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I pull myself up from the floor, grabbing the vodka bottle with one hand as I solidly grip on the photograph with the other, making my way to my living room. I sit at the little desk I have in the corner, pushing the medical journals to the floor to make room for what I'm about to do. I grab some stationary paper and write down everything I wanted to do in my life, adding two columns next to it with the titles ‘Plausible’ and ‘Maybe.’ I write down each and every thing I at one point in my life dreamed about, while drinking right from the vodka bottle to numb the pain those same written words provoke. I'm not sure how much time passes by, but the buzz I got is a good indicator that I’ve been sitting in the same spot for hours.
Once finished, I take a good long look at my list. What I had hoped would give me some sort of control and comfort, only deepens the frown on my face. As I start to draw a line over the ones I will never be able to accomplish in time, others stand out as strong candidates for what I can still do.
Visit the Louvre and eat small pastries in a café in Paris.
Dance in the rain in Prague.
Take a nature walk through the Swiss Alps.
Drink wine in the south of Spain and nap under a tree.
Eat gelato while walking through St. Mark's square in Venice.
Skinny-dip on an exotic beach in the Greek islands.
I tap the end of my pen onto the desk as images of fulfilling these dreams accost me. Yes, I want to do all these things, but I don’t want to do them alone. When I craved to visit all these places and embark in such an adventure, it was in the company of the men I loved above all.
What would it serve doing any of this without them? It would be pointless and a halfhearted attempt at happiness.
Either drunk on bravery, or too out of my mind with sorrow, I pull three new stationary letters, and on each one, I write the names I haven't uttered in almost ten years.
Logan.
Quaid.
Carter.
In each letter, I write down what my heart still yearns for and end them all with one single question—one that might define the rest of my days.
“Will you let true happiness slip through your fingers a second time, or are you brave enough to take this leap with me?”
I seal each letter into an envelope with a kiss and leave them spread out across my desk. Each one surrounds the photograph of that one childhood memory that changed my life completely. It’s oddly poetic that this venerate picture, which celebrates the day all three boys came into my life, is now surrounded by the letters I hope will bring them back into it.
The only difference is that back then, they were able to kick-start my life anew, and time was a concept we had in spades.
That’s not the case this time.
Time is no longer an ally of mine, and maybe it never really was. Maybe this had been my fate all along, and I was only given a small reprieve—a small window of happiness.
If they don’t hear my call, at least I’ll always have those memories to remind me that at one time in my life, I was whole.
I was loved.
And so were they.
Chapter 1
Then
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Valentina
Iwipe my brow with my forearm, the August heat beginning to take its toll on me. Dad said living in Texas would take some getting used to, but I'm not worried. If the warm San Antonio weather is what I have to look forward to all year round, then I'm just fine with that. We arrived a few short hours ago, and already, I can tell how much we are going to like it here. Sure, anything compared to the gray somber streets of Detroit is an improvement, but I like the idea of actually living in a proper two-story house this time—with a back and front yard to boot—and not some shabby apartment in a twelve-floor building, where no one knows their neighbors or even cares to.
This house is a symbol of our new beginning—a place where Dad and I can actually be happy and start fresh.
When packing for our big move, I made sure that nothing in this home would make us think of Mom or her absence. I threw out every little thing that could remind us of her leaving two years ago. Dad said I'd regret not keeping at least a few photographs of her, but if I want a reminder, all I have to do is look in the mirror. I have her dark, jet-black hair, her olive-toned skin and her full, ruby lips. The only thing I inherited from Dad was his golden-hazel eyes, for which I'm thankful. Instead of seeing all the traits I got from my selfish, vain mother, I focus on his and the purity of my eyes.
