He barks out a laugh, the sound lacking any humor but filled with an immense amount of pain. “Funny, every time I think about that morning, I think about how right it felt waking up next to you. How good it felt to kiss you into consciousness. I never want to erase it from my mind. Not ever. I want to remember how in love with you I felt sharing something we only get to experience once in our lifetime. I felt alive, Henley, and you feel ready to die.”
My jaw aches with how hard I clench my teeth.
“You don’t feel bad?”
“Of course, I feel shitty for hurting Evelyn. But I told you that she and I were nothing serious. We hung out a few times, and we made out a few more times than that. Evelyn knew I didn’t want to give her more. Yeah, I should’ve ended whatever the fuck was going on between us, but I was more concerned with burying my grandmother. And then you were here, and nothing else mattered to me. I can’t apologize for that.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t. I remain quiet.
He waits, the expectation in his breathing enough to make me clench my fists.
“Addy said you’re ignoring her too,” he finally speaks.
I sigh.
“Why?”
“She’s friends with Evelyn, Brooks.”
“And?”
“One, I don’t want to put her in an awkward position. Second, I don’t want her to tell me I’m a shitty person. I know that all by myself.”
“Why punish yourself for something no one else is judging you for?” he argues. “You did nothing wrong by Addy.”
“Maybe.”
He growls. “Not maybe. It’s the fucking truth.”
“I just need some time.”
“Time?” he echoes dully. “For what?”
“To forgive myself. To accept that it was a mistake and that I don’t need to be defined by it.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not fair,” he whispers.
“It’s what I need. I need to go, Brooks—”
“Just give me a minute. If you’re going to cut me out, just give me one more minute before I lose you.”
I give him his minute.
Sixty seconds where we sit on the phone in silence, listening to one another breathe.
Then I hang up.
And cry.
16
BROOKS
AGE 19 (TWO YEARS LATER)
It’s fucking cold.
Freezing fucking cold.
Glasgow in December. Obviously one of my more genius ideas. Set right behind smoking and leaving my gloves behind at the hotel.
I rub at my hands once again to warm them up with my cigarette trapped between my lips. My thumb aches in the cold as I bend it to flick at my lighter, the warm flame dancing along the hollow cover of my hand as I light the stick.
Sucking in a thick billow of nicotine, I groan in relief. The bitter burn of the cigarette sets a fire inside my body, warming me from the inside out.
Shoving my lighter in my pocket, I keep my hand tucked inside, not willing to sacrifice both hands to the frigid air. I shift on my feet, keeping the blood pumping through my veins, hoping like hell it doesn’t freeze over in the negative temperatures I’m idiotic enough to brave for a fucking smoke. I didn’t even need it that bad, hindsight and all. Five minutes ago, I thought I’d die without it. Now, not so much.
I’ve spent the past three hours living my best sardine impression, stuffed inside a local whiskey bar with every other asshole stupid enough to venture out for the promise of good scotch. Sweat mingling up my nose, turning the copious amounts of drink in my stomach.
I’ve been on my feet all day, exploring Glasgow with my camera stuck to my face.
It’s a beautiful city with buildings dating all the way back to the twelfth century. The stone in the structures still standing; worn but holding onto their wearied charm. They’re ominous and dark and classic and everything I love to photograph. History there to be discovered right before your eyes.
It helps that this beauty in the architecture is surrounded by the greenest grass I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even in the cold, I forced my feet from my shoes to feel the grass between my toes.
“One more drink,” a girl farther down the street slurs, her thick Scottish brogue making her hard to understand.
I lift my head to watch her and a friend’s silhouette approach, their focus solely on the bar I recently vacated.
“One teeny tiny whiskey and then we can go home.”
“Promise?” a soft American voice answers.
“Sure,” the Scot lies, and I duck my head to hide my smile.
“Guid evenin!” The voice carries toward me, and I lift my head to wave my hello, but my hand freezes midway.
I always imagined we’d come face-to-face again. It seemed destined. Life didn’t offer you the promise of a forever friendship, possibly more, only to rip it away without a trace. Or so I’d hoped.
I had hoped to be prepared. For us to reconnect under planned circumstances. I didn’t expect it on the other side of the world. And definitely not tonight.
“Henley?”
She looks as startled as I feel, her eyes wide, her beautiful mouth slightly agape.
“Brooks?” she breathes.
“Och.” Her friend sighs. “Figures. See you inside.”
We barely notice her friend disappear as a tornado of shock and awe surrounds us. The entire world dissipates, leaving only me and my best friend standing on a jagged rock of expectation.
The street seems colder. The bitter air brushes across our faces, making the tip of Henley’s nose and the apples of her cheeks red.
I can see her breath puff out from her pink lips. Billows of air that mingle with the smoke from my cigarette, now forgotten in my hand.
“Hi,” I say.
She takes a moment to reply. Her
