My mom couldn’t wait to leave Rochester. My love life is a list of guys I practically begged to care about me and who couldn’t wait to leave when they got so much as a peek behind the curtain of my sunshiny demeanor. And then there’s Arrow and Oliver. The man who knows me best in two worlds.
The only person who’s ever really seen me—my anxieties and people-pleasing, the way I hold myself together with duct tape and fake smiles—and both times he’s chosen to walk away.
Because I’m exhausting to love.
Because knowing me is a burden.
The heater finally kicks in with a hiss and a clang, but I don’t take off my coat or drop my blankets.
The cold has settled deep in my bones, and I don’t think it’s ever going away.
My old truck rumbles past the main entrance of St. Mark’s—a nearly 200-year-old stone church with Gothic arches and stained glass windows that glow even in the gray afternoon light. Red poinsettias line the front steps, and garlands are draped over the double doors. Someone’s hung white lanterns along the walkway, and there’s a floral archway at the west entrance, all decorated for the holiday season—or maybe for a wedding.
Or a funeral.
Hard to tell sometimes.
I head past the main parking lot for the small one to the east of the church, where the basement entrance is. I check my one missed text when I park.
Mom
Thinking about you. Wish I could be there for you, hon.
Me too,I think as I send a heart emoji back.
I step out of my truck and pull my thick wool coat tighter as I stare at the brown church doors adorned with Christmas wreaths. Snowflakes fall fast around me, landing on my face like kisses from heaven.
If kisses from heaven stung.
I left the crutches at my apartment, unwilling to let my family see my injury. My ankle has improved, but hurt pulses out frommy heart with every beat, making me feel as weak as the day I injured it. I’m so sick of this incessant, dull ache, I could cry.
I limp through the sparse parking lot and down the stairs, fifteen minutes late for the “party” I’ve been planning for years. I arranged for everything to be sent to the prison ministry when my boss assigned me to Marcus’s case, and fortunately, my dad’s Aunt Marla only lives a few hours away, so she offered to show up early to help decorate.
Am I allowed to feel relieved that I didn’t have to decorate? Or should the very question make me feel even worse?
Inside, I head down carpeted halls to the fellowship hall. The muffled bass line of some cheerful ‘80s song seeps through the doors, mocking me. My throat cinches tight, each swallow scraping like glass. The snow still burns on my face where it melted and froze against my skin. The sound of the music gets louder the closer I get. And when I reach the door, I see a banner with a picture of my dad that reads:
“Celebrating Kevin Lewis—A Time For Homecoming.”
It’s pretty—even nicer in person than it looked online, with bold script lettering. And it has one of my favorite pictures of him from twenty years ago, with his big, handsome smile and warm brown eyes. Staring at that face, the ache in my ankle fades away, nothing compared to the pain in my chest.
This man never came home.
I’ll never stop missing him.
I stand outside the door, not wanting to go in, until I hear a voice from behind me.
“So handsome,” a voice says.
I whip around to see someone familiar. She’s in her early 70s, with thick brown hair and a nice smile.
“I’m glad you finally made it, sweetheart,” she says, leaning forward to give me a hug. Her arms wrap around me, and I get a whiff of a strong floral perfume.
“It’s good seeing you again, Aunt Marla,” I say, though it’s been a couple of years and that last visit is blurry in my memory. “Thank you for coming.”
“Anything for your dad.” She links her arm in mine, clutching it tightly. “Shall we?”
The unexpected warmth makes it easier to hide my limp. To brace myself for the pain inside.
