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“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, reaching across the table and taking my hand in hers. “I know you’ve never been much of one to take advice, but here’s mine. You got up, but now I think you have to keep walking.”
I choke back a sob.
“Go home, Mel. Go home to that wonderful man who loves you, and tell him who you are. Tell him everything; let him know where you came from and what happened, and then watch him love you through it. I don’t know what kind of a person wouldn’t.”
“I’ll try,” I tell her.
“Scott asked me to bring these over,” Heather says timidly, setting a plate of truffle fries and a couple of beers down on the table. “It’s a winter brew. On the house.”
“Thanks, Heather,” I tell her. “You look amazing, by the way.”
She finally looks up at me and smiles. “Thanks, Mel. So do you.”
“Merry Christmas,” I say.
“Merry Christmas, guys,” she says. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Well, god damn,” Lisa says.
I shake my head. “Tell me about you, Lisa.”
“Um, well. I’m still going to school, majoring in business, and I probably have one more semester left after this one. I’ll graduate next winter. And…I’ve been seeing someone here for about a year and a half now. His name is Steven Escoto, and it’s serious.”
“That’s great, Lis. How did you guys meet?”
“He moved in a few houses down from my parents. He saw me mowing the lawn last summer, thought I was hot.”
“Well, who wouldn’t?”
“What about you?” she asks.
“One semester left, I’m working on getting my real estate license, and I’ve been working as an assistant to a boutique real estate broker in the city for over a year now. That’s how I met James, too.”
“Real estate,” she repeats. “It suits you; I can see it. But…it’s an interesting choice.”
“Can I tell you something?” I ask, lowering my voice.
She nods, visibly nervous.
“I have this fantasy,” I start, “where he walks into one of the properties I’m showing, and I kill him before he even has enough time to realize who I am. And it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t even get the chance to try anything; I say that he did anyway, and he finally pays for what he did to me.”
“I think about it sometimes, too,” she admits. “He hung around for a while. He was in and out of town for…I don’t know…a year or so. I used to imagine running him over with my car. I’d be driving home, and I’d think, ‘Maybe I’ll see him walking alone on the sidewalk; there will be no one around, and I can swerve into him, pretend he jumped out into the road.’ I’d picture him rolling over the top of my car, or maybe even getting stuck in the undercarriage, and I’d drag him for long enough that he’d be unrecognizable.”
“That’s some beautiful imagery,” I tell her.
She lifts her beer in cheers. “To beautiful imagery,” she says.
She goes on, filling me in on what I’ve missed—on who’s left town, who’s still here, who’s getting married, and who’s in jail. It feels good—sitting here with her like this. I wish we’d done this more often over the past three years, but I know it’s my fault we didn't.
I also know how hurt I was, and that I was doing the best I could. It’s not like I had the best role model for coping skills.
A couple of hours later, we’re leaving the pub, and it feels like no time has passed.
I missed the shit out of my friend. I wonder if this will only make it worse when I return home.
She leans in and hugs me before we part ways. “Don’t be a stranger,” she says. “Think about what I said. Go home and talk to your fiancé. And please—for the love of god—invite me to the wedding.”
