The Real(73)

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said walking toward the front door.

“Dad, I’m sorry. This is coming out of nowhere. I don’t know what you want me to say.” He expelled a breath and paused his retreat.

“I didn’t do a lot of things right. But Christmas with you and Abbie was the first time I felt like things might be okay. It was the first time I felt that way since she died. We had forty years together. I know I won’t move on from that. But I don’t want to miss any more of your life. Because no matter what you think, I was always aware of what was going on with you. Always. I know everything you told her. She was your best friend, but she was mine too. I was a shit father, but she let me off the hook. I don’t deserve the same grace from you and I understand that, but I still want to know.”

“You weren’t a shit father,” I said sucking back the emotion that threatened.

“Let’s not start with lies,” he said softly. “All I have to think about now are regrets. I was an ornament at your wedding and I knew which parent you truly wanted there. I had no idea you were divorcing Kat. I missed your whole marriage. I wasn’t there when I should have been. And I’m sorry. I’ll never be her. But it’s not her promise I’m trying to keep anymore. I miss my son. I want to know. But only when you’re ready and if you want to.” He took one last look at me. “Put some ice on that eye.”

I stood stunned as he shut the door behind him.





I waited a long time for runner’s high. I’d run endless miles for the moment when I felt that adrenaline rush. Confident in my stride it surprised me when my focus became singular and my body fluid in motion, no longer forced, but flying. The feeling was cut short by the realization I couldn’t share it with the one person I wanted to.

Three weeks had passed since Cameron stood outside my door and every day of those weeks had been agony. Not one of those days did I breathe evenly, not one of those nights had I slept more than a few hours. Every step I ran in any direction felt like a step away from Cameron. I wanted to ignore the truth. I wanted to forget whatever it was keeping us apart and be ignorantly blissful again.

But I couldn’t, so my heart bled freely and I ran.

And life wasn’t done with me yet.

No, life was a villainous vampire who refused to let up until I was an empty shell. I spent my days with the dead weight of my heart, holding it tightly to me while I exhausted myself running through Chicago. Every step crushing me while my every racing thought was amplified by the loss of him.

I wandered aimlessly, ignoring my needs, thirsty for only him. I’d convinced myself it was inevitable. I just wasn’t ready for it. And no matter how I tried to cover the wound, it emulated through my whole body. Lost and unable to believe in recovery, I ran, searching for some semblance of order. There were no numbers I could make sense of, no calculations for easy resolve, but numbers never lied.

After a record-breaking six miles downtown, I rode the train without direction, got lost in the reality of others, watching those who I passed and then sinking into myself when I could no longer fathom having a new reality of my own.

The first notes of Hand Me Down by Matchbox Twenty began to filter through my earbuds as I exited the L for another night alone with my tortured thoughts. I hadn’t reached out to Bree, only texting the bare minimum to keep her at bay. I hadn’t reached out to anyone. I wasn’t living, I wasn’t existing, I was paralyzed to those minutes at the foot of my porch.

Forever a fool, I’d thought it was finally my time. I somehow thought I could be the woman to have earned the life of my choosing. But love was a cruel charade of mismatched hearts, and I’d played it long enough. All that was left was the big empty. I welcomed it back like an old friend I secretly despised. At least there, I was safe. At least in that place, I knew where I stood.

The words of the song hit me hard as my face flooded with ironic tears. The rip was too far inside, I couldn’t reach the hemorrhage. It tore wider as I passed Sunny Side. Unable to tamp down my emotion, I was openly crying in the street with my chin tucked in my jacket shouldering the cold and welcoming the numbing chill that kept me running.

A man paused next to me in wait at the crosswalk and I wiped a stray tear away and braved a glance in his direction. Rude as it may have been I nodded as he spoke without a clue as to what he was saying, my earbuds full of the serenade of my demise—Cameron and Abbie’s greatest hits. Desperate to start running, to mask my pain, I took the cue to walk when the man next to me began to move. Out of habit, I looked up and had a previous prayer answered.

You’re a cruel bitch life.

Cameron stood on the other side of the street, his dry-cleaning hooked on his finger at his shoulder, a basketball at his opposite hip, his emerald eyes on me. Blinking furiously, I tried to wash the illusion away and froze mid-step in the middle of the street. Cameron flinched as a cabbie laid on his horn, while the man next to me pounded on the hood screaming that we had the right of way. Knees weak and heart hammering, I began walking again in Cameron’s direction while he stood in wait, his expression solemn.

You wanted to know if that soul altering love still existed, Abbie. Here’s your proof.

Only a man can make you feel like you have the world one minute and take it away the next. And they only have that power because we give it to them.