Page 5 of Promise

Milk spills over the rim, coating my numb fingers.

Because Oliver the cat isn’t on my back steps.

The high-pitched cry is coming from a bundle wrapped in a pink blanket.

A newborn baby in a laundry basket.

2

[Dart]

Forty-four years old

Parked in the lot designated for drivers and their car trailers, I stare down at my phone, thumbing through photos I have no business looking at. I should have deleted them years ago, but I could never do it. Could never let them go, like I would be erasing a part of me. My past. My heart.

I stare down at one of my favorite images. A blonde-haired beauty, head surrounded by a halo of sunlight, making her look almost angelic. Her long lashes are lowered, her nose pressed to the yellow-orange center of a daisy. The white petals nearly kiss her lips.

I’m jealous.

Because it’s been three long years since I’ve kissed those lips.

With a brush of my thick thumb, I swipe the image aside, forcing another photo forward. A black-and-white one of the same woman. Her head is tipped back, laughter in her smile, while my nose is buried in her neck. I don’t have to see my face to know I’m smiling against her throat. Breathing in her unique scent that reminds me of summertime and fresh sheets on a bed with her next to me.

I swallow thickly, knowing my head should be on the race. I have a lot riding on today’s outcome. Every event, I’m seconds closer to a new personal record at the finish line. Then again, I’ve had a few mishaps this season. And a time clock score doesn’t feel as rewarding as I once thought it would. The financial payout rises as the end result lowers, signifying I’m racing better, faster, but I’m still not getting where I thought I’d go.

Fulfillment.

The racing circuit is a rush. A dream I never knew I was dreaming, but there’s a hole in that dream.

A chip in the windshield.

A tiny crack that has spread and grown over the years.

Like driving without a taillight. Not impossible, but no way to signal when it’s time to change your path. Go left or right. Go home or stay the course.

A life in one direction: alone.

Lately, I’ve been questioning all of it. Decisions made. Comments said. What I thought was for the best for both of us.

I think I’ve made a mistake.

No. I knew I had as soon as I left.

They call restlessness in a marriage the seven-year itch. A time when the honeymoon phase ends, and reality begins. Satisfaction drifts. Boredom might even set in.

We had a dozen years together. It wasn’t always perfect, but it was ours. And I never experienced dissatisfaction or boredom. Not directly. Not with her.

Trinity Haven. My wife.

Because of her, I had a better life and nicer things in it. A woman devoted to me through good times and bad. A beautiful home we worked hard to renovate and make our own. An honest life, forging our own path, until I couldn’t give her the one thing she wanted most. The one thing we both desired. A family.

We were good as a couple, until we weren’t anymore. When two wanted to become three or four.

Empty bedrooms stood finished and waiting. And waiting and waiting.

I swipe to one final image. The one that hurts the most. Our foreheads pressed together. A smile on both our lips. Her eyes are closed, but mine remained open, afraid if I shut them, I’d discover I was dreaming. In that moment, I marveled at our position. That she’d said yes to me. She married me. She became my wife.

Twelve years around curves and along straightaways, over speed bumps and through potholes, until there was a crevice too wide to drive around, along, over, or through.