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The brunette on the treadmill next to me interrupted my reverie. She waved to get my attention.
“Huh?” I popped out an earbud.
“He’s something, right?” She pointed toward the exit. “He owns Pho B, the restaurant next door.”
“Oh.” My cheeks heated. “I wasn’t asking. I mean looking.”
“Sure you weren’t.” She shook her head, nearly dislodging an earbud from her ear. “No harm in looking.” She waggled her brows and cranked up her speed, starting to run faster.
Agreeing in theory, I turned my head again to look but was disappointed. Mr. Amazing Ass was long gone. I pressed theSTOPbutton, grabbed my keys from the cupholder, and waved a good-bye to the brunette.
I headed home as I always did after my workout to shower and change. I wasn’t a fan of showering at the gym. After getting cleaned up, I headed to work, expecting a dozen different deliveries that were scheduled during the day. May was a busy time of year for me.
At the club, afternoon gave way to evening. The sedate hustle of patrons became an onslaught with full staff and a packed house.
Working behind the bar, I acclimated to the rhythm of the evening. I shook my cocktail shaker to the beat of the opening band, a decent alternative rock group. The headliners were better, but there had been a big drop-off in music at Footit’s since Tempest had gotten their record contract and gone on to bigger and better things.
As the last song by the headliners hit a crescendo, smoke swirled and rolled in the beams of the spotlights onstage.
Scanning the length of the large, crowded room, I experienced a surge of satisfaction. All my hard work was paying off, as were the online business classes I’d taken. Footit’s was doing well. I’d done a lot of the post-fire remodel myself, installing the lights and overseeing the upgrade of the sound system.
But the lead singer’s croon over the speakers didn’t awaken my slumbering spirit like Andy Green’s voice once had. The riff by his guitarist didn’t do anything for me either.
I appreciated music. I had an ear for it and probably always would. But I didn’t enjoy it the way I once had. I loved music, but music didn’t love me back. I accepted that, just like I accepted a lot of things.
At four a.m., I closed the bar. I thought about my friend Teresa as I logged out of the point-of-sale system. Every now and then, I wondered what she was doing and how she was, but over the years, my calls to her and her infrequent return ones had dwindled to none. She had gone on with her life without me, like so many others.
But I quickly shut down that thought. It was too depressing. I needed to go home. Call it a day.
After a long, hot shower back at my apartment, I finally climbed into bed. I picked up the pen and the notebook from my nightstand and wrote to Ella like I usually did. Nighttime was ours, the only time we could share together, even if it was only through my letters.
Dear Ella,
You are almost a woman now, nearly the same age I was when I had you.
I thought I was so wise back then. I thought I knew everything, that I was prepared for anything, but I realize now I barely knew anything at all.
It’s embarrassing to admit that I haven’t done much with my life since then. You are my greatest achievement, but I can’t tell you how much I love you, just write to you in these letters.
These days, I think too much about the friends I’ve lost. Some who went on. Some who died way too young. Alone, I find it a struggle to do the tasks I must each day. Completing those tasks, I should feel satisfaction, but I don’t. Not really.
The wall I built around my heart after I lost you tends to shadow light and deafen sound. It’s as though I experience everything at a distance.
I find myself looking back nearly all the time. I have a storeroom at the bar dedicated to ABCR. I like to sit back there and reminisce. I’d rather remember the good things that happened in the past.
There’s very little good in my life right now besides Rachel, Claire, and Daniel. But they’re in Lakeside. Tonight, I wanted to go see them, attend Claire’s year-end celebration at her school, but I couldn’t go because ... well, that’s not important.
What is important is you. I have you, my dearest daughter, like this. Here on the pages of my letters, I can never lose you. I can talk to you and share with you how much I care.
Thinking of you always and missing you,
Your mom
Addy
Iwoke with a start to the shrill sound of my phone ringing.
Disoriented from being startled from a dream, I took a second to remember I was in my bedroom in the apartment. In my dream, I was in the storage room, way back when I’d been seventeen and Barry had held me. That was the last time I’d felt secure.
