And on a warm spring morning, I left the bakery after a particularly long overnight shift. I turned around from closing the bakery’s front door, the bell jingling above me as if to summon her, and there she was. Standing in the middle of the street.
“Don’t go,” she said quietly.
She wore an olive jacket, the hood pulled over her head.
I looked around to see if anyone else was there. Anyone to maybe stop me from talking to her because they, too, were witnessing this and would be just as outraged at her audacity. But the streets were deserted. It was far too early in the morning.
I stepped down from the curb.
“What do you want, Marlow?”
“Can we talk?”
I stared at her for a moment.
“What for?” I finally said.
I began to turn away.
“I want you to be okay with me,” she said, the words stumbling over each other, as though afraid if she didn’t say them quickly enough I would leave.
“Okay with you?” I furrowed my brows with disbelief.
“Yes . . . you don’t know how it’s been for me.”
A hint of a quiver hung in her voice and irritation flooded me.
“What does that even mean? To be okay? Is anybody ever okay?”
“I want us to be.”
I shook my head heatedly. “Marlow. I’m never going to be okay. I’m never going to be okay with what happened.”
What happened. I can’t even bring myself to mention his name.
She stepped closer to me, her palms up, mouth turned down. She looked so desperate. But for what, I couldn’t understand.
“I’m not asking for that.”
“Then what?”
“Forgiveness.”
I felt my throat tighten and it angered me further that I even felt anything for her. As if my own physical reactions had betrayed me.
“You seem . . . you seem better.”
Somehow, I was able to force what was starting to bubble up back down in its tube.
Her eyes lit up. “I am. Thank you for noticing.” She shifted her feet around. “So, you became a baker?”
I chuckled lightly, surprising me as it came out. “No. I’m a glorified flour measurer. Really.”
“Why did you leave the gallery?”
“I needed something . . . simpler.”
My lighter tone relaxed her. She put an arm out and dropped it.
“I miss . . . I miss us. Whatever used to be there and hasn’t come back in a long time. I miss it.”
She looked at me with soft, imploring eyes and, for a second, I almost gave way. The resentment had grown heavy. Heavy enough to drop and leave behind. But in that one fleeting moment, I realized it was not enough. Like a boat on the crest of a wave, fighting to get out of the storm, I was sucked back into raging waters.
“Too much,” I whispered.
“What?”
“Too much has happened.”
“Isla, please. I’m different. I’m sober. Please, let me help you.”
“Help me? You want to help me?”
“Yes,” she said, moving even closer.
“No. No. Stop.” I ducked my head as if she were about to strike me.
“Isla . . .”
