Page 46 of A World Without You
And most importantly: is any of this real? Or is it just a dream?
I want to know the details of the last five years. Who cares about the good sex and my amazing job? Those details seem frivolous compared to understanding what happened to us.
I scour the cabinets, drawers, and closets in search of anything to make me understand the catalyst of the last five years. It isn’t until I give up, crouched down on the wood floors in the living room, that I tilt my head back against the window seat on the West side of the apartment and realize it’s not a window seat, but a wooden chest shoved in the alcove of a floor to ceiling window with portrait views of the Space Needle and the city.
In a hurry, I throw off the pillow and pull open the rich mahogany lid. Underneath the dust and blankets, picture boxes, and random unused exercise bands is a journal. And not just any journal. It’s one I remember writing in.
I pull it out of the chest, running my hand over the crimson velvet and removing the elastic strap.
I fan the edges of the pages, crusted with time and tears until I reach the end. The very last entry is dated five years ago on Christmas Eve. My breath hitches at the sight of my handwriting, yes, but mostly at the words on the pages.
“No,” I breathe quietly. “No, no, no.”
Tears fill my eyes before I can blink them away and read the journal’s final inscription.
December 24, 2018
I love Colin.
I love him so much.
But there are days I wonder if he truly loves me. I have spent the last week stranded in a nothing town, aching for the one I love and he has called me twice. TWICE!
If I hear him say, “You’ll get here when you get here” one more time, I might cry.
Yet, here I am, in this tiny town, and I have had one of my favorite Christmases despite the lack of my almost-maybe-soon-to-be-fiancé. It’s weird. I’m not where I’m supposed to be, but I’m exactly where I want to be. Roasting marshmallows over a bonfire in the snow. Riding horses in the field just outside of town. Watching this small town’s Christmas tree be lit for the week of Christmas.
I feel like I’ve been dropped in a snow globe and asked to live here. I feel like a fish out of water in a town where they ignore my fins and my inability to breathe on land.
I asked him to—
I stop abruptly. I know the next words. I remember writing them. I remember what comes next. All of what comes next is what I’ve been trying to undo. But still, I will myself to keep reading.
I asked him to come.
Don’t wait for me in Seattle.
Come here. Love me here. It’s Christmas.
I stare at the last words before turning page after blank page. There isn’t another entry. I don’t know if he came for me in this life. I don’t know how I changed his mind or if something else changed his mind. Maybe he got the deal done at work in time to hurry over the mountain to get me. All I know is I’m here in his apartment, staring at a journal I wrote five years ago, followed by blank pages and an inconclusive ending.
Story of my life.
I snap the journal shut, throw it back in the trunk, and close the lid.
Everything about this apartment, from my makeup to my clothes to this journal supposedly written by me, is foreign to my heart, so I throw on my coat, slip on some heels, grab my clutch, and head down to the city.
I find the bar I’ve always loved year after year. Outside the brick building is a chalkboard with “Christmas Karaoke Night” written in block lettering on it. I normally avoid karaoke nights at bars at all costs, but tonight, the squawking vocals and off-key lyrics will have to do. When the lovely brunette singing Al Green hits a high note, I meet the gaze of an apologetic bartender who slides over a napkin and asks, “What’ll it be?”
“A pickle back and a white wine,” I answer.
He cocks a thick eyebrow at me and my weird combination.
I glare at him. “That’s pretty judgmental for a bartender.”
This warrants a smile out of him, and he pours me a shot of whiskey, a shot of pickle juice, and then a glass of wine. I take the shot in a gulp and soothe the burn with the pickle juice. It neutralizes immediately, and I sip my wine. As I do, my bartender makes his way down the bar, making drinks and cashing out checks until he says something to the other bartender down the bar.
He looks vaguely familiar. Tall and almost brooding, with deep-set eyes and thick, dark, shaggy hair, but the shadows of the bar keep him anonymous, and I focus on my drinking. You can’t get drunk in a dream. It’s impossible, and I am fully prepared to test the theory.
