The Memory of Us: A Standalone Soulmate Romance

by Claire Raye

  “How was your day?” I ask her, her eyes drifting up briefly, but not with enough emphasis to show she’s paying attention.

  “Fine,” she responds. “Same as always.” Her response is short and concise, and maybe I’m just reading into it too much because of the way our day started out and given the fact that I’ve set things in motion to find Nora.

  I let it go and begin eating my dinner, the silence filling the room. An abnormal silence that isn’t common with Bridgitte, but I’ll take it.

  Eventually she’s the first to speak and her question is something to fill the void of voices.

  “How was your day?” she asks now, but still feigning interest.

  “It was busy, as always. Still dealing with that company that wants us to buy them and it’s been a shit show. So many demands for a company that approached me.” I proceed to tell her about my day, but immediately notice her attention has drifted back to her phone. “What are you doing?” I ask, attempting to keep the annoyance out of my tone.

  “I’m looking at this photographer’s website. I think this is the one we’re going to use,” she says, flashing the screen of her phone in my direction.

  The best part of this statement is that she says “we’re”, like I have any fucking say in any of this. She makes the decisions and I go along with them. It’s the money end of it that makes me cringe. I’m footing the insane bill for this.

  She begins to talk and just like my response to her about my day at work, I tune her out. I don’t want to hear about how this photographer just finished up a celebrity wedding or how he has been featured in some tabloid magazine. The more she speaks, the more I watch the money flying out the fucking window.

  I interrupt her and she looks up with a confused look on her face, almost as if she’s shaming me for not listening fully. “Have you ever thought about scraping all this and just getting married on a beach?” I ask her, but I already know the answer to this.

  “No, never,” she insists, appalled that I would even consider it. “This is what every girl wants. To get married in a huge ceremony with her family and friends, in a beautiful white dress…” She goes on, but I stop listening out of fucking annoyance and the fact that she never once mentions the main reason for the wedding: Marrying the person you love. I shouldn’t be so hypocritical.

  I’m starting to second-guess the whole thing, and even if Bridgitte is just consumed with the idea of marriage, I’m not as interested in marrying her as I should be.

  The night ends the way it always does, Bridgitte heads to bed and I’m left watching TV on the couch alone. With a beer in my hand, I flip through the nine hundred or so channels, but find nothing, eventually settling on a movie I’ve seen at least ten times.

  I zone out as the movie plays quietly in the background. My mind is a fucking jumble of thoughts of finding Nora and marrying Bridgitte. What would I do if I found her? Leave Bridgitte? I’ve spent three years of my life with her. Enough time that I thought I wanted to marry her, but Nora has always been there in the back of my mind.

  Nora is an idealized version of a girl I fell in love with, a fucking dream that has slowly warped into an obsession. She’s someone I can never have, so I want her more than anything.

  I fall asleep on the couch with visions of both Bridgitte and Nora, and while I’ve dreamt of both before, this time it’s far more real. This time I’m forced to choose, and I’m not certain I can. I’m left with Bridgitte, my reality, and then there’s Nora, my dream.

  At some point during the night, I made my way to the bedroom, because I’m waking up in bed and Bridgitte has already left for work. I can’t remember when she stopped waking me up to say goodbye. She doesn’t even kiss me as far as I can recall. She just leaves. It didn’t always used to be this way. There were mornings when she’d wake me and we’d have a quickie or I’d shower with her and it would be hard for her to leave, but that slowly died out. Maybe that’s just what happens in relationships. You become complacent, things become ritual and you just grow okay with having someone, but you never really care enough to change. I roll over, letting out a sigh and running my hands over my face. I slept like shit and I’m not surprised.

  It’s only seven-thirty and I feel like I could sleep for another hour, but when I pick up my phone, my calendar reminders fill the screen. I have a conference call at eight-thirty and another at ten, and then I have to go into the office to sign off on some paperwork for an intern that was hired last week.

  It’s all pointless shit, but part of my job, a job that affords me the luxury to live in the city and drive a nice car and give Bridgitte the wedding she so desperately wants, but there are moments when I’d give it all up. This is not where I thought I would end up when I graduated, but life wins out over dreams and I took the first job I was offered. I slowly worked my way up, starting in accounting and eventually moving into the role of financial manager for the investment firm who first hired me. It’s a sucky ass job and I spend more time finding profit losses and maximizing profit returns on mergers and acquisitions than I ever thought possible. There are times I would give anything to be working as a lifeguard on the beach in San Diego again because at least I felt like I was doing something that mattered.

  I drag my ass out of bed, already exhausted from the thought of starting my day when my phone begins to vibrate on the nightstand. It’s too early for this shit and knowing it’s work, I let it go to voicemail as I climb into the shower.

  I stand under the stream of hot water, letting it run over me as I replay last night’s conversation with Bridgitte. The whole thing has me wondering why I even proposed in the first place. It just seemed like the next logical step, but maybe it was too soon. Too soon for both of us because I’m seeing a side of her I never knew existed.

  As soon as I’m out of the shower, I pick up my phone and hit play on the voicemail not even noticing the number.

  The voice begins and it catches me off guard. It’s not what I expected and I slowly lower myself to the bed as I sit and listen to the message play. As soon as it ends, I play it again and for a third time before I get up to jot down the number and a few notes.

  With a towel still wrapped around my waist, I shake my head in disbelief. Something I’ve been waiting twelve years for may have finally come to fruition.

  “Holy fucking shit,” I mutter, my hand dragging through my wet hair. I’m not even sure what to do, so I play the message again.

  “Elliot, this is Jim Peterson. I have some information to share with you about the girl you’re looking for. While I wasn’t able to narrow it down to just one person, I have a few possible people that could be her. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

  I stop the message before he can give his number since I already have it written down, and right now I’m not even sure what to do.

  This is what I’ve wanted for so long. I want to find Nora, but now that it’s this close, I’m suddenly terrified. This could change my entire life.

  I could just let it go. Forget Nora at this point and move on with Bridgitte. Something I’ve been trying to do for the last three years. But would I regret that decision? Would Nora always be there in the back of my mind?

  I debate not calling the PI back. I think about Bridgitte and how upset she would be if she knew what I was doing, but I can’t give up now. It’s been too fucking long, so I punch the number into my phone and as it rings, I silently curse myself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My hand is shaking as I hold the phone to my ear and I can feel my heart begin to race. I swallow hard, fighting back the need to scream or throw my phone and just fucking run. The PI picks up on the fourth ring and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or destroyed.

  I think I secretly hoped he wouldn’t answer and I could take it as a sign to give up, but even I know that’s not true.

  “Hey Elliot,” he says greeting me casually and I suck in a deep breath preparing to respond the same way, but fail.

  “
What did you find?” I ask immediately, shocked by my audacity and lack of decorum. I should have at least said hello. “Sorry, Jim,” I quickly add, apologizing for my rudeness.

  “No worries,” he says. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know most people are more interested in getting their information than they are in pleasantries or small talk.”

  “Still, it was rude of me,” I tell him, like being polite to him will somehow make me less of a jerk for doing all this behind my fiancé’s back.

  He continues with the conversation, letting me know the difficulty he had in narrowing things down since I was only able to give him an age, a first name and a hometown.

  “I’ve come up with five women who could be the Nora you’re looking for. Unfortunately I had to limit my search to the greater Boston area rather than the whole U.S. due to time constraints and the sheer volume of hits I found when just searching for the name ‘Nora’ in the age range you gave me.”

  “I understand,” I say, but I feel my chest constrict in disappointment because I know the likelihood of one of these women being her is almost impossible. It doesn’t mean I won’t check, but I know the odds are not in my favor.

  I could ask him to expand the search, give him more money and extend the timeframe, but I know, the deeper I get into this, the less likely I am to want to quit. I have a life and I can’t let this consume me more than it already does. I’ve told myself this is it and this time I mean it.

  I take down the information from the PI, first and last names, addresses, email address, the usual information, still entirely unsure what I will do with it. All I know is that if I find out none of these women are Nora, the Nora I’ve been searching for, I’m fucking done.

  I thank Jim for his time and as I’m about to hang up he wishes me a good luck. It’s definitely something I’m going to need, but in all honesty, I think finding her could totally fuck up my life.

  I fold up the piece of paper and stash it in my laptop bag. I figure I’ll get ready for work and try to forget about it for a little while. Maybe even sleep on it tonight and decide what to do tomorrow.

  Bridgitte texts me around six to let me know she’s running late, like always, but I brush it off, still consumed with what I should do with the information I got from the PI. I need to meet Bridgitte for dinner at seven-thirty and knowing she won’t be coming home randomly, I pull the information from my laptop bag.

  The PI also emailed me the files with all the information including pictures of each woman. Out of the five, he was able to get pictures of four of them; the fifth one is still a mystery. I’m clinging to the false sense of certainty that the mystery Nora without a picture has to be her. It’s my last ditch effort to believe I haven’t wasted twelve years of my life.

  There’s an easy way to solve all of this and it’s to open the files and look at the pictures. It may have been twelve years, but Nora’s brown eyes and perfect smile have been committed to memory since the moment I saw her at that party. Her face is one I will never forget. It’s fucking impossible to forget falling in love with someone you barely knew.

  With my laptop resting on my knees and my notes next to me, I login to my email and open the first file. I open the PDF of the notes the PI gathered, reading through her first, middle and last name, her birthdate and address, as I attempt to remember some small bit of information Nora may have shared that would indicate this woman is her. It’s like solving a mystery and my patience for it is non-existent.

  I quickly close the notes and open the picture file, only to have the picture pop up on my screen. I exhale hard, the guilt and the realization hitting me at the same time. It’s not her.

  Without stopping, I open the other three files and find the same outcome. None of them are her, and I feel my throat go dry and I swallow hard. Can I really give up? I’ve found nothing from this information other than none of them are her. It’s been a fucking waste of time, like always.

  I have one Nora left, the one without the picture and with the way I’m feeling right now, I have serious doubts it can even be her. Even with the doubt weighing heavy on me, I decide I’m going to travel to Boston and find out in person. Enough of this Internet searching bullshit. It may be completely fucking insane to show up in Boston and track this woman down, but I don’t care. I need this to be over.

  I grab my phone and call Matt without even giving my irrational decision a second thought.

  “Hey,” he says, but I can tell he’s still annoyed with me since our last conversation, and what I’m going to tell him now isn’t going to make it any better.

  “You wanna go with me to Boston?” I ask and then add, “I may have found Nora.” It’s a stretch and I know it, but I have to make this sound not so ridiculous.

  “Nope,” Matts says, clipped and concise.

  “Dude, don’t be a dick. I know you think this is a bad idea, but I’d really appreciate it if you came along.”

  “I don’t want to be a part of fucking up your relationship with Bridgitte and having Maggie hate me too,” Matt says and I do see his point. Maggie is Matt’s wife and since Bridgitte and I began dating, the two of them have become close. Despite the distance, they talk and text as often as Matt and I do. I realize by involving Matt in all of this, I’m asking him to either lie to his wife or to tell her the truth, and risk her blowing this whole thing up.

  “Maggie doesn’t have to know anything. Just tell her we’re doing a guys weekend or whatever. It could turn out to be nothing and then there’s nothing to tell anyway.”

  The line goes silent for a bit and I know Matt is contemplating it. I add a quick please in there and I hear him let out a long sigh.

  “Fine. I’m in,” he says, but he sounds anything but thrilled. “I swear to god if this turns out be a fucking mess, I’ll throw you under the bus in a second.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say dismissing his comment. We both know he’s full of shit. We’ve been friends since we were eight and never once have we turned on each other. It’s not going to happen now.

  We make a plan to tell the girls we’re going to Boston for a baseball game, which isn’t completely unbelievable, but it’s also something neither of them will question. Not wanting to wait much longer, we schedule the trip for next weekend and I immediately put in for a few vacation days at work. We’re leaving on Thursday night and we’ll be back by Monday night. This is all pending that I don’t actually find Nora. I haven’t given much thought as to what I’ll do if this person happens to be her. Would I stay longer? Would I ditch Matt and spend my time with Nora? Fuck if I know because the whole thing is beginning to sound fucking ridiculous even to me.

  My workday goes by quickly, and before I know it Bridgitte arrives home as I’m finishing up a conference call. She opens the office door and gives me a half-hearted smile, the kind that says she’s bothered by the fact that she’s home and I’m still working. The last thing I feel like doing tonight is rehashing a million wedding ideas with her over dinner, so I extend the call longer than necessary.

  By the time I’m done, she’s sitting on the couch annoyed as fuck, but far be it for her to just say it out loud. She averts her eyes when I walk in the room, avoiding me because she knows I’m the one who will call her out on it. Yet somehow that makes me the bad guy. She’d rather go along acting like things are quiet and perfect. The more she plans the wedding, the more clearly I see things. She wants perfection and I certainly can’t give her that.

  “Do you want to get dinner?” I ask her, as if food will solve the fact that something is bothering her. I’m not in the mood to argue with her. I lose every single time and not because she’s right, but because I just give in.

  “No,” she responds back but never makes eye contact with me. Her answer is weak and her voice is shaky. I watch her swallow hard before she speaks again. “You’re different,” she murmurs and I see the tears well up in her eyes when she finally turns to look at me.

  “So are you,” I tell he
r and as much as I don’t really want to have this conversation with her, it’s probably about time. “I’m so fucking sick of your obsession with the wedding.” It comes out fast and harsh, and I immediately see a flash of anger cross her face, the tears ceasing.

  “You don’t want this,” she hisses, as she rises from the couch and takes a defensive stance as if she’s preparing to convince me that I want this overblown wedding shit.

  “I don’t. This is not at all what I expected when we got engaged, Bridgitte. You’ve let it take over your life.”

  “Not the wedding!” she screams and I step back. I’ve never heard Bridgitte respond like this to anything other than when she gets drunk with her friends and yells about stupid shit. “You don’t want any of this,” she says, her voice more composed this time, but her hands fly around as if she’s indicating that I don’t want our life together.

  “That’s not true. I do. I love you, Bridgitte.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know there’s a small amount of fallacy to the statement. I’m not certain I want this, but a part of me wonders if this is just what life becomes. The intensity and the obsessive need to be near someone fades, and you fall into a complacent and normal existence together. I do believe I love Bridgitte. If I didn’t I wouldn’t have stayed this long. I’m just not sure it’s the kind of love that spans decades.

  “I think we both need a break for a while,” she says on an exhale, her arms folded across her chest as she begins to leave the room.

  “So that’s it?” I ask. “You just walk away and nothing gets resolved, huh?” I’m baiting her to finish this argument, to settle things, but she has no interest.

  “Yeah, Elliot, this is it. I’m going to stay with a friend of mine from work and you go off on your trip to Boston—”

  I cut her off quickly, not giving her a chance to continue. “How the fuck do you know about my trip to Boston?”