The Time Duet

Love is like a parasite rooting within you. It affects every part of you that matters, tainting it. A virus that spreads so quickly that by the time you realize you’ve caught it, there’s no stopping it from gaining ground. It’s a drug that changes how you feel, how much you eat, what you hear, and the decisions you make. A good day on love is better than any high imaginable; a bad day on love immobilizes you. Love unrequited is even worse than love unspoken. Love—something that you’ve tried to forget about, a door that had been shut though not locked. Yesterday I blew that door wide open, and every foul thing it hid became visible for all to see.

It’s my worst nightmare. My deepest, darkest secret revealed. My worst fear confirmed. I had to tell the one person who has been one of the only real friends I’ve ever had. A person who never judged me, who loved me like a sister, and I told him something that would destroy him. That did destroy him. I thought that since telling him was the right thing, it would at least make me feel better, my conscience satisfied for the first time in years. But it didn’t. 

It didn’t make him feel better, and with the way he looked at me, I know he’ll never ever forgive me. Time won’t heal the hatred he had in his eyes. The thing I feel worst about is the small glimpse of disappointment he showed before pure malice consumed him. That hurt more than anything, the thought that all the things everyone has said about me and my family—the rumors, everything he refused to believe about me—were true. I didn’t live up to his expectations. Turns out I’m nothing but a whore’s daughter who grew up to be just like her mother. I’m worse actually because to my knowledge, my mom never slept with her best friend’s married father. She never did something so careless to someone she called a friend. 

When you’re young, you don’t think; you just feel. You crave, you want, and you take. I wish I could just blame that on my age, on being a stupid hormonal teenager, but I can’t. Because I’m still like that. As much as I don’t want to, I think of myself first, and as much as I wish I could convince myself that I told Chris the truth because it was the noble, right thing to do, I didn’t tell him because of that. I told him because it was eating away at me. The secret, knowing what I caused to happen, and I was afraid—afraid of being responsible for raising a little girl alone and even more afraid that she’ll turn out like me. 

That scares me more than anything as I look at her sleeping. The same long blond hair as mine, the blood running through her veins that was passed down from my mother and her mother. I want her to stay peaceful, sweet, and innocent. I want her to hold on to the lie that she isn’t a Garrett. I wish more than anything that the lie she knows were real, that her real mother was a sweetheart, that her real mother was selfless and would do anything in the world to make her happy. I wish more than anything to trade places with the woman who deserves to be her mom. I don’t even want to call myself her mother. I don’t deserve that title. 

I gave my daughter away before she was even born. I abandoned her before she was even thought of. I wish more than anything I could trade places with the woman who deserves to be her mom so that she could raise her to be the woman she’s capable of, but I can’t. She’s stuck with me, and my punishment is telling her that the world she knew was a dream, a lie. My daughter’s reality is that she has a mother with no clue how to be responsible for anyone besides herself and a father who didn’t even know she existed. 

I fight back tears because I know out of everyone involved in this, I deserve tears the least. I never meant to hurt anyone, but I guess that’s what every fucked-up person says after they hurt so many people. You don’t mean it though. In that moment, you don’t think about someone else’s hurt—you think about pleasure, your own pleasure. Something that feels so good can’t be that bad, right? That’s what you tell yourself at least, and when you’re young, you believe it.

“Hey.” My friend, or anti-friend, Aidan stands in the doorway. His expression’s unreadable, and I’m grateful for that. “I’ve got to head out.” 

He looks tired. I’m sure he didn’t get much sleep last night with all my crying and him coddling me. Aidan isn’t a coddler. He’s the friend you call when you want someone’s ass kicked. He’s the doer, not the one who stops and thinks. Aidan is anything but the person you call to sulk with.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asks, looking at me, but his eyes don’t reach mine. 

I can’t blame him for being unable to look me in the eye. Chris is his real best friend, not the anti-friend he and I are. Enemies who have been friends with the same person for so long we had no choice but to become friends in the most unfriendly way possible. We argue, we tease, but the reason we even tolerate the other is Chris—was Chris. Now that Chris wants nothing to do with me, I wonder how much longer Aidan will be around.

“I’ll be fine. I have to be, right?” I ask with a fake laugh. 

He frowns at me. “I’ll come back and check on you after I get some sleep. Your couch has fucked up my back. I need to sleep in my own bed.” He massages his shoulder. 

“Thank you for everything, A,” I say, getting off the bed and walking over to him. 

A small smile creeps across his face, showing two dimples. His blue eyes are soft and comforting, unlike the wide grin he usually flashes me after an insult. “You’re good. Well, you’re not good, but no thanks necessary.” He nudges me playfully in the shoulder. 

It’s comforting, our banter. Our petty arguments are the only things I’ll have to remind me of my best friend.

“C-can you let me know how he is once you talk to him?” I say, sounding desperate even to myself. 

“I-I don’t know,” he says hesitantly.

“Please, Aidan. I just want to know he’s okay.” 

His eyes fall from my face to the floor, then he puts his hands on my shoulders. “He’ll survive this.” He gives me a reassuring squeeze, and I nod. He opens the door to leave, sweeping his hand over the blond hair that’s grown out from the buzz cut he had during the tour he just finished. “I don’t know a lot of people who can forgive what you did, but if there’s anyone who can, it’s Chris.” 

I nod.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” he says before heading down the stairs of my porch. 

I shut the door and rest on it once it’s closed. I take a deep breath and wish for my head to stop pounding and for the thousand-pound weight on my chest to give me just a little bit of a break. I sink into my couch and pull a pillow onto my lap. My thoughts are going in slow motion. Everything that happened yesterday consumes me. My mind tries to drift to before yesterday, to a time I’ve done my best to block out. 

I’m thankful when my doorbell rings. Aidan must have left something. I push myself off the couch, open the door, and my heart clenches when I see him standing on my porch. His usually bright blue eyes are dim and squinted at me. His golden brown hair, which is so much longer than the days I used to run my hands through it, looks as if he hasn’t touched it all day. His facial hair has grown since I saw him a couple of days ago, a far cry from the five o’clock shadow covering his rigid face. His presence is overwhelming. Anger and sadness radiate off him, his emotions so strong that if they were a physical being, I’d be knocked down. It’s been so long since we were this close, since we were alone. I don’t know why I haven’t prepared myself for this moment, but I’m completely vulnerable.

“I thought you understood, Lisa,” he says, his voice not matching his heated gaze. His voice is quiet, somber, and broken.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Will,” I force the words from my throat. 

He pushes the door open and stalks past me to the center of the living room. I shut the door and cross my arms.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I say, cautiously approaching him.

“We all have a choice!” he roars. 

I don’t say anything. I know that he’s not done, and I don’t want his yelling to wake up Willa. With how he is now, they’d have an awful first meeting.

“You could have talked to me first. Given me some type of warning. I was blindsided! Chris will never forgive me for this!” he says frantically, walking closer to me so we’re only inches apart.

“We haven’t talked in a very long time. You wanted it that way, remember?” I say harshly. 

His eyes widen. “So this is your way of getting back at me? Years later and at the worst possible time?”

“This isn’t about getting back at you. How could you think that? This is about doing the right thing. I thought that it would help Chris!” I yell back.

“Help him? You think destroying his family is the way to help him?” He laughs condescendingly.

“I thought that—I just thought that maybe if he knew the truth, about us and what he saw before he started to act differently, that it would help his treatment.” Tears start to fall from my eyes. Not for William, not for me, but for Chris.

“Him not remembering what happened between us was the best thing that ever happened. Not just for you and me but for him! You broke him. That was something that never had to be brought up. He was doing fine. You saw it!” His tone is desperate and I don’t know if he’s trying to convince me or himself. 

We are both guilty. We relished in the secret that was gratefully forgotten. It was almost like a do-over with Chris. When I came back home after college and realized that not only had he forgiven me but, it was like it had never happened, it was a gift. Or so I thought then. I let out a deep breath.

“Chris hasn’t been fine since he saw us that night. He’s been seeing a therapist on and off for years. Him not remembering seeing us together wasn’t a blessing, it’s his curse, a repressed memory that has been tearing him apart. We always knew it. No one just simply forgets seeing his father fucking his best friend!” I yell back at him. He lowers his head and shakes it.

“I thought that maybe he had really forgiven us. That he chose to not ever bring it up because he didn’t want to hurt his mom. I didn’t literally think that he repressed seeing us together,” I say pleadingly. He looks up at me with a scowl. 

“Well, let me just say, Dr. Lisa, that he is still not fine. None of us are after your confession,” he says with a forced laugh, and tears slip from his eyes. He wipes them away quickly.

“Is he okay?” I ask desperately.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Lisa, I can’t sleep with all the yelling,” Willa says quietly, standing in the doorway. 

“I’m sorry, honey. My friend is just upset. Go back to bed and watch some cartoons, okay?” I say before ushering her back to the bedroom. 

When I return to the living room, Will’s face is expressionless. His wide blue eyes glisten. “Is that her?” 

I feel butterflies in my stomach. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, but it was never like this. In my imagination, the daydreams of a nineteen-year-old girl, I would call him right before I went into labor. He would rush to my side and tell me everything would be okay, and I would have my family. Then it didn’t matter if I had to share him with the other one. When you’re young, you don’t see life for what it is. You disregard its harsh realities. You think if you just wish hard enough and say your wishes aloud, believe in them long enough, you can give them life and they can be granted. Life doesn’t necessarily turn out like that. 

“Yes,” I say quietly. 

He nods, makes his way slowly to the couch, and sits. I look at the man I had my first crush on, whom I gave myself to, whom I wanted to not just love me but be in love with me more than anything. After he ended us, he ended me for a while. I was heartbroken, I was lovesick, and I went into mourning. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, his eyes finding mine.

For the first time in years, I’m drawn in once more. I remember everything between us, everything I’ve pretended for eight years never happened, and I close my eyes to break the spell. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” 

I sit next to him, keeping the requisite inches between us. He puts his head in his hands and lets out a deep sigh.

“For who?” he mutters.

“For all of you. For Chris, for Gwen,” I say, feeling guilty even saying her name. As much as I grew to love Will, my love didn’t stop the guilt growing inside me, knowing what I was doing to her. A woman who had only shown me kindness. She never looked at me as anything other than Chris’s friend. She didn’t judge me based on who my mother was or what she did, and knowing that I was what everyone said I would be hurt more than anything. 

“Does she know that I’m her—her father?” 

I sigh. “She doesn’t even know that I’m her mother.” I chuckle sadly. 

He looks at me questioningly. “How is that possible?” 

I roll my eyes. It’s funny that he thinks I could balance a life as a preschool teacher and bartender and secretly be a mom. “She hasn’t been with me, Will.” 

“Where has she been?” he asks, his eyes zeroed in on his hands.

“With Aunt Dani. I went to live with her after I found out I was pregnant. I knew she’d make a better mother than me,” I say honestly. 

His head snaps up. I now have his full attention.

“And what about her father?” he asks angrily.

“What father? The father who was married and had a family? The father she’d have been a bastard to?” I say, tears falling from my eyes.

“That’s not fair. If anyone knew how much a child would mean to me, it would’ve been you,” he says. 

I ignore the stab of guilt. “Tell me, if I had come to you and told you that I was pregnant—or better yet, after she was born—what would you have done? Would you have accepted her with open arms, or would she have been a secret love child? Is that what you would have wanted for our daughter?” 

“And now? Now what life do you want for her?” he asks, his eyes boring into mine. 

I look away as memories of touches trying to fight their way to the forefront of my consciousness, feelings that I’ve fought to keep down for so long. “I want her to have a better life than I did,” is all I can say.

“Gwen kicked me out of the house. Chris is furious with me. I don’t know how he’s going to handle all of this.” His deep sigh contains palpable anguish as he runs his hand through his hair. “I’ve got to figure out a way to fix this. I can’t lose my family.” 

I feel anger rising in me. This man whom I loved and gave my youth to, whose child I brought into the world, is talking about how he has to save his family as if the little girl in the next room isn’t his family. I try to calm my anger—I’m being selfish and unreasonable. I have to stop myself from lashing out at him.

“I’d like to meet her when I’m not like this,” he says, standing from the sofa. I immediately stand as well.

“Where are you going?” I ask him as I follow him toward the door. 

“Right now, I don’t think I’d be a good father to anyone. I need to—I just need a little time. I’ll be back. I promise.” 

When he leaves, I do something I haven’t done in years. I cry over him and hope this isn’t the beginning of a trend.

How the fuck did I end up here? It’s the same question I’ve asked myself a thousand times. I've imagined what this would be like for two years…Now, I’m terrified of it. My heart’s beating like a drum. I’m confused, I’m angry, and a sense of guilt is creeping over me. I thought I’d grown, that he couldn’t make me feel like this anymore. Now I feel like I’ve been transported back through time, and it’s all a game again. I’m at the beginning of an unexpected match that I haven’t trained for.

“I can do this,” I mutter to myself.

Now, if only I believed it…

2 months earlier…

“I can do this,” I tell myself for the millionth time. I exhale a cleansing breath; my nerves are completely shot. Forget shot—blown to smithereens.

“This is for Caylen,” I tell myself again as I scrutinize my reflection in the mirror of the Scotts’ bathroom. It’s still the same me. I look the same, I sound the same, but I feel like someone else standing here. I splash cold water on my face and sigh at the girl looking back at me. She’s smiling, but it isn’t real. It’s practiced, close to perfect, and completely artificial. If I can just look happy and content, I might actually start to be happy and content. I look fine—great, if I say so myself. Unfortunately, I feel like I’m being smothered. Although the bathroom is quite large, I swear the walls are closing in around me.

Everything is.

I’ve been trying to convince myself that I can make it through today. I’ve been in this bathroom for ten minutes, and I feel like I’m drowning.

Drowning fast.

I glance at my phone and notice how much time has passed. I can’t just hide in here like a big scaredy-cat. My daughter is out there with them. Well, not them—her dad and her grandparents. Grandparents who have been coddling her since the moment Mrs. Scott burst out of the house and swept her into her arms before we could even make it up the steps. The icy glare that Mr. Scott gave me completely melted the moment he laid eyes on Caylen. The Scotts’ living room is filled with so many toys and stuffed animals you would think it was Toys R Us. They love her.

I should be thrilled.

I really should.

I am thrilled.

In a way…

I expected this to be awkward. I prepared myself for the fact that they might not take to Cal’s daughter. There is no awkwardness. They adore her. I’m happy, so happy for her, but I have to admit I feel isolated.

She fits perfectly.

I don’t.

“Everything is great,” I tell myself aloud, running my hands through my hair, moistening my lips, and practicing my fake smile once more.

Everything is great, except I’m in love with a man who has no idea who I am. Oh, and he’s engaged to another woman. Other than that, things are just dandy. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I find that half the toys have been opened. Mr. Scott and Chris are attempting to set up a gigantic dollhouse, while Mrs. Scott is playing with Caylen and the stuffed animal Chris bought her. This looks like a scene out of a Hallmark card.

Still, I want to bail. I want to tell them that they can spend a few hours with Caylen while I go back to my hotel room and cry. Maybe even have a drink. Who am I kidding? This would be a whole-bottle kind of night. No, no! Stop it! I’m too old for this now. I’m a mom. Just grin and bear it. My eyes drift to Chris. I’ve been trying to avoid looking at him.

I haven’t been here that long, but I told myself that I shouldn’t look at him for more than five seconds. My eyes didn’t agree with me earlier, and they still don’t seem to now. They follow his every move, waiting for another glimpse of who I saw earlier.

Cal.

It was him. It had to be. Or maybe I imagined it. Me and my damn imagination. I’m losing it. It was only a matter of time before Cal drove me nuts, and now it’s finally happening.

“Is everything okay, Lauren?” Mrs. Scott’s voice reminds me that I’m not alone in my own head. I need to interact with the other people in the room and not act like a freaking zombie.

“Yeah. Yes. Your home is beautiful,” I say eagerly. A little too eagerly. I haven’t seen any other room in the house except the living room and bathroom. Ugh, now they probably think I’ve been snooping around the house instead of just the bathroom, which is where I said I was going. Oh well. I settle into the comfy brown chair and fold my hands together. Caylen has made her way over to Chris and Mr. Scott, about to be Godzilla to the dollhouse they’re building.

“Caylen, let them finish.” I laugh.

“So you like to break things, huh?” Chris teases as he picks her up and holds her in the air. She giggles as he lifts her up and down.

He’s not Cal. He’s not Cal. He is not Cal…

“This is harder than fixing an engine,” Mr. Scott mutters, looking at the instructions for the dollhouse, like they’re written in a foreign language.

“Lauren, would you mind helping me in the kitchen?” Mrs. Scott’s voice interrupts my mantra.

“Sure,” I say, getting up to follow her. I feel like my body is moving in slow motion. Chris gives me a reassuring smile, and my heart practically jumps out of my chest. I look over my shoulder and see him and his dad playing with Caylen as I head into the kitchen.

Their kitchen is large, separated from the dining room, but still big enough to easily fit a round table and four chairs. There’re tons of counter space, lots of cabinets, a huge white refrigerator, and a double stove. This is definitely a kitchen that gets used. I hope to God she’s not going to ask me to help her cook anything.

I make my way over to the sink and wash my hands after she does. Glancing out the window, I see a horse in the distance. Two horses, actually.

“You have horses?” I ask, surprised.

“Horses, cows, just a few pigs,” she says with a smile. Well, duh! It is a farm. My daughter’s grandparents have an actual farm.

“Do you ride?” she asks, pulling out three plastic containers from the refrigerator. She takes the tops off, revealing ham, turkey, cheese, and lettuce.

“Not really. Well, not professionally or anything. Just here and there when I was in high school,” I say nervously.

“Chris rides. Well, he used to. I’m sure he could teach you, or help you brush up on your skills,” she says.

I almost laugh at the thought of Cal on a horse with an enormous cowboy hat on.

“Is meat okay?” Her question interrupts my thoughts.

“Oh, yeah, it’s fine.”

She’s asked me to help, but she’s cranking these sandwiches out like she worked at a Subway.

“The food at the zoo is so expensive, and I’ve been told my sandwiches are pretty good,” she says with a wink. I laugh, peeling the lettuce she’s assigned to me. It’s weird, but being in here with her makes me feel calmer. Not so odd, nervous, or anxious.

“Caylen loves the zoo. She’s obsessed with animals,” I tell her, taking a slice of tomato and putting one on each piece of bread she’s put out on the counter.

“Chris does, too. You’d think since we have a farm, that would have been enough for his animal obsession, but he’d beg us to take him all the time.” She hands me Ziploc bags for the sandwiches.

“I want to thank you for bringing her here,” she says, leaning against the counter and turning her attention toward me.

I smile nervously and fidget. “It’s fine.”

“After everything, I know that it could have been… You would have had every right to make this difficult, and I just want to thank you for… Thank you, Lauren.” Her smile is sincere, and a tiny part of me wants to hug her. She gives off this motherly aurora that just makes you want to be embraced by her. Tell her exactly how you feel. If I were to tell her how I feel now, I’d say, “I’m desperately in love with your son, and I’d give almost anything to make him remember he was in love with me.” I’d ask her, “How do I stop feeling this way?!”

I don’t, of course, but I could see myself hugging her someday, maybe. If I don’t completely screw things up. After we make the sandwiches, and get juices, chips, and fruit packed up, we make our way back to the living room, where it doesn’t look as if the dollhouse has made any progress at all.

“You guys are all packed up,” his mom announces as we enter the living room.

“Are you ready for the zoo with the best animals in the world?” Chris asks excitedly, lifting Caylen up with him. I can’t help but smile; Chris genuinely looks excited.

“Hopefully, by the time you get back, I’ll have this done.” His dad chuckles, and he and Mrs. Scott walk us to the door.

“Have lots of fun, little one,” she says, kissing Caylen on the cheek.

“I’m going to get that dollhouse together if it’s the last thing I do,” Mr. Scott promises, rubbing her cheeks.

“I’ll call you guys when we’re on the way back,” Chris says as we make our way down the stairs.

“Have a great time,” Mrs. Scott calls.

“So whose car are we taking?” He adjusts Caylen in his arms. It’s still surreal to see him holding her. They fit, and it’s almost as if he’s never missed a day of her life.

“The car seat is in mine, but we could switch it if you want.”

“Do you want to drive?” he asks. I hate driving, especially when I’m not familiar with where I’m going.

“Not really. You want to drive my car?” I offer.

He glances over at it, and I see a smile spread across his face. “Sure,” he says.

When we make our way to the car, I swap the lunch bag for Caylen with him, pop the lock on the doors, and start to put Caylen in her seat.

“Can I try?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I step back, and it takes him a few tries to get the straps adjusted and snapped in, but Caylen cooperates, her hand in her mouth and a smile on her face.

“I’m a quick learner,” he tells her, then grins back at me. I laugh and ignore the butterfly flying around in my stomach. We both get in the car, and he adjusts his seat a lot. It’s been a while since anyone his height has been in the driver’s seat.

“You’re really short,” he says with a chuckle, and I’m caught off guard. He’s not only called me short, but really short. I think back to Jenna—she was at least five feet seven inches.

“Uhm, yeah,” I say, buckling my seat belt. If things weren’t awkward before, they sure are now.

The playful smile on his face has disappeared.

“Says Gigantor,” I joke to ease the tension.

He starts to laugh, and I join in. “Good one,” he jokes.

I glance at him through the rear-view mirror. I exhale quietly. When the radio comes on, one of my Italian operas begins to play. I never listened to them while Cal and I were together. After Caylen was born, Angela introduced me to a few, and they were surprisingly calming. It was as if only a mourning singer could express the pain I was in, and Caylen always slept really well to them. From the look on Chris’s face, I can see that he’s anything but comforted.

“I can switch to something else if you don’t like it,” I say, a little embarrassed.

“It’s sort of depressing,” he responds with a nervous laugh as he turns onto the road from his driveway. I suppose when you are actually depressed, it’s soothing.

“Kind of,” I admit as it continues to play.

“Top 40 okay?” I ask, turning to the radio.

“A little better,” he says playfully.

The ride to the zoo was smooth. He drives like a regular person and not like a NASCAR driver on speed, the way Cal did. But if we'd had Caylen when Cal and I were together, I’m sure he wouldn’t have driven like a maniac—possibly. The zoo is actually pretty impressive to be near such a small town. We only made it through two hours before Caylen drifted off to sleep. These two are really entertaining together.

“She fell asleep before we even made it to see the bears,” he says with genuine disappointment.

I laugh. “She had a good run. Let’s take a lunch break. She might wake up in a half-hour or so,” I assure him. We make our way over to a picnic area, and I pull out the sandwiches his mom made for us.

“Thanks.” He takes one from my hand. I hand him a sanitizing wipe, and he takes it, amused.

I really am a mom now.

I unwrap my own sandwich and bite into it. My taste buds have died and gone to heaven.

“Oh, my gosh,” I moan.

There’s a glint in his eye. “Good isn’t it?” he says, tearing through his own.

“This may be the best sandwich I have ever had,” I say, diving back in.

“My mom makes the best sandwiches,” he says, finishing his in record time.

Now I know why his mom made five for just the three of us. I giggle and hand him another one. He smiles. He looks like Cal. He sounds like Cal, but…

“So, other than hanging out at the zoo, what do you like to do?” he asks in between bites, his green eyes on mine.

The lone butterfly in my stomach gains a friend. It’s like we’re on our first date. Well, except our one-year-old is asleep between us in her stroller. Actually, I feel like I’m tagging along on Caylen’s playdate. I take a juice his mom packed and take a sip.

“Most of my time kind of revolves around Caylen.” I shrug. “But when I get a breather and don’t use it for a nap, I try to squeeze in some drawing,” I tell him, resting my head in my hand.

“Drawing, huh? Are you good at it?” he asks curiously. And now I’m having déjà vu.

“What do you mean?” I joke.

He laughs. “Well, are you drawing stick figures?” he asks, crumpling up the plastic that his sandwiches were wrapped in and shooting it in the nearby garbage can. His shot is successful.

“Impressive,” I joke.

“That’s my talent, making trash shots.”

“I can do a little more than stick figures.” I laugh.

“What about you? Is trash ball really your talent?” I ask, making use of the excuse to really look at him. He looks like Cal, and he has his voice, but he doesn’t necessarily sound like him. This guy who wears a t-shirt and jeans, plays with kids, jokes around, and is different. And today, unlike the day we talked in my hotel room, he seems carefree and unburdened. It’s refreshing.

“Well, I play the guitar,” he says, leaning on his elbows. “But you probably already know that.” When he runs his hand through his messy hair, I remember when he’d let me do that.

Wait. What?

“You…play the guitar?” I ask in disbelief, and his eyebrows rise.

“Yeah…I never…Umm, Cal, he never…?” he asks awkwardly.

“No!”

“I used to be in a band,” he says with a shrug, and my mouth drops open.

“You’re kidding?” I can’t believe this.

He nods shyly. “We played a few gigs here and there. It’s not like I was selling out concerts or anything,” he says modestly.

“You’re in a band?” I’m completely shocked.

He smiles, then sighs. “Used to be,” he adds. “It’s a little hard to stay in the band when you never know if you’re available.” His playful smile is completely gone.

I nod my head and think about the fact that every moment Cal was with me was an interruption to his life. I can’t help but feel a little guilty about that.

“Can I ask you a question?” He leans forward on the table.

I bite my lip. Usually, that means a really awkward question will follow. “Sure,” I say, preparing myself.

“Well,” he says, running his hand through his hair again. Cal used to do it as a flirtation; I think Chris does it when he’s nervous. “Do you come from money or something?”

I let out an amused gasp. “Uhm, no. Why do you think that?” I ask hesitantly.

“It’s just, well, the car you’re driving isn’t exactly a base model, and then, uhm…the ring you threw at me the other day looks pretty expensive, and Chicago isn’t exactly the cheapest place to live, and you haven’t mentioned having a job…” he says, letting out a nervous laugh and rubbing the back of his head.

“Oh, no. Well…” I try to think of how to explain this.

“You—uh—Cal made good money working for the Crestfields.” I see his hand tighten around his drink.

“Do you know what I did there exactly?” he asks tensely. I know his dad didn’t have an obvious affection for them. It would seem Chris’s opinion of them must not be much better.

“I don’t know much. The details of your job were mostly confidential,” I say, clearing my throat. Now I wonder what his job was. I can’t imagine him being entrusted with such a valuable position, knowing he could become Chris at any time.

He sighs angrily and shakes his head.

“The only thing you told me was that you were a liaison for Public Relations and Research and Development,” I say with a shrug. There’s another round of silence. I reach in the bag Mrs. Scott packed and hand him a juice box. He smiles gratefully and takes it.

“A shot of tequila would be a little better, but grape juice should work just as well,” I joke.

He nods as he opens it and drains the little box. I’ve been trying to restrain myself this entire time, but there’s so much I want to know, and I know he wants to know about me. We’re like two polite strangers with a kid. Anything too personal would be going into the realm of intimacy—or maybe that’s my own paranoia.

“Now, is it my turn to ask a question?” I say quietly, playing with my empty sandwich bag.

“Go for it.”

“You don’t remember anything?” I ask, folding my hands together.

His head tilts a little to the side.

“Not just about me or our—my life with Cal, but before me?” I’m waiting with bated breath…if he could just remember something about us, about me, about our life together. I know it’s pathetic, but it would be some consolation. If Cal loved me, and he’s a part of him, he should feel something. Even if it’s locked away in another part of his mind, he should remember something. His eyes lock with mine. For a second, he looks at me the way Cal used to, with an intensity that overwhelmed me, that used to consume me. This time, it spits me back out.

“I’m sorry, Lauren, but I don’t remember anything,” he apologizes and stares down at the table.

I try to pretend like the words aren’t a knife through my heart. I can’t do this. I can’t cry and feel sorry for myself every time I’m around him, and things don’t go my way. This isn’t about him or me.

It’s about Caylen.

“No, it’s okay. It’s nothing to be sorry about.” I plaster my practiced smile on my face. I really hope he buys it. So what? Even if he remembered something, it wouldn’t matter anyway. It’d just leave the single thread of hope more time to catch fire, the fanning of a flame I need to stomp out fast.

“It looks like rain,” he mutters. At first, I think it’s an attempt to fill the increasingly awkward silence that has followed this discussion. Still, I know it’s not when I look up at the previously sunny sky that’s now overshadowed by darkening clouds.

“It does.” I sigh. At least Mother Nature is doing us a favor, excusing us from our uncomfortable little outing.

We grab our items and throw them in the trash. I push the stroller as we make our way to the parking lot, ending what started as a nice trip to the zoo. Thankfully, Caylen was asleep before her mommy managed to suck all the fun out of it.