by Wendy Owens
Dean may deserve to know that I’m leaving, and he also may deserve to know why, but I can’t tell him. I’m not strong enough to face him. “I better go … I don’t want to miss my bus.”
“Call us?”
“I promise.” I smile, squeezing Christian close to me before slipping into the cab and watching my new life disappear behind me. I’m going home, back to where it’s just Buttons and me, my comforting recliner, and a familiar pain rather than a new one.
“One ticket to Cincinnati, Ohio please,” I say to the woman on the other side of the glass window. She chomps on her gum, somehow making clicking noises between motions. I’ve been staring at the bulky red rims of her glasses since I got in line. The way she peers at me over the top of the lenses, I’m certain she knows all of my secrets. She knows what a terrible person I am. She knows that I just left, without so much as a goodbye, the only man who has loved me since my husband. I want her to judge me; she should. I deserve it.
“One way?” she asks with a nasal pitch.
I nod, sliding her a credit card before she tells me the total. It doesn’t matter what it costs. I need to be anywhere but here, in the same city as Dean. Distance from him will make me stronger. Distance from him will keep my heart safe—will keep him safe.
She mutters the total and a few pieces of information I should know during my travels. I sign the receipt, sliding it back to her. She returns to me my card and ticket. I look at the face of the ticket, staring at the words: Cincinnati, Ohio. I sigh a breath of relief. I’m going home.
Smiling, I say thank you and turn toward the signs on the wall of the bus station. My connection isn’t loading yet. Glancing around the lobby, I see a number of hard plastic chairs to choose from. I find one with a comfortable number of buffer seats between myself and anyone else. Dragging my suitcases behind me, I take a seat in one of the chairs that has been bolted to the chairs around it.
I half-smile at a teen girl sitting diagonal from me. Shifting in my chair, I turn my body in the opposite direction of her prying eyes. The entire station smells like a stale gym locker. I can feel my hair sucking in the moisture from the air, and my skin feels dewy.
I click the screen on my phone to check the time. I silenced it in the cab when I saw Dean was trying to call me. I’m not sure if Christian told him I was leaving, but based on his repeated attempts, he knows I’m gone. The bus is scheduled to leave in thirty-five minutes. I’m surprised they haven’t started boarding yet. I glance back at the sign, but still no change.
The last thing I want to think about right now is Dean. I’m leaving … this had to end eventually. I’m making it easier. But going home means I have more choices. I still don’t want to live with Monica’s roommates or Percy. Maybe I should return to culinary school; I only had one semester left. Once I finish, a job in a restaurant I would actually enjoy cooking in shouldn’t be too hard to find.
You’ll work. You’ll get a job, you’ll get an apartment, you’ll work, and you’ll survive. You’re a survivor. I silently tell myself all of this.
I watch as the girl who has been staring at me stands and chucks her empty soda can into a recycling bin. From the expression on her face, I can tell she is no stranger to unhappiness. I can’t help wonder what has made her look such a way. Her eyes shift in my direction, and I quickly look away. Does she see the same sadness when she looks at me?
The girl walks across the room, and I watch her. I shift, trying to keep track of her, but someone passes in front of me, blocking my line of sight. He doesn’t move; in fact, he stops directly in front of me. I lean to the side, not taking my eyes from the girl. She is talking to a couple other teens now, another girl and two boys.
“MacKenzie.”
My heart stops beating, my head begins to spin, and in that moment I am certain time has stopped. The world is no longer turning, and at any second we will lose gravity. My eyes shift to the person standing in front of me—Dean. He’s looking at me; his eyes are red, bloodshot, his face sad.
I stand and gasp for air. Oxygen is key to making it through this conversation. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I shouldn’t be here?” he repeats, his voice heavy with disbelief. He pulls out the letter from his pocket.
I shake my head. “I meant to be gone by the time you found that.”
“Wow, that makes me feel so much better,” he snaps, his jaw tightening.
I lean down, taking my suitcases in hand. I can’t do this. “I have to go,” I say, unaware if we are even boarding yet.
He grabs my arm. “No, you’re not leaving.”
“You’re hurting me.”
He loosens his grip but doesn’t release me. “Like you’re hurting me?”
“Don’t do this,” I whisper, certain everyone is staring.
“You’re not leaving like this,” he informs me.
I yank my arm sharply from his grasp, gripping my bags and making my way around the seats. I drag my luggage to an area just before the doors that exit to the loading area. I can feel Dean close behind me.
“You have to talk to me.”
I turn and face him; he’s not going to make this easy for me. “The letter says it all.”
“This letter doesn’t say shit,” he huffs, crumpling it into a ball.
“I was going home in a month anyway when the tour was over. I’m just ending it a little early.” I try my best to explain.
“Are you calling your job it or our relationship it?”
I shrug. “Both.”
He throws the paper in a nearby trashcan, then runs his hands through his hair. “I don’t even know how to react to this.”
“I knew you’d be this way … that’s why I wrote it all down.”
“You knew I’d be upset that my girlfriend is walking out on me.” When he calls me his girlfriend I feel my heart wither.
“Pete’s accident got me thinking…” I don’t tell him what it actually got me thinking about. “I have my life in Ohio. When this tour is over, you’ll go back to Georgia so you can visit your mom.”
“And you just decided that?”
“Dean, you know she needs you. You have to go.”
“Fine, let’s say she does … haven’t you ever heard of a long distance relationship? We can make it work,” he argues.
I step forward, take his hand into mine, and muster all my strength to say, “I’m just now dealing with the idea of dating after being a widow. The last thing I can handle is a long distance relationship.”
“Aren’t I worth trying?” he asks, his eyes full of hope … or maybe it’s desperation. I can’t be sure.
“It’s not that easy,” I insist. God, why can’t you just let me leave?
“Then maybe you’re right … maybe we should be done, because it’s that easy for me. I love you, and I’d do anything to make it work.” As he speaks, I feel like if I move, my entire body might shatter into a million pieces.
Stop saying you love me! I want to shout. You’re making goodbye so much harder.
“We’re now boarding for Cincinnati,” a gentleman calls from the double doors to my right. I glance over at the sign and see the update.
“Don’t go,” he pleads.
“I can’t do this … not right now,” I say, trying to convince myself as well. I know this makes sense. This relationship is far more complicated than anything I can handle in my life right now.
“What if I gave you a reason to stay?”
“Don’t do this, please. I’m not going to change my mind.”
“What if I told you that when I met you, I decided you were it? I married you in my head, we bought a house, we had kids, and both were blessed with your beauty. In an instant, a blink, I lived our whole lives. We grow old together, I promise, I’ve seen it.”
“You’re crazy,” I whisper, secretly wishing he were holding me.
“Crazy about you. Let me love you.”
I’m physically shaking. I want to fall in his arms and
kiss him, tell him I’ll never leave him, but he can’t make those promises. A daydream he saw in his mind isn’t reality. Reality is full of broken promises, and death, and loneliness.
“Stop!” I shout. I know people are staring now. I grip my bags tightly. You can do this. You’re strong enough. Just take that first step. I turn and walk to the doors. Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
“Macaroon,” his voice is tender as he calls after me. Don’t look back, I tell myself again.
I pause, but I don’t turn around. I take a deep breath and walk forward. I’m going home, knowing a little pain now is better than an agonizing pain later.
It’s been two weeks since I came home. Monica’s roommates aren’t hiding the fact that they want me gone. I even heard Claire grumbling about how I keep milking this widow thing, and someone needs to tell me to get over it. God, I hate them.
I almost broke down a couple nights ago and called Dean. I know he’s the last person in the world I should be speaking to. Maintaining clarity when it involves him is next to impossible. I avoid the grocery store where I met Christian because that led me to Dean. I don’t even drive near the Brewery District, because that’s where I interviewed with him. Yet no matter how hard I’ve tried to avoid these memories, they seem to keep finding their way in.
I started working on my application to finish culinary school. It’s a welcome distraction. Sometimes I think life is normal again, but then I realize I’ve never had what one could call a normal life. There has always been some disaster lurking around the corner.
I can tell when Monica and Percy look at me, they can see there is a new brokenness inside of me, but they don’t ask. I think they’re afraid if they do, I might leave, or come completely unraveled and turn back into the shell of a person I was before. You’re home now. Breathe. Slow down. Take the time to figure who you are now, what you want, I tell myself.
Pulling into the parking spot in front of the downtown office building where Monica works, even the wrecked state of my car leads me back down the road to memories of Dean. Shaking my head, as if I’m trying to shake away the past, I step out of my car and feed the meter. Monica thinks I’m here to have lunch with her, but the true reason I’ve come is to tell her I’m moving in with Percy.
I never thought that was something I would decide to do, but the distaste I once had for her has begun to fade. I know if my dad can see me from wherever he is, it would mean a lot to him if I made an effort in developing a relationship with my sisters. I love Mon, but this is something I have to do. Plus, I would use any excuse to get Buttons and me away from her wretched roommates.
“Hey beautiful,” I hear my friend’s voice call out from behind me. Spinning around to face her, I beam the best smile I can.
“Sorry I’m late,” I offer.
“You wouldn’t be Mac if you weren’t late.” I grin, knowing the reputation is deserved. Her pencil skirt accentuates her slim waist, and the sheer blouse reveals just enough of her neck to show off her creamy and perfect skin. “How about Tom and Chee?”
I look at her, as if shocked by the suggestion. “Are you feeling okay?”
“What?” she defends.
“You never suggest anywhere that isn’t extremely fancy.”
“Sometimes a girl needs a grilled cheese doughnut sandwich.”
I laugh. “So true.” I’m the last one who could ever judge someone for needing a little comfort food.
We turn to walk around the corner to the grilled cheese and soup franchise. I can feel Monica looking at me.
“Okay, what’s up?” I ask.
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?”
“What are you talking about?” I question, even though I already know the answer.
“Oh, come on, it’s been two weeks since you came home, and you’ve barely said a word about what happened. Was it all crazy rock-and-roll drug scene or something?”
I’m laughing again. “No, they were all really great.”
“Then why leave?”
I pull open the door to the restaurant and wait for my friend to lead. It had been so clear when I left why I’d made the choice, but now that seems less and less clear to me. “I was coming home soon anyway, so I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“Oh, you must think I’m pretty stupid. That’s exactly why I know something happened; you would have finished out the last month otherwise,” she presses, moving into line and glancing up at the chalk menu on the wall.
“I don’t know, I guess I realized that the sooner I got back here, the sooner I could actually restart my life.”
“Restart your life … what in the hell does that even mean?” Monica scoffs, then leans in and places her order.
“It means that things started getting a little too intense out there. If I had stayed, it would have been even harder when it was time to come home.”
“That’s what I figured,” she grumbles under her breath.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap, signaling to the man who is ready to take my order to wait a moment.
“Just order,” she huffs. I turn and look at the now terrified looking man. I rattle off my order, hand him my payment, and move down the line. We pick up our number and, after a moment of searching, find a small booth to wait for our orders to be delivered.
I sit down, and stare intensely at her. “Now will you please tell me what you meant?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“I kind of thought it was about Dean, but I wasn’t sure until just now.”
“You think you know everything, don’t you?”
“Am I wrong?”
I pause. “Well, you’re not exactly right.”
“So tell me, what exactly happened?”
I bite my lip; I need to talk to someone about this. “I told you about Pete and the motorcycle accident, right?”
“Yeah, but you said Pete was fine.”
“He is,” I continue. “But it started me thinking.”
“We know that’s always dangerous.”
“Ha ha, now shut up. When the accident first happened I thought it had been Dean who was on the bike. I was certain he was dead. It was like I was right back there, the night of the accident with Travis and Katie.”
“But sweetie, it wasn’t him.”
“Well, I know that now.” I sigh. “That’s just it, though; that panic I felt got me thinking. What if something happens to Dean … will I be able to handle losing someone again?”
“So what? You’re going to be alone for the rest of your life?”
“I don’t know, maybe. It’s not just that, Mon. I was heading home in a month—my home, the place with my friends, my family, my life. Was he just going to abandon his mother, his friends, his entire life, and come live here? Was I really going to tackle a long distance relationship? It made me start asking the really tough questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like what do I want to do with my life?”
“And?”
“And what?” I furrow my brow.
“What do you want to do with your life?”
“Oh—truthfully?” She nods. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that the past couple weeks. Some of the happiest times of my life were when I was working in the kitchen of our family restaurant. I want to get a job as a chef so I can save up enough money to open up my own place.”
“Are you serious?” I can’t tell from her tone how she feels about the idea.
“What? You don’t like it?”
“Mac, this is exactly what I’ve been hoping for the past three years.”
My heart nearly leaps out of my chest. An older woman with a tight blond ponytail comes around to our table and exchanges our numbers for baskets of food. I take in a deep breath; the guilty pleasure sitting in front of me is practically calling my name.
I take a monstrous bite of the grilled cheese sandwich, chew, and swallow. “I’ve even come up with a name … Katie Bird’s.”
Monica tilts her head, and I see her eyes begin to glisten. “I love it.” Her voice is nearly a whisper as she takes an extra long blink.
“So what about Dean?” she asks, ripping off a bite of her food.
“There’s nothing to say about him. I made my choice pretty clear to him. Besides, I’m starting to think we get one shot at this love thing. I had mine and that’s that.”
“I hope you change your mind one day about the love part, but I am super excited about the restaurant idea. I’ll even be an investor.”
“What?” I gasp.
“Sure. You grew up around the business, and you’re the most amazing cook I’ve ever known, so I’d be foolish not to get in on the idea.”
“I don’t think we’re anywhere near that, but thank you.” I smile at her. If it weren’t for my sticky fingers I would give her a huge hug right now.
“How much will you need?”
“Best guess, if I want to open up in the Gateway District … $150,000 … maybe a little less.” I shrug.
“Holy shit,” Monica gasps.
“That’s if they will finance the build-out over the lease too.”
She’s thinking—thinking hard. At last, she looks at me seriously and says, “I can get you $35,000.”
I laugh. “What? Don’t be silly. I won’t be able to do this for years. It takes planning and money, and a lot of work.”
“I bet we can find other investors.”
“Where?” I inquire sarcastically.
“I don’t know, but you’ll see, I’ll figure this out.”
“Eat your grilled cheese doughnut sandwich, freak.”
“You’ll see,” she reassures.
I nibble on the corner of the bacon and avocado sandwich I made for myself. Percy is busy moving around the kitchen, sweeping up the crumbs from my prep work into her open palm. I watch her intensely, wishing she would sit down, or leave, or anything but the constant pacing she has been doing all morning.
“I’ll get it after I eat … leave it,” I offer.
Her back stiffens, she looks at me, and smiles. “I don’t mind.”