off.

  After downing a glass of water, I wipe the sweat rolling down my forehead and then the back of my neck while staring out the window. I refill my glass and drink while examining the lives inside the tiny New York fishbowl apartments across the street. Mine’s no bigger, but it’s way less interesting.

  There’s the balding guy who wears Hawaiian shirts and nothing underneath three windows over and one down.

  And then there’s the apartment directly across from mine. He rides his Peloton like he’s in the Tour de France after a long day wherever he works that requires tailored suits and expensive watches. I might have pulled my binoculars out once to properly inspect the situation. What can I say? I may have sworn off dating, but I’m not a nun.

  He’s too angry to keep track of anymore. Cute, but yells into his phone a lot.

  The four-lane street below is wide enough to give people a false sense of security that they actually have privacy. Or maybe they just stopped caring like me. It’s easy to believe you can disappear in the city. I doubled down and vanished from my own life. I’m only now starting to see a semblance of the life I used to have before the accident.

  I go to work, come home, burn off the stress on my treadmill or with a run in the park, and sleep, not giving myself time to miss anything I used to do, or have. It’s not an exciting life, but it’s mine, the one I chose to create for myself. The one that keeps my body and mind too busy to think about what’s missing—friends, my dad, the life I knew growing up, Ruby when she’s not in town, a significant other, Jos—I stop myself before the name escapes my thoughts.

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I try my best to forget the life I only had a taste of before having to give it up. It’s selfish to indulge when he faced horrific consequences from being with me. I drown the me
mories under the warm water pummeling my shoulders, begging to have one day that doesn’t have my mind drifting to a past I’m not even sure existed. Today, apparently, is not that day.

  To please my mom, I get dressed and get out. If I don’t have an alibi of living a “fuller” life as she calls it, the harassment will be insufferable. Sipping coffee at a corner restaurant may not be exciting, but it will appease her. For now.

  I should really get out of the hospital more often, to see the good that is happening all around, instead of placing the burden on others to make me happy. I did that once and was burned. My heart feels lighter hearing laughter instead of cries. Seeing smiles instead of tears. Life goes on around me even if mine stopped in so many ways.

  To cement my case, I take a selfie of me about to bite into a cherry Danish as evidence and send it to Ruby and my mom with the message: Look at me living the high life. #straighttomythighs

  My mom replies first: #worthit She’s so hip with the hashtag lingo.

  She used to tell me to live fearlessly.

  I did that once.

  Now she tells me to live without regret.

  I’m doing my best.

  Ruby’s message comes shortly after I finish my coffee: This might be my favorite photo of you ever.

  Grinning from the text, I type: Coming from a professional photographer, I’ll take the compliment.

  Ruby: I’m paid well for my eye. How much to get that photo framed to hang in my gallery?

  Seeing the crowds filing in for their late afternoon caffeine fix, I grab my stuff and vacate a table. On the sidewalk, I stand off to the side, and type: Where are you? Miss you.

  Ruby: Flying home in a few days. Dinner when I get back?

  Me: For you, anything.

  Ruby: That’s my girl.

  My stomach twists from the phrase, but I try not to let it get me down. Clouds have swept in, and a breeze blows down the street.