by Evy Journey
We say very little on the way back to my home, a spacious apartment above Chez Merleau that came as part of the sale. Brent turns off the car engine in front of it.
I vacillate about what to do. Say goodnight after a quick kiss or ask Brent up to my apartment? Am I truly ready for another change if I accept him back into my life?
“Wait,” he says, and gets out of the car to open the passenger door.
Nights are quiet in this largely business section of the city. Tourists and workers enliven the place in the daytime, and vacant parking spaces are hard to find. But at this time of night, the streets are empty of people and cars. There’s only Brent and me to disturb the tranquility.
The empty streets often fill me with loneliness and dread, but tonight, the stillness summons a sense of entering a dream. The last time I descended into a dream-like state was more than a year ago as Marcia’s sleeping pills robbed me of my consciousness.
Brent follows me quietly to my door and up the steps to my apartment. He’s making the decision for both of us. And somehow, it feels like the most natural thing that could happen.
“Would you like a nightcap? I have some Grand Marnier. It’s an orange liqueur.”
“No, thank you. Let’s just talk.”
“Okay.” I lead him to my living area.
I sit on the couch. He takes the chair opposite mine. He leans over and says, “There’s so much I want to say to you, I don’t know where to start.”
“How about the thing that matters to you most, what you would say if you only had a second to say it.”
He stares into my eyes and, without hesitating, says. “I still love you, Regine. I want to be a part of your life. And if you let me, you’ll be the most important part in mine.”
Surprised, I stare back at Brent. Even when he told me he loved me at the Emeryville coffeehouse, he had said his work was his passion. One he couldn’t let go of. I took it to mean he wouldn’t give it up for a relationship. What has changed?
“You told me you loved me at the coffeehouse. But what’s the point of telling me that if you weren’t ready to admit me into your life? Why tell me again now?”
“Because that time, it was as true as it is now. But that time, I thought I was saving you from becoming one of Leon’s victims. That if you and I confessed we loved each other, you wouldn’t marry Leon. It was only later I realized I couldn’t bear to see you marry him or any other man.”
“But that would have been too late because I had already agreed to marry Leon.”
“You’re right. And I could only blame myself, regret it my whole life if that had happened. But sometimes, it takes some crisis for us to realize what we really want. And with some luck, we might get what we desire most. By the time we saw each other at the coffeehouse, Marcia had already told me you moved in with Leon. She kept telling me stories about you and Leon. You looked happy, she said. Living with Leon was like living in paradise. Leon was a whiz in bed. Her words. Words that have tortured me ever since.”
“I never said any of those things to Marcia. She wanted details but I just shrugged her off. I said no one could match the passion you and she had together.”
Brent groans. “Marcia is a provocateur. But thinking you and Leon were together wasn’t my worst agony. When she called me to tell me that she made you swallow a bottle of sleeping pills, I rushed to your address. Lucky that I’ve been carrying your keys in my pocket. The drive was hell. Even with the police siren on, I couldn’t get to you fast enough. I saw you on the couch. So still, clutching a bottle you wouldn’t let go of. It was then I knew I’d do anything so I don’t lose you again. ”
“Were you walking along the gurney when I was taken to the hospital?”
“I didn’t want to leave your side until I was sure you were going to be okay.”
“Did you visit me later?”
“Every day until you woke up. I came every morning before going to work. And I came in the evening.”
“Did you ever say ‘Regine, my love’?”
“You heard me.”
“I thought it was a dream. But why didn’t you come and visit me when I regained consciousness?”
“Your mother requested I stay away for a while. She was protecting you. She said you needed time to recover among people who’re familiar, who you knew love you. It was too much, she said—first Cristi, then Marcia. There was also the breakup with Leon. She said: if you truly love her, you can wait. You’ll come back, maybe in a year. I think you also have things to sort out. She’s wise, your mother.”
“Is that why you went back to law?”
Brent smiles. “I decided I want to be here with you always, and not only when you need me. I also find law more fulfilling, and definitely less stressful. And maybe as I get deeper into my cases, I’ll understand better why people kill. Or learn to accept that it’s a question I’ll never be able to answer.” He takes my hands and rest them on his lap. “Can you love me again, my Regine?”
I don’t answer. I just gaze into his eyes.
“Do you still love Leon?”
“I have Chez Merleau because of him. It will always remind me of him. He did love me, but I’ve wondered if he can love anyone as much as himself. He was under pressure to marry so he asked me; said I showed him he’s capable of loving someone. By then, I loved him enough to say yes. His father objected, threatened to disinherit him. Leon chose his legacy. He said it was his destiny.”
Brent isn’t satisfied with my response. “But do you still love him?”
“What I felt for Leon was never anything like I’ve felt for you. You must know that.”
“What you felt for me—is it too late for me to rekindle it?”
“Whatever drew us to each other in the beginning—do you think it dies that easily?”
“Not for me. No, it hasn’t. That’s why I’m here. Because I’ve finally admitted to myself that I can’t be happy, that I can’t feel whole without you. The life I want and need is with you.”
Once again, words fail me. I can’t quite believe everything that’s happened today. Lately, I’ve wondered whether my experience with Leon has turned me off of relationships. I think I’ve just been waiting for Brent. Somehow, I knew he’d come back to me. What he and I have is so deeply rooted we must nurture it, if only because it’s a rare gift not given to everyone.
I’m trying to control the fluttering in my chest, the quivering in my lips. Tears are blurring my vision. Tears, neither of sadness nor of warring emotions, but of pure, utter happiness. I drop my face on my hands.
Brent rises from the chair, and sits next to me on the couch. An arm around me, he pulls me closer. I lay my head on his shoulder.
He whispers in my ear, “Oh my love. So much I have to make up for.”
I want to tell him: I don’t need any more explanations.
I know you believe you’ll have to spend the rest of your life trying to make up for whatever hurtful things you think you’ve done to me.
But I can’t speak—not through my tears.
I don’t want you to atone for your imagined sins, Brent. All I want is for you to love me. Intensely, sincerely like I know you know how.
He dabs my wet cheeks with his handkerchief. I open my eyes and find his peering into mine. He takes my hand, kisses it and lays it briefly on his chest. Like that night after the dinner at Marcia’s apartment.
This time, I pull his head closer and press my lips softly to his.
And so it goes …
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for spending some time with Gina, Brent, Leon and Marcia.
If you like their story, please consider doing a review.
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About Evy
Evy Journey, SPR (Self Publishing Review) Independent Woman Author awardee, writes Women’s Fiction, an amorphous category of stories written mostly for women, from a women’s point of view, as varied as that is. They can be romance, chick lit, or literary.
Evy has a Ph.D. in psychology so her particular brand of women’s fiction spins tales about well-drawn characters as they cope with the problems and issues of contemporary life. These stories explore the many faces of love, loss , second chances, and finding one’s way. Often, they're laced with a twist of mystery or intrigue.
She's also a wannabe artist, and a flâneuse who wishes she lives in Paris where art is everywhere and people have honed aimless roaming to an art form. She has lived in Paris a few times as a transient.
Quirkiness:
1. Something pathetic: I took swimming lessons but never really learned to swim and I’ve always lived by an ocean or a bay. But I could folk dance and hula until work and motherhood stopped me.
2. Anachronistic tendencies: I love classical music and opera, and for the last five years at least, I haven’t watched television.
3. Wistful and dreamy moments: Hopelessly in love with Paris. Wish I lived there.
4. I love to eat: Sushi, crisp skin on roast pork, tandoori lamb, black rice pudding, macarons, steamed crabs, great bread.
Website: https://www.evyjourney.com
Book review blog: https://margaretofthenorth.wordpress.com
Artsy Rambler: https://eveonalimb2.com
Facebook Page: A Thoughtful Woman's Love Stories
Facebook Group: Thoughtful Romance Readers Love Food
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PEACE!
