"You said you wanted to make it up to me, Mason? Then drop dead. That would make me happy."
The color drained further from his already pale face. He forced a thin smile.
I watched him with no expression, no feeling at all.
"This is my home."
One sentence. It said everything that needed saying.
The living room sank into a strange, heavy silence.
Mason was the one who broke it. His voice was low and hoarse:
"Take care of yourself. If you need anything, call me."
"My number. It hasn't changed."
With that, he left.
I stared at the closed door, then collapsed into the chair as if every last bit of strength had drained out of me.
My mother died in my third year behind bars.
I never got to see her one last time before she passed.
But I still remembered the last thing she ever said to me.
She said, "Look ahead. Keep moving forward."
Look ahead. Keep moving forward. Easy words to say. Impossible to live by.
Late summer. Leaves fell from the trees in heavy handfuls, surrendering to the ground.
The me from seven years ago would never have imagined I'd end up sweeping those leaves off the streets.
Autumn was close, but the sun still burned.
I dragged my aching, rusted body along, my vision swimming in and out of focus.
A motorcycle tore past with an ear-splitting screech.
It clipped me as it went, carving a raw red streak across my leg.
I fell to the side of the road. The sting kept firing through my nerves, relentless.
Across the street, a black Bentley sat parked in silence.
Two figures stepped out.
One of them I knew too well. Mason.
And the woman beside him had to be Melody.
Mason held Melody's arm, and the way he looked at her was gentle.
I watched the two of them, and the pain in my right leg vanished. What replaced it was worse. Numbness, and a bitterness so deep it had no bottom.
An invisible hand closed around my heart and squeezed.
Mason turned his head. Our eyes met. But it was nothing more than a passing glance, and then he looked away.
Late that night, I sat on the windowsill, staring at the lonely moon.
It flickered the same way the birthday candles had, seven years ago.
Seven years ago, on Mason's birthday, I waited for him. He didn't come home until the sky turned pale with dawn.
I still caught the scent of women's perfume on his shirt.
I swallowed the hurt. Told myself it was his birthday. I wouldn't fight with him today.