CHAPTER TWELVE

Byron

I stop my motorcycle at the red light and wonder how far I'll have to drive before I won't want to turn back around. Guilt is suffocating me as I replay that kiss over and over in my head. I turn my head and catch the couple in the car beside me holding hands. The woman brings his hand to her mouth and presses a kiss to it. He leans over and kisses her lips.

I'm jealous of the way they do all this so easily. I'm jealous of the way they are able to smile instead of feeling overwhelming guilt. For months I've been praying that I could find someone who I can get lost in, but each time it's been wrong. I've felt nothing when our lips touch and while my hands sliding over their bodies had for a moment helped to scramble the constant reel of memories that play in my mind, in the end it's as cold as a winter night.

Tonight was different. Tonight, I had felt something. The memories were no competition to the reality in front of me—to the woman beneath my hands. Feeling that hope and happiness had been an answer to those prayers, but then the realization that I was feeling the high of connecting with a woman again came crashing in. I don't deserve her. I don't deserve to find that with someone else.

The car beside me with the couple in it pulls away from the light and it takes me a second to shake them from my head and put my motorcycle in gear. I race past them, being sure not to look again in an effort to save myself some angst. I'm not even sure where I'm driving, I just need to get away. I need to get as far as possible from Stella's apartment and the warm rush of feelings being with her gives me.

I'm racing so fast the lights begin to blur as I pass them.

Just a little further.

Just a little more space between us.

Just one more day the grief hasn't crushed me.

It's unwelcomed at first when Carly enters my head. I've pushed her out so many times, but tonight she's back with a vengeance. I hear her laugh and the sweet way she used to sigh at the end of it. I can picture her walking in front of me just out of reach as we scour the fabric stores of LA. I remember the last dress she wore, the scent of her skin and the feel of her hair threaded between by fingers. Somehow tonight has made it easier to bring her to the front of my mind. It's made distant memories surface and the details of our time together emerge like old photographs in the way they are black and white and crisp.

Why couldn't it be cold with Stella?

Somehow I'd known it wouldn't be. I swerve into the lane next to me to avoid the back of a slower truck. I've made it all the way to Hollywood before I realize where I am and how far I've gone. Pulling over to the side of the road, I wrestle with the strap on my helmet and pull it off so I can breathe easier. My chest is tight as I drag in the cool night air and let it out slowly. I tell myself men don't cry, that this moment is not something that warrants my tears. I tell myself that this guilt will pass, that I'll keep my distance from Stella if only this pain would stop.

I recite Carly's cell phone number in my head. Then I do it again aloud. I remember her. I refuse to forget the details of her life. If I keep them on the tip of my tongue, then she can't fall into the unknown. I piece together her details and say them out into the dark night. She's still with me even though she's been gone for a while now. I close my eyes and tip my head back, willing my heartrate to slow so I can reign in my feelings and get back home safely.

It's long after midnight by the time I pull into my driveway. I couldn't tell you where all I've been tonight. If you asked, my answer would be 'far, but not far enough.'

I'm thinking about Stella too.

Her taste is still remembered by my mouth—the memory of her touch still lingering on my cheeks.

I toss my keys onto the dinning table and toe off my boots. My place is dark inside as I make my way to my room. I'm suddenly exhausted and can't get into bed quick enough. I don't bother with my jeans, but pull my shirt over my head and climb onto my side.

Will I ever stop thinking of it as my side and her side?

I fight it as long as I can, but my hand reaches into the nightstand and pulls out the soft scarf she used to tie her hair up at night. I don't allow myself this often, for fear that it will one day stop smelling like her shampoo. It had taken two months for me to throw away the bottles of it from my shower. There are moments when I feel strong—like I might get over her one day, but then there are moments like this when the thought of getting over her causes pain to clench my heart like an angry fist.

I put the scarf on the pillow beside my head. If anyone saw me I'd be humiliated, but I'm alone and free to grieve in any way I need to in order to survive this year. I close my eyes and pray when I wake up she won't be lingering in my memory. Some days I swear it feels like she'll walk right through that bedroom door and appear as if nothing has happened.

***

The mop leaves a wet streak as I move it around on the sealed concrete floor near the large brew kettles. The scent of hopps makes me feel at home even when my sterile surroundings should remind me I'm not. I came in early this morning when I gave up trying to sleep. It doesn't matter how tired I am anymore, sleep will always elude me. It's better to give up the frustration of tossing and turning and just get out of bed for the day.

Malcom is whistling when he steps into the room. He flicks on a few more lights and I squint my tired eyes as the shine off the newly washed floor seems to pierce them.

"Couldn't sleep again?" he asks.

"No." My voice is gruff from exhaustion and also because I haven't said anything out loud since I had my unexpected breakdown on the side of the road last night.

"Go home. I've got it covered today." He moves closer, extending his hand so I'll give him the mop. Not a chance.

"I'm good. We're going to be busy tonight. I'll hang around to help you get ready." I continue to mop as he stands beside me.

"I saw you leave with Stella last night..." he lets the words sit between us like an unanswered question.

I nod my head, but don't look up. I'm ashamed. It's not a feeling that sits well with me, but it's one I've grown very familiar with.

"So..." he says. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him leaning forward as if to ask me to continue.

"So I drove her home. That's it." I slosh the mop in the bucket and then wring it out. It lands with a loud, squish onto the floor.

"Come on, man! She likes you. Why not give it a shot?" He takes a step closer and slips in the puddle left by the mop.

I laugh at his quick recovery. "Don't hurt yourself."

"Don't avoid my questions," he fires back.

I huff out an exacerbated sigh. "Fine. I took her home and kissed her. There, are you happy?"

He laughs softly, "Nah man. I'm thrilled. But what I can't figure out is why you aren't happy. She's cute and obviously intelligent. She's conveniently single and has had her eyes on you." He takes a careful step closer. "Stop." His hand grabs the handle of the mop.

"Stop what?" I pull at the handle, but he has it firmly in his grip.

"Stop everything. Stop trying to avoid life. Stop running from your grief. Stop waiting for her—she isn't coming back."

That one hurt. I push the handle aggressively into his hand. "Fine. Fucking mop if that's what you want."

"I want my friend back. I want you to find some sort of peace. Carly made her choices, you'll see that one day. It ended so shitty, but it could have been so much worse." He sets the mop in the bucket and I watch as the bleached water sloshes over the edge.

"I know she's gone, man." I close my eyes and try to pull in a calming breath. "And if I could figure out how to not get paralyzed by the thought of her, then I would. I've tried everything. Nothing works."

I turn around and head for the hallway that leads to my office.

"You haven't tried letting her go. You haven't tried loving someone else." His words seem to follow my retreat. When I turn back around he has his back to me and is chasing the puddle with the mop.

I want to tell him he doesn't understand. I want to shake him with all the pain and anger I have inside because he was there that night too. I want to ask how he lives with it...but I don't because I know the answer is he doesn't. He's let it all go. And maybe that's why I run from him too. He can do what I cannot.