The Choices I've Made

by J. L. Berg

  He took ahold of my sadness, mistaking it for enthusiasm. With his hands on the sides of my face, he kissed me back just as passionately.

  And, as tears of loss fell from my eyes, tears of joy fell from his.

  I should have stopped it.

  I should have told him it was the end.

  But I was greedy and hurting and clinging to every moment I had, still wrapped up in his embrace. So, for a few more minutes, I let him believe in the possibility of forever while I let myself drown in certainty of our tragic end.

  His smell, his taste, and the warmth of our bodies moving together.

  We took our time in undressing each other. We used the moon as our night-light, the lazy waves as our music, and the grass as our bed. I let my head fall back, savoring every sensation of his lips as they left a wet path everywhere they touched.

  Somewhere in the midst of our passion, our eyes met. His full of hope, mine void of any. He saw the truth in my eyes, the words I had yet to say.

  “Molly, no,” he whispered, the hope draining from his eyes like a sieve.

  My tears turned into tortured sobs as he pulled me closer, tightly squeezing me against him.

  “I can’t let you go,” he said, stroking my hair between his fingers. “I won’t do it.”

  Pulling back, I could see the conviction, the determination, the zeal in his eyes. If he couldn’t convince me with words, he’d do so with his body.

  And, God help me, I’d let him.

  Spreading me wide, his hands caressed every part of me. From the hollowed recesses of my collarbone to the tender flesh of my thighs, he made sure he left his mark everywhere.

  Like a brand.

  If only he knew I’d been his and his alone from the moment we met and every second thereafter. Even when it’d hurt.

  No, especially when it’d hurt.

  Because that was when I had known it was real. It was in those dark hours, when I’d cursed his name for not loving me enough to stay, that I had known it was true love and not some silly high school crush I’d eventually get over.

  What existed between us was undeniable, and no matter how much it’d hurt to watch him walk away, I knew the happy moments we shared, it made all the pain worth it. It made it all worth it.

  When our bodies joined this time, for the very last time, I closed my eyes and relished the feel of him inside me.

  The power of every thrust.

  The pleasure of each caress.

  The unconditional love I felt in his embrace.

  Our eyes met, his baby blues locked on to mine, as we made love. He didn’t beg, but I could see the uncertainty written across his face.

  He knew I wouldn’t leave home.

  Not now, maybe not ever.

  And he couldn’t stay.

  Just like before, when a heartbroken eighteen-year-old girl had watched the love of her life board a ferry and leave her behind, this grown woman would be doing the same.

  How cruel fate had turned out to be.

  But, like Dean had said that day in the hospital when I told him of my never-ending love for Jake, sometimes, you loved someone for as long as you were given.

  A day, a month, or a lifetime.

  Even if it hurt.

  So, I’d love this man for a lifetime even if we were given only a fraction of it.

  When it was over, I couldn’t bring myself to move. To do so would mean facing the reality of what was happening between us. So, I just let him hold me there, on the grass, with his heat still wet inside me as we cursed the hours and minutes for stealing our last moments of happiness.

  Finally, when a chill began to crawl across the ground, Jake lifted me into his arms and carried us into my room. He gently set me on my bed before disappearing for a moment to grab our clothes. He dropped everything on the wood floor by the door and slipped under the covers beside me. He smelled of earth and heat. I snuggled into his warmth, afraid to close my eyes, for fear sleep would claim me.

  “If my mom hadn’t died,” he whispered into the darkness, “if I’d stayed, what do you think our lives would have been like?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “I guess I always thought we’d come back here after graduation and take over the inn and the clinic.”

  “Would we be married?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “Do you think my mom would let you live here otherwise?”

  “My mom would have loved a beach wedding,” he said. “She always told me you’d make the prettiest bride.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “That always followed some sort of safe-sex talk. ‘Don’t get that poor girl pregnant. She’s too pretty to be walking down the aisle in a muumuu.’”

  I laughed, remembering how much I loved his mother. It had been a while since I thought of her in that way, as someone I’d lost rather than someone who had taken him away.

  “I always pictured us getting married here,” I said. “Just friends and family out on the lawn with the bay in the background. I’d wear my mom’s simple lace gown, and you’d be waiting for me in a crisp linen suit. We’d say, I do, and exchange rings. It would be the perfect end to our fairy-tale story.”

  “It would have been. But life didn’t work out that way for us.”

  “So, what do we do now?” I asked. “I don’t know how to leave this bed, knowing I’ll never see you again. Will I ever see you again?”

  “I wish I could say yes, Molly. I do. Because, leaving this bed, not knowing whether I’ll ever see your face again…” He shook his head, his eyes squeezing shut. “But you and I need to live. I see that now. We’ve spent twelve years apart, and what have we accomplished? You’ve cemented yourself to this place in hopes that I’d return, like some knight in shining armor, so we could make that backyard wedding fantasy a reality. Hell, you even tried to marry Dean in a desperate attempt to replace me.”

  His words stung, but they were true. I might have stayed here at first because I had been afraid to venture out on my own, but then it’d become my home base, hoping eventually he’d return here, to his home, to me. And when he hadn’t, I’d tried to marry my best friend.

  “And I’m the worst one of all. I ran away from home rather than facing my grief. I stuffed it so far deep inside me that, now, every patient I work on is just another faceless part of the job. And, to make matters worse, I chose to work on heart patients in some deranged attempt to connect with my dead mother.”

  Silence fell between us.

  “We’re total nutjobs,” I said softly.

  “No, we’re just a little broken, and we’ve been depending on one another for far too long to pick up the sharp edges of our broken lives and put them all back together again.”

  Tears stung my eyes as I nodded in agreement, nudging my head into his shoulder. “I don’t know how to move on from you.”

  “Nor I, you,” he said.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled back, finding those bright blue eyes once more. “But we’ll try.”

  A sad smile tugged at his lips. “We’ll try.”

  “I used to write you letters,” I confessed, “when I was angry or sad or just plain missed you.”

  “You did?” he asked. “But I never—”

  “I didn’t send them,” I explained. “But it helped me stay connected to you, even when I couldn’t. Even when I shouldn’t. Moving on doesn’t require letting go of everything we shared. I realize that now. We can honor our past while creating a future.”

  “So, you’ll write me again?” he asked.

  “Yes, and you’ll do the same. As many unsent letters as it takes. I’ll be your Dear Diary and you’ll be mine. Tell me everything. Tell me nothing. But, knowing, somewhere out there, you’re thinking of me, even for the briefest moment in between your shifts at the hospital or before a blind date, it will make moving on easier.”

  My heart burned, like fire tearing at my soul.

  “For me, too,” he whispered. “And maybe, one day,
we’ll be ready to see each other again with a pile full of unread letters and a lifetime of memories, and we’ll finally be ready to share something real together.”

  “Even for a day.”

  “You can do a lot in a day.”

  “I’m never going to forget you,” I said, each word more ragged than the one before.

  He swept the tears from my cheeks with his thumb, his gaze never wavering. “I’m counting on it.”

  I didn’t know how long I lay in his arms that night, willing sleep away.

  But, eventually, the night claimed me, and I awoke to the crisp morning sun peeking through the window. Birds chirped, and a truck drove by on the gravel road.

  Life moved on.

  I looked to my right, the place where Jake had been just hours earlier, holding me while I wept. The salty stains of my tears were gone.

  And so was he.

  All that remained was a single sheet of paper.

  Mols,

  I know we’re not supposed to send these letters we write to each other, but watching you fall asleep tonight has left me aching to leave you with something.

  Maybe I feel guilty, knowing you’ll wake up in the morning and find me gone. Call it the pragmatic in me, but I think it’s easier this way. If I spend another day here, I’ll never leave.

  And you deserve better than what I’ve become.

  You deserve so much more, Molly.

  Stop waiting for your life to begin and live it. Whatever that means to you, do it. Don’t ask anyone’s permission or opinion. Go be young and wild. Do all the things you were meant to do, and maybe, someday, we’ll find each other in the same place at the right time.

  For the last time.

  Yours always,

  Jake

  I crumpled up the piece of paper in my hand, hot, wet tears once more falling to the bedsheets.

  What was I doing? Letting him go?

  Again.

  Racing around, I threw on my grass-stained clothes from the night before and grabbed my phone.

  Jogging across the foyer in as quiet a fashion as I could accomplish, I snuck out the door and dialed my mother’s number. She picked up on the second ring, bright and happy, like it was noon instead of barely sunrise.

  “Can you do me a favor?” I asked, attempting to mask the emotions tugging at my vocal cords.

  “Sure, hon, anything. You know that.”

  “Can you open the inn this morning? I need to go do something.”

  She seemed a little taken aback by my abrupt request. But seeing as it was the first time I’d actually asked for something like this, it was understandable. Hell, even when Dean had been placed in the hospital, they’d had to nearly knock me out from driving back down here to make breakfast for everyone.

  “Of course,” she replied in an obvious attempt to keep her cool. “Everything okay?”

  “Yep,” I said, hopping into my car and firing up the engine. “Just need to go grab something from the ferry. Be right back.”

  I didn’t give her a chance to ask any questions. I was sure she had a dozen.

  Wiping the last remaining tears from my cheeks, I backed out of the driveway and headed out of town.

  I hoped I wasn’t late.

  Jake,

  I hate you.

  I hate you and this stupid letter.

  I hate the moon and the stars and every single thing that goes on without you. I hate how much I hurt right now, how many tears I’ve cried, and how weak it all makes me feel.

  But, most of all, I hate that you left and that I didn’t have the courage to follow you.

  Because, if I did, I’d be in your arms right now. Maybe in that apartment you spoke about in Chicago. Maybe somewhere in between.

  Maybe you would have changed your mind and come back.

  Will you ever come back?

  I followed you to the ferry today. I drove so fast down the road, I thought for sure I’d end up with a speeding ticket from Macon himself. When I pulled into the parking lot, I realized I was too late.

  You’d already left.

  When? I don’t know. It could have been minutes or hours, but you were gone all the same. I yelled, and I screamed. I cried and begged myself to get on that damn ferry and find you.

  But I couldn’t.

  Because, as much as I hate you in this moment, I love you more.

  And I know you’re right. We need time apart. Maybe a month. Maybe a year.

  Maybe a lifetime.

  So, I’ll write the letters, shed the tears, and hate the world for a while, knowing it’s all part of the process—a process of getting over the hurt.

  And finding myself…wherever she might be.

  Love,

  Molly

  Molly,

  I can’t do this. I can’t write to you and act like my fucking heart isn’t smeared all over Highway 12. I’ve barely made it to Hatteras, and I’ve already talked myself out of doubling back twenty times.

  What are we doing?

  Why am I sitting in a car on the side of the road, writing a goddamn letter I’ll never send, when I could turn around and be with you instead?

  How can love be rational?

  Maybe we’re doing this wrong?

  I can’t write any more today. It hurts too much.

  —Jake

  Jake,

  I drove to the ferry dock today.

  I’ve driven to the ferry dock every day this month.

  Some people take afternoon walks to clear their minds. I drive fifteen minutes out of town, get in line for the ferry, wait, and then swiftly turn around when it begins to load.

  Yesterday, I was recognized.

  A returning couple from Kentucky is visiting the inn, and they were unloading as I was making my mad dash. They waved. I waved back.

  It was then I realized what I was doing was insane.

  This isn’t moving on. Hell, I don’t know what this is, but it’s certainly not healthy.

  My mom asked me why supplies in the inn were so low when she came to do her daily check-in. I made up an excuse about being busy, but she saw right through me.

  She sat me down and asked how I was doing. I didn’t have the strength to play games anymore. Honestly, I don’t know if I have the strength for anything anymore.

  Was it this hard the first time, Jake? Did it hurt this much?

  Maybe we were wrong. Maybe love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.

  Perhaps we were toxic from the very beginning.

  —Molly

  Molly,

  I’m home.

  I’m back in Chicago.

  It doesn’t feel like home. But I guess I never allowed it to be. I moved here right after my residency finished up. It was the highest offer I’d received of several.

  That was how I based my decision. That, and how far I could rise.

  I didn’t look at the location or proximity to friends or social events. I merely saw a number on the offer letter that agreed with me.

  And that was that.

  Sitting here, at a desk, I barely remember choosing the apartment I rent for its proximity to the hospital. I realize I don’t know a damn thing about this place.

  Or me for that matter.

  It took me twice as long as it should have to drive from Ocracoke to Chicago. I thought every mile I pushed between us would make it easier, but with each passing state line, the pain only doubled. I pulled off to the side of the road and stayed in shabby motel rooms, dreaming of you.

  And our backyard wedding.

  Somewhere around Pittsburgh, I gave myself one hell of a pity party and spent the next twenty-four hours hungover and miserable. But, somehow, I made it back here.

  And, now, the hard part begins—starting over.

  I hope you’re better at this than me.

  —Jake

  Two Years Later

  “IT’S A BREAK,” I ANNOUNCED the moment I entered the exam room.

  Both mom and son were seated exactly as I
remembered. The young boy, all of eight years old, was propped up on the exam table, his foot carefully on its side, while his mom sat beside him, both sets of eyes focused on me.

  “Not only did you break it, but you also broke it in four different places,” I said, placing the laptop I’d brought in with me on the counter. Opening it up, I waited for the screen to boot up and then proceeded to show them the X-rays that had just been captured.

  “There, you can see the metatarsal bones that run along the top of the foot,” I explained, pointing with the end of my pen.

  Both mother and son nodded.

  “See those three right there?”

  “Yep,” the boy replied.

  “Notice how they’re kind of wavy on the X-ray?”

  He nodded. “They don’t line up.”

  I smiled. He was a bright kid. Kind of clumsy but bright.

  “Exactly. That’s where your fractures are. Well, three of them at least. The other is in your heel, and that’s the one that’s probably causing you the most amount of pain.”

  His mom squeezed his hand.

  “So, with four breaks in that one tiny foot, do you know what that means?” I asked, closing the laptop and turning toward him.

  He looked up at me, his wide eyes focused on the name on my white coat, before he softly answered, “Cast.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, placing a hand on his shoulder. “A temporary one for now. My nurse will hook you up.”

  He looked nervous.

  I knelt to his level. “I promise, it won’t hurt.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. And, hey, maybe you can get a couple of your friends to come over and decorate it before you have your appointment with the orthopedic doc next week.”

  “Yeah? Like, with anything I want?”

  I tossed a look in his mom’s direction. She nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sweet.”

  His spirits lifted after that as his mom and I went over last-minute directions. I gave her a referral for an excellent orthopedic doctor in the area and advice on how to manage the pain, as it would get worse over the next two days, and then I told her to call if they had any questions.