One Last Time: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxie Noir

  Only this time is worse, because this time wasn’t two nights in some motel. This time was nearly two months. This time was square dancing and ice skating and hiking and cooking, movie nights on the couch and driving to the mountains just to see the sunset.

  This time hurts in a new, astonishing way.

  I’m a few miles from my house when I realize my problem: I’m still in Delilah’s car, not my own. I could park it at my place, but I don’t want to text her about it. I don’t want to look out the window and see her getting into it. I don’t want to think about this car ever again, so instead of going home I pick up my phone, think for a moment, and then call Levi.

  “Yes?” he answers.

  “I need a favor.”

  “All right.”

  “I need a ride from Delilah’s house to mine,” I tell him.

  Levi waits, as if for an explanation. I don’t offer one. His silences might work on other people, but I’ve known him for thirty years.

  “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” I go on.

  “Send me the address,” he says.

  When I pull into her driveway, he’s already there: standing next to his truck, wearing jeans and boots and his winter coat, watching something in her yard.

  I park, get out, walk over. He notices my face, my pajama pants, the car I showed up in, but he has mercy and just nods at Delilah’s yard.

  “She feed them?” he asks.

  I follow his gaze to a raccoon, sitting on its back legs, watching us expectantly.

  “Yeah,” I say, and my voice sounds like dirt. I clear my throat. “That’s either Terry, Larry, or Jerry.”

  “You really shouldn’t feed wildlife,” he says, with the air of someone who’s said it a thousand times before.

  “You’ve got birdfeeders,” I point out.

  He shrugs.

  “They’re birds.”

  “They’re life and they’re wild,” I say, my voice sharpening. “Is that not wildlife?”

  Something flickers on his face that might be the tiniest smile.

  “True,” he admits. “Got a suitcase or anything?”

  I grab my stuff from her trunk, put her key under her mat, and climb into Levi’s truck. It’s a relief to drive away with my brother at the wheel, in this vehicle that smells like sawdust and dirt and not her shampoo. I close my eyes and drift halfway off, glad that I called the brother who knows how to be quiet for a minute.

  When we get to my house, he comes inside with me, then takes off his coat and shoes like he’ll be here a while. I just watch, tired and drained.

  “You should probably get some sleep,” he says. “You look like you’ve had a night.”

  I’m sure I do. My eyes feel like somene’s held a match to them. My throat hurts like it’s sore from being tight for so long.

  “I’m not really tired,” I say, because I can’t imagine sleeping.

  “Do you want to change your clothes?”

  Right. Pajamas, still.

  “Good idea,” I tell him, and turn to go upstairs. When I glance down, he’s rolling up his sleeves, phone between his shoulder and his ear.

  “Hey, June,” he says softly as I head into my bedroom. “I might not be back for a couple of hours…”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Delilah

  Eight Years Ago

  (Eight months before the previous flashback)

  Winona pops her head around the corner and gives me a very serious thumbs up.

  “Coast is clear,” she says.

  I swallow, trying to vanquish the tightness in my throat or the lump in my chest.

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice about an octave higher than it should be.

  “Ava and Olivia are out shopping,” she says. “Mom’s wrapping presents and on the phone with her sister, and Dad is… somewhere, I guess. You sure you’re okay? Do you want some water or something?”

  I wave in the direction of the glass already sitting on a side table. Winona nods, still clearly worried.

  Then she comes into the den and takes my shoulders in her hands. Even though she’s my younger sister, not even out of high school yet, somehow she’s always the one comforting and advising me, not the other way around.

  “You’ll be fine,” she says, soothingly. “People break up all the time.”

  “Thanks,” I say, nodding.

  I almost tell her not like this, they don’t, not when they’ve been dating since high school and they’re supposed to be perfect together and live happily ever after but I know, somewhere deep down, that she’s right. It’s just a breakup. Thousands of them happen every day.

  “I’ll keep running interference,” she says. “Let me know when it’s over?”

  I just nod again, because I don’t trust my voice. Winona pats me one more time, then turns and walks out of the den.

  I start pacing. Christmas is in a week, so the room is done up to the nines: garlands on the walls, bows over the fireplace, perfectly-appointed tree in one corner. It gives a weird, jolly vibe to the whole ordeal and makes me feel even crazier than I already do.

  As I walk, I plan what I’m going to say, heart in my throat.

  I think we should take a break for a while.

  That’s it. Just a break, not a breakup. After a month or two I’m sure we’ll both have realized how much we really love each other and we’ll get back together, and this time it’ll be great and perfect and we won’t fight nearly every day because we’ll have seen the other side.

  Then, this spring, he’ll graduate and get a job back here, and we’ll get engaged and married and that’s it, that’s the happy ending. It’s a story I’ve told myself again and again over the past month or two, even as I’m not sure I believe it myself anymore.

  I love Seth. I’ve always loved Seth. I always will. Right?

  A new wave of panic rolls its spikes over me. Right?

  And then I can’t panic anymore, because there’s a knock on the door. I force myself to walk over. Take a deep breath. Pull it open, and there he is.

  “Hey,” he says, grinning. He steps into the house, leans in for a kiss. His hand is cold on my face, and I can’t bring myself to give him more than a peck on the lips, because more than that feels like lying.

  “Thanks for coming over,” I say, and my voice sounds strange, oddly formal even to myself.

  Seth just laughs.

  “Of course, Bird,” he says. “I wanted to see you.”

  “Come on,” I tell him, and walk back to the den. I feel like I’m a robot giving a tour: here’s the foyer and here are the stairs and that’s a bathroom and…

  “Your family around?” he asks, eyes following the big staircase to the second floor.

  “They’re here somewhere,” I say. “You know.”

  Once we’re in the den, Seth takes my hand. Leads me over to the tree, glowing with twinkling lights. Takes my other hand, holds them both in his. Looks deep into my eyes, his own that a shade of blue I’ve searched for but never found.

  Slowly, a smile cracks across his face, and my heart hammers so hard I’m sure he can hear it. My stomach twists. I think I might throw up.

  “Delilah,” he says, softly.

  Say it, I tell myself. Say it. Say it.

  Sayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayitsayit.

  Seth reaches into his pocket. Keeps my left hand in his.

  Gets down on one knee, and this cannot be happening.

  It can’t. It can’t. I’m vaguely aware that I’m supposed to be happy about this but instead I’m horrified, frozen. Powerless to make this stop.

  “Seth,” I say, the word brittle.

  He opens a box, the ring inside. Looks up at me with those eyes, the most perfect shade of blue.

  “Delilah,” he says, solemnly. “Will you marry me?”

  There’s a moment, then, where all the sound drops from the world. There’s a silence beyond silence, still and heavy.

  When it ends I’m already shaking my head, pulli
ng my hand out of his. Stepping backward like he’s just offered me a tarantula.

  “No,” I’m saying. “No. I can’t.”

  He’s frozen. Shocked. I keep shaking my head.

  “What?” he says, without moving, that single word full of pain and betrayal. “Why?”

  “I think we should take a break,” I blurt out. “Just some time apart so we can think about things and not talk and not see each other, because things have been so bad between us lately and I think if we just took that time apart it would really help. So a break. Just for a while.”

  The box snaps shut. He stands.

  “A break?”

  I nod like a puppet on a string. He shoves his hands into the pockets of the coat he never even took off, looks away. Swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “We can’t take a break,” he says. “I know it’s been rough lately, but that’s temporary, Bird, I’m gonna graduate in May and then I’m coming back and we’ll be together, and we’ll get —”

  “Please don’t.”

  His knuckles are white around the ring box, and the guilt is huge, overwhelming. A shadow trying to eat me alive.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him. I step forward, stop, because Seth is hurt and my urge is to hold him, comfort him, but what do I do when I’m the source of the pain? What do I do when this is my fault for not loving him enough?

  He shakes his head. Shoves the box back into his pocket, steps away from me.

  “I don’t want to take a break,” he says. “I want our plan, the way it was supposed to be —"

  “This wasn’t our plan!” I say, desperately, but Seth keeps shaking his head.

  “I can’t take a break,” he says, his face falling.

  I swallow hard, and a tear spills down my cheek. I didn’t even realize I was crying.

  I want to say a thousand things right now — that I’m sorry, that I didn’t want to hurt him, that I love him but not enough, that I want to keep him but I don’t — but I can’t get any of them through my lips.

  “That’s it,” he whispers.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, and he shakes his head like he can shake me off.

  “It’s okay,” he says, his voice sounding strange, strangled.

  Then he steps forward. Puts his hand to my face. Bends down.

  Kisses me for the last time, and then it’s over.

  “Goodbye, Bird,” Seth says, and then he turns and leaves the house.

  I don’t know how long I stand there, crying. Winona finds me, makes me sit down. I never tell her what really happened.

  Then next time I see Seth, it’s eight months later at a dive bar.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Delilah

  Present Day

  The car ride back feels like the longest car ride in the history of car rides. Thankfully it’s with Ava and Thad, not someone else, and Ava keeps up a bubbly, cheerful running commentary for most of the time, as if she can cover over the unpleasantness of the night before.

  She can’t. I feel like hell in the back seat of Thad’s BMW, wishing that we didn’t have to stop at every single vista point and Starbucks along the drive, but somewhere in the back of my mind I know that Ava is, in her way, being extraordinarily kind to me.

  I also know that Ava at twenty-two is probably a better person than I was. For all my misgivings, she and Thad seem really good together: she listens, rapturously, to his stories. He laughs at her jokes in a way that suggests he’s besotted. She’s not me, thank God.

  When we get to my house, my car’s there. I wave goodbye to Ava and Thad, look through the windows, in the trunk, but there’s nothing to suggest anyone else’s presence. The key is under my welcome mat, and when I step inside, I hold my breath against the tiny spark of hope, buried in my chest.

  My house is empty. The spark flares, flickers, dies. No one’s there. Not even a note.

  Not that I thought that there would be. Not that I thought I deserved anything but this silent emptiness, because I’m the one who shouted I want you gone and I’m not allowed to get upset that he did what I asked.

  That night, I go over to Lainey’s place. She lives in a stately brick house near downtown, on a fancy street where her neighbors routinely report her to the homeowners association for her Black Lives Matter flag.

  We watch The Batchelor and I tell her about the fight. Then I tell her again. We get tacos delivered from Gloria’s, Sprucevale’s best and only Mexican restaurant, and then I cry into my carnitas and I tell her one more time, now with angry editorializing.

  She says all the right things, like that must have really hurt your feelings and absolutely, it’s a betrayal. She holds me while I ask her what’s wrong with me that I’ve done this again and again, and she gently reminds me that humans are nothing but flesh and bone running on less electricity than it takes to power a lightbulb.

  It does make me feel better, which is why we’re friends.

  We share a churro. We judge the romantic choices of everyone on The Bachelor, and that night, I sleep in her guest room because I don’t want to leave her warm, wonderful house.

  Ava calls. Winona calls. Vera calls. Even Olivia calls, and I ignore them all. The only call I answer is from my dad, and I swear him to secrecy.

  They call again. I know I’m being an asshole and making them worry more, but their concern feels like a burden that I can’t carry right now.

  My cousin Georgia calls. Wyatt, her brother, texts, then calls, then texts, then calls. I don’t answer any of them, because answering them feels like climbing out of a hole I’ve dug myself into and I don’t even have a ladder.

  Life goes on. Work goes on. I do touch-ups, line work, color work. I have a consultation about a full-back tattoo of a stylized wolf, and it’s badass as hell. I cover up an ex-con’s grinning frog tattoo. It’s a busy week, and I wonder again if I should hire a second artist. Move to a bigger studio. Develop my business plan beyond make this work so I don’t have to ask my dad for money, because I’m somewhat startled to realize I’ve already done that.

  Whenever I look in the mirror, I fantasize about tattooing something on my face, just to do it. A star. A teardrop. A tiny broken heart. It doesn’t really matter what, though if my volunteer work has taught me anything, it’s to be careful with face tattoos because apparently they all mean you’ve murdered someone.

  I keep avoiding calls from my nice, well-meaning family.

  Then, one night nearly a week after our fight, I do it.

  Not on the face. That’s too much. It’s on the inside of my left wrist: a small, black star, about half an inch across. It’s been a couple of years since I tattooed myself — that’s how most tattoo artists learn at first; we almost universally have some very bad thigh tattoos — and I have to lash my forearm to the chair with gauze to hold still, but I manage.

  I turn off the gun. Wipe the blood. Sit back in the chair, hold it up, examine it for flaws. It’s not much, but it’s there, and it’s plain as day, out in the open. Hard to hide, not that I’m going to.

  People will know. Everyone will know, and Vera will be upset, and my sisters will be politely baffled, and it’s fine. People can think what they like. I’m the kind of person who has a fully visible wrist tattoo, and as Lainey has advised me: their thoughts are not my concern.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Seth

  The day I get back from West Virginia, I skip dinner at my mom’s house without telling anyone. I know all my brothers will be there, most with their wives and fiancees and girlfriends, and I’m going to have to see them be happy, functional couples, and I don’t think I can.

  Instead, I buy fifty pounds of flour and five pounds of butter and at least that much sugar, not to mention chocolate chips and vanilla extract and sprinkles and cinnamon and whatever else strikes my fancy in the baking aisle at Kroger.

  I make croissants, something I’ve never done. While they’re rising I make chocolate chip cookies. When they’re out of the o
ven I find a recipe for hazelnut biscotti that looks satisfyingly rigorous, and I get to work on that.

  That’s in the oven when there’s a brief knock on my door, and then Caleb walks in without waiting for an invitation.

  “Hey,” he says, and he eyes the cookies cooling on the table, the stand mixer, my shirt caked with flour and sugar and butter. “You weren’t at Mom’s.”

  “No,” I say, leaning against the counter. “You talked to Levi, I guess?”

  Caleb nods, walks to the table, and grabs a cookie.

  “She break up with you again?” he asks, mouth full.

  There’s a moment where all I can hear is the blood, rushing through my ears.

  “Get the fuck out,” I tell him.

  He swallows.

  “I —"

  “Yeah, we broke up again and I don’t need you to come rub it in my face that you were right again,” I say, voice building. “I know this happens. I know this always happens, and I know the next thing out of your mouth is going to be Delilah’s an evil soul-sucking witch, so how about you just leave before that, okay?”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” he says, calmly, holding out his hands, half a cookie still in one.

  “She’s not,” I say, louder still. I push the top of the stand mixer down, toss a spatula into the sink so hard it bounces back out. “She’s — she paints murals and she does yoga and she feeds raccoons and she’s a little weird and pretty funny and her hair smells nice and she’s not a bad person. She’s just a person.”

  “Seth,” Caleb starts.