The Beginning of Always

by Sophia Mae Todd

  “That’s a good girl,” he said, pouring me a generous spill of amber liquid.

  I curled my fingers around the cool glass and brought the drink to my nose. After a cautious sniff, I asked, “Whiskey again?”

  Alistair turned the bottle towards me so I could read the label.

  “Oh. Bourbon.”

  We drank silently, I took shallow sips as Alistair just studied his glass.

  “You like this house?”

  Alistair shrugged, noncommittal and disinterested. “It was a good buy.”

  “Just like everything else? It’s always just a good buy?”

  Alistair’s gaze flicked up to meet mine. “It’s easier to look at things from an objective viewpoint. The price was right, the neighboring property values are strong, so, yes, it was a good buy. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

  We were both weary with the fighting, with the constant back-and-forth. Alistair was saying what was on his mind, and I was doing the same.

  He continued, “You don’t have to keep on analyzing me. Not everything is subject to interpretation. Most of the time I just do things because they make good business sense.”

  “Most of the time? What about all the other times?”

  “Can’t say I’m filled with good business sense all of the time.”

  “Or good sense in general,” I muttered.

  Silence settled down again between us. These long heavy pauses filled with everything we wanted to say and everything we couldn’t say. The past settled within the ridges of the white noise around us, inconsequential sound scraping and filling every crevice of the moment—the ticking of a clock, the scrape of the glass against stone, the waves beyond the doors.

  There was an honesty in the moment. There was so much to say that it was impossible to know where to start.

  Alistair tried first. He was still staring into the glass, catching the reflection of the room in the liquid. “I’m reminded of a comment someone made to me a while back. The yearning. It never goes away.”

  “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

  Alistair took a deep drink of his bourbon. “Why did you ask me about my ties earlier tonight?”

  “Just an observation I made. I guess I’m just not used to you wearing ties.”

  “You know … you once told me you liked removing ties off me.”

  “I did?”

  “At my prom. You …” He sighed and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “You touched the knot of my tie and said you liked how it looked, but that you wanted to take it off later that night. You made me promise I’d let you do it.”

  The niggling edge of a memory crept from my mind’s coffers.

  “The entire time we were driving to Holland, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” Alistair paused. “Do you remember?”

  I nodded slightly, “Yeah, I think I remember.” I’d spent so much time fighting to scrub my teenage years from my memory that a lot of what had happened back then was vague. It was too painful to relive those years with such clarity, so I had chosen to shut down instead. But his senior prom, the thoughts and the emotions of that night, all that came trickling back into this moment.

  Alistair leaned forward, his weight heavy on his palms outstretched along the edge of the countertop. His shoulders were tense, the muscles straining hard lines all along the contours of his body and down his arms. He shook his head, then laughed quietly to himself. A private joke, filled with misery.

  “That’s my problem. All I can do is remember; all I have are memories and secrets, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about any of them. I remember so much of the past that I can hardly think about anything else. The present. The future.” Alistair looked up at me. “There’s a lot I regret about the past. About us. I can’t go back to fix it, and I can’t find any answers to make things better in the present. I have so many means, but no solutions.”

  “You can’t go back.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “We can’t go back. You can’t keep looking at me as if I’m a solution, as if I’m the answer.”

  “Why not? Why can’t I? What else can I try?”

  “The past is the past. It’s done.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. The past is still alive. It’s still here, still haunting both of us. She still lives in both of us.”

  My eyes widened and my spine went tense.

  “You can’t change the truth,” Alistair said quietly. “You can’t run away forever.”

  I clutched at my shorts, fabric bunching under my fingers. “Why not? Why can’t I? What else can I try?” I wet my lips. They quivered slightly against each other. “You think I like running, that this amuses me, that I enjoy being like this? I don’t know how else to be, what else to do. This was my way of dealing with it all, and I can’t say I … I just can’t break apart again. I won’t be able to handle it. I’m hardly even whole.”

  Alistair studied me.

  “You’re not whole. I’m not whole. Even before everything happened, we weren’t whole.” He shook his head. “You used to say I loved my secrets, that I let them define who I was. You can’t hold a secret like that forever. It’ll ruin you.”

  “I’m already ruined,” I whispered. “You can’t fix me.”

  “I never wanted to fix you, Florence. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. You thought you could fix me, when all the while we were both broken. We just didn’t know it because we were together. Only apart did I see reality. I’m sorry I failed you, that I failed us. That I failed her.”

  My vision went misty. I cried silently, shoulders shuddering with my sobs while Alistair knocked back another shot. He didn’t move towards me, didn’t try to touch me, to comfort me. In this, he knew that would be useless. So we remained, on opposite ends of that wide bar, each dealing with our shared grief in our own ways.

  “I failed us too. I failed us all in the worst way. I’m sorry,” I gasped between tears.

  * * *

  Later on that night, long after I’d left Alistair alone with his thoughts so I could be with mine, I sat up in the wide, plush bed. I couldn’t cry anymore. I’d had my fill, had wiped my tears away, already fought to right the ship and failed.

  I was suffocating and I knew it. All the years of denying the truth were catching up to me, and the running was wearing me down.

  In sleep, I would have doubted my conviction. Because only then did I realize the past never truly leaves us and that memories unacknowledged destroy us from the inside out.

  Secrets were meant to be kept and meant to be grieved, alone.

  So that night, I dreamt of her, of it, of us.

  Of regret and mistakes.

  Of guilt.

  Of death, always looming about the corner, the taste of tears in the air.

  Chapter 23

  Florence Reynolds, eighteen years old

  I sat, pin-straight and stock still, in the living room. The house was dark and quiet. Dad hadn’t come home yet and Nicolas was at a friend’s house.

  He was going to be here any minute.

  My lips mouthed my speech wordlessly, opening and closing, pursing and retracting by motion only, formulating the sentences I had practiced for the past week. All silently.

  I have some news. This isn’t ideal and I know it comes as a surprise, but I want to let you know that I had no way of—

  My soundless speech stumbled in my head and I lurched forward slightly, taken aback. My heart began racing. If I couldn’t deliver this news to myself, without words, how was I to tell him? My gaze flicked to the large grandfather clock in the corner.

  He’d be here any minute.

  My eyes began to water, but I shook my head, refusing my body’s natural need. I couldn’t cry. He’d know the second he saw me. I fought back the tears, struggled against the tide of emotions that pressed upon me, that threatened to break free of their bonds.

  I had to keep it together. Keep it together, Florence.

  Let’s start again.<
br />
  I have some news. This isn’t ideal and I kno—

  The sound of tires crunching over sand and gravel filtered into the hushed room.

  I bolted upright.

  My feet took me across the foyer and spilled me out into the porch. I didn’t know what was worse—delaying this or running to face it. My body was calling for the latter, needing release of this awful tension I’d been harboring for what seemed to be forever.

  I was running towards the driveway just as the truck’s engine shut off.

  Alistair smiled at me as he jumped down from his car. My heart was beating unbelievably fast and seeing him just made it go into overdrive until it was almost a whirl.

  His hair was long and floppy, loose and brushed carelessly aside. He was wearing his college sweater and a pair of old jeans, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

  Alistair’s face split into a wide grin.

  “What’s the rush?” he said with a laugh. I slowed down, then froze in my spot.

  I didn’t know how to say it now. With him in front of me, happy, absolutely marvelous, I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t ruin his Christmas and his life.

  Alistair slammed the door and walked towards me.

  “It’s alright, come here.”

  I charged forward, throwing myself into his waiting arms. He laughed and gave me a tight squeeze. I buried my face against his chest, breathing in his scent desperately. I didn’t know how much longer I would have the opportunity. I rubbed my nose into his faded cotton sweater, hiding my expression against him.

  “Hi,” I murmured, my voice muffled.

  “Hey,” Alistair said. He kissed the top of my head.

  It was our monthly ritual. He’d drive back to St. Haven and come to my house, we’d greet each other out in the driveway and spend the evening together. Most of the time he’d sleep over at night; sometimes he’d go back to Blair Farms after I fell asleep, but I was always out in the driveway, ready to hug him hello.

  Alistair had no way of knowing that today was different than the many other days and weekends we’d recreated this scene.

  He had no way of knowing that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  “I have something for you,” he said. His grin held a secret. “Look in my backpack.” He let go of me and turned to his side so I could access his backpack. I hesitated, then unzipped it slowly.

  “What’s with the flowers?” My voice was high and unnatural to my ears, sterile cheeriness.

  Alistair fished them out and dropped them into my arms. “Just passed by a flower stand on the road, thought of you.”

  It was modest bouquet of multicolored … “Tulips. But the season is over, way over.” Tulips didn’t grow in the winter—they were a spring bloom. “They’re beautiful.” I clutched the stems in my palms, the plastic bag and slippery in my weak grasp.

  “A greenhouse grow, probably. Thought it’d make you happy.”

  Suddenly, Alistair frowned at me. “Where’s your jacket?”

  “Oh.” I took a step back. “Right.” I was in such a hurry that I didn’t grab anything and in such emotional turmoil that I didn’t even notice I was cold.

  “It’s freezing. Let’s go inside.” Alistair draped an arm around me and quickly hustled us back indoors.

  “Why’s it dark in here?” He swept his gaze across the foyer, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Were you just sitting here without any lights on?”

  “Oh. Uh.” I stumbled over my answers. “I was just taking a nap. Woke up right when you got here.”

  “Got that ESP, don’t you?” Alistair dropped his backpack against the coatrack and flicked on a couple switches. The suddenly flood of yellow light shocked me enough to see spots.

  “Did you eat yet?” Alistair shed his jacket and went to the living room. This was normal for him. Everything was typical, totally perfunctory and standard. We were doing what we did every time he visited. It was all part of our schedule and routine, how we had learned to live with the distance for a year and a half.

  My feet followed him into the living room, also trained by habit.

  I sat next to him on the couch, his arms splayed against the back in casual angles. There was an easy air to his posture, a casual happiness.

  “Tell me you love me,” I said quietly. I wanted to hear it one last time before I told him the news, because he would hate me afterwards. I wanted to hear his love just one more time.

  Alistair reached over to grip my chin lightly with a finger. Our eyes found each other and what I saw there was complete peace and utter acceptance. His free hand stroked the crown of my head and he leaned forward until our foreheads met each other.

  “I love you, Florence Vita Reynolds,” he whispered. “I love you so much it hurts. I love you more than I love myself.” He pressed his lips against mine; they were cold from the wind, but so soft. So ideal.

  I responded greedily.

  He broke away and exhaled hot breaths that slipped past my own lips.

  “I’ll love you always, no matter what,” he said.

  You won’t love me in about five minutes.

  The pain began etching into my face, my facade no long good enough to keep it at bay. I didn’t know how to start telling him. My mouth moved slightly as if of its own accord, trying to say something, but no sound came out.

  Alistair smiled and he was so handsome, his dimples peeking out and the edges of his eyes crinkling.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  “We still have a week,” I responded tightly.

  He canted his head to one side, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

  “Is everything okay?”

  I fought to force a smile, but was unsuccessful. I nodded awkwardly, bobbling my head up and down in a jolting, unnatural fashion.

  “Mm-hmm,” I forced out. I kept on nodding. I pursued my lips and squeezed my fingers tight into each other. “Yep.”

  Alistair’s smile slowly faded. My spastic routine wasn’t convincing me. “What’s wrong?” He reached over and cupped the side of my face, stilling my motions.

  “Do you have something to tell me? Is it about your college apps?”

  I shook my head fiercely, my hair flying all about me.

  Now or never. I parted my mouth, “I … I …”

  “Is this about New York?” Alistair let go of my cheek and readjusted his position in the couch. He rolled his shoulders, his eyes building a defensive glint to it. “If you don’t want me to go, it’s okay—you just have to tell me.” He shook his head. “I know you wanted to spend the summer together, but you can come to New York and we’ll be together in the fall when you get to U of M.”

  “No,” I choked out. “It’s not New York. I … New York is fine.”

  Alistair studied me. “Are you sure that’s not what this is?” His tone was doubtful.

  “I’m … positive.”

  “Then what is it?” He reached for my hands and pulled them slightly towards him.

  My heart hammered and the pit of my stomach twisted.

  I parted my lips and they moved silently, trained by the speech I had been practicing before he arrived. But once I realized no sound emerged, I clamped them closed, then tried again.

  “I’m pregnant,” I gasped out in a barely audible whimper.

  The words hovered between us, just floated in the air, refusing to catch hold, refusing to sink in.

  “What?” Alistair recoiled and his palms grew ice cold in my grip. Tears began forming and my lips involuntarily began to quiver. I averted my face so he couldn’t see me break apart.

  “Babe.” Alistair reached a hand over to turn my chin. My hands shot out and pushed him away. I stood up suddenly and the flowers fell off my lap to land onto the carpet in a bare rustle.

  I needed to run. I needed to get away. My heart was threatening to burst into pieces.

  “Florence,” Alistair said in a low voice, standing up slowly to join me.

  “I’m pregnant!” I
screamed. Sobs broke free and I knew I was losing it, knew there was no going back to my mien of calm and togetherness. I was broken. I was broken.

  Alistair seized my shoulders and pulled me towards him, crushing me into his embrace. I pushed at his chest, guilt and horror of the truth clawing at my heart.

  “I can’t be … I can’t …”

  Alistair clutched at me, tucking me into his hard arms.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, just breathe.”

  “I’m sorry,” I babbled incoherently. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” This baby would keep him in St. Haven. It would keep him in Michigan and keep him tied to me. He couldn’t accomplish all those things he had spoken about, all the goals he had given himself.

  He couldn’t go to New York.

  He wouldn’t make it out of here.

  Why was he shaking his head at me?

  “I’m sorry!” My voice ripped through me and my tears began flowing down my cheeks, uncontrollable.

  “I was irresponsible, it’s my fault, I should have been more careful!” The daughter of the town doctor—out of anyone I should have known better, should have protected myself.

  I should have protected Alistair.

  Stupid! So stupid!

  Alistair forced my hands apart and seized my wrists. He gathered me in his arms and pressed me tightly to him, taking me down to rest into the couch.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he said.

  “No! It’s not okay!” I writhed in his embrace.

  “Hey. Just … calm down. Breathe. I’m here, I’m here.” Alistair ran his palms up and down my arms, his touch providing that hypnotic gentling sensation that always came when he was around. “Just breathe. In. Out. Come on.”

  I sucked in a shuddering inhale, giving a short cough with the exhale. And then I tried again. We sat there for a minute as I calmed down, my thundering heart not giving me any space in my chest, but the light-headed quality of the present was slowly dissipating.

  “Do you feel better?” Alistair asked.

  I shrugged, rubbing my wrist over my damp eyes.

  “Are you sure?”