After Eight Years, I Walked Away

On the title page, he'd written in ink:

To Ramona — our youth is only just beginning.

I lowered my eyes and turned to the photos.

Graduation trip, group dinners, New Year's fireworks, birthday get-togethers.

I turned through them one page at a time, and it hit me that every single photo Desmond had glued in with his own hands had Beverly in it.

And tucked into the last page was a solo shot of Beverly.

She stood at the edge of the field, the wind lifting her white dress, glancing back at the camera with a smile.

On the back, in Desmond's handwriting:

June 18, 2018. Beverly's graduation. She looks beautiful today.

I closed the album and put it back.

I wasn't going to take this one with me.

Because what it preserved had never been my story.

I drew my hand back and went on sorting the rest.

That was when I heard the lock turn at the front door.

Desmond came over and pressed his hand down over mine as I was folding clothes.

"That's enough, stop packing. You're really running away from home?"

"If Beverly hadn't kept talking me into it, I honestly wouldn't have wanted to come back tonight."

"Beverly's been thinking about you this whole time. How can you be so selfish?"

I brushed his hand off, ignored him, and turned to get the clothes out of the closet.

Desmond held out a paper bag and sighed.

"Haven't you always wanted to get married?"

"There are wedding plans in here. I had someone draft a few versions. After the new year, we'll set a date."

The hand holding my clothes stopped dead in midair.

I'd imagined the scene of him proposing to me countless times, sure I'd be moved to tears.

But now, when he'd finally said it out loud.

I opened the bag.

Inside were venue brochures, a bridal gown catalog, and a few photos of reception sites.

On the booking form, the line for the bride's name was blank.

Desmond stepped closer and pulled me into his arms.

"Stop holding it against Beverly."

"She cried for a long time today too, and she kept telling me we can't keep stringing you along."

"I'm even giving you a wedding. You should be a little more reasonable."

I looked down at the planning sheets.

Before I could say anything, another confirmation slip slid out of the bag.

It was a booking for the Iceland aurora resort.

A double suite, thirty nights.

On the line for travelers, it read: Desmond Gilbert and Beverly Matthews.

I knew that resort.

Three years ago, I'd stayed up night after night putting together honeymoon plans, and it was the first one I'd bookmarked.

Desmond reached out and slid the booking slip away.

"Since we're having a wedding now, there's so much to prepare, so let's skip the honeymoon trip."

"Beverly's been in a bad place lately anyway, so I'm planning to take her to Iceland."

"We'll have plenty of chances to get away later. Missing this one is no big deal."

At that point, as if he thought he'd already given up enough, he added:

"She grew up in a single-parent home, and she's never even been out of the state. Ramona, I know you can understand that."

The moment I heard those words, something seized my heart hard.

I suddenly remembered last winter, the three of us eating a late-night meal at a curbside spot.

Heavy snow had come down that day, and Beverly, a little drunk, went red around the eyes talking about her childhood.

She said that in winter her family couldn't even afford coal, that all she could do was tuck her hands into her worn-out coat, her fingers covered in chilblains, and that back then her biggest dream was to watch the snow come down from inside a heated room.

That day, Desmond, who always kept his feelings in check, listened and listened until his own eyes went red.