Reminders of Him

Until I killed him.
But this was three months before he would die, and on that particular
night, even though he was sad, he was very much alive. He had a beating
heart and a rapid pulse and a heaving chest and tears in his eyes when he
said, “I fucking love you, Kenna. I love you more than I’ve ever loved
anyone. I miss you all the time, even when we’re together.”
That stuck with me. “I miss you all the time, even when we’re
together.”
And I thought that was the only thing that stuck with me that night, but
I was wrong. Something else stuck with me. A name. Ledger.
The best friend who never showed. The best friend I never got to
meet.
The best friend who just put his tongue in my mouth and his hand up
my shirt and his name in my chest.

---

CHAPTER SIX
LEDGER
I don’t understand attraction.
What is it that draws people to each other? How can dozens of women
walk through the doors to this bar every week and I don’t feel the urge to
give any of them a second glance? But then this girl waltzes in, and I can’t
take my fucking eyes off her.
Now I can’t take my mouth off her.
I don’t know why I’m breaking my self-imposed rule: “no pursuing
customers.” But there’s something about her that indicates I’ll only have
one chance. I get the feeling she’s either passing through town or doesn’t
plan on coming back in here. Tonight seems like an exception to whatever
her normal routine may be, and I feel like skipping an opportunity to be
with her will be that one regret in life I’ll still think back on when I’m an
old man.
She seems like a quiet person, but not the shy kind of quiet. She’s
quiet in a fierce way—a storm that sneaks up on you, and you don’t know
it’s there until you feel the thunder rattle your bones.
She’s quiet, but she’s said just enough to make me want the rest of her
words. She tastes like apples, even though she had coffee earlier, and apples
are my favorite fruit. They’re probably my favorite food period, now.
We kiss for several seconds, and even though she made the first move,
she still seemed surprised when I pulled her to my mouth.
Maybe she expected me to wait a little longer before tasting her, or
maybe she wasn’t expecting it to feel like this—I hope it feels like this for
her—but whatever caused that tiny gasp right before my mouth met hers, it
wasn’t because she didn’t want the kiss.

---

She pulls away, briefly indecisive, but then she seems to make up her
mind because she leans in and kisses me again with even more conviction.
That conviction disappears, though. Too fast. She pulls away for a
second time, and this time her eyes are full of regret. She shakes her head
quickly and places her palms on my chest. I cover her hands with mine right
when she says, “I’m sorry.”
She slides off me, the inside of her thigh rubbing across my zipper,
making me even harder, as she scoots out of the booth. I reach for her hand,
but her fingers trickle out of mine as she backs away from the table. “I
shouldn’t have come back.”
She turns away from me and heads toward the door.
I deflate.
I didn’t commit her face to memory, and I don’t like the thought of her
leaving without me, being able to remember the exact shape of the mouth
that was just on mine.
I push out of the booth and follow her.
She can’t get the door open. She jiggles the handle and tries to push it
like she can’t get away from me fast enough. I want to beg her to stay, but I
also want to help her get away from me, so I pull down on the top lock
while reaching in front of her with my foot to push up on the floor lock. The
door opens and she spills outside.
She inhales a big gulp of air and then spins and faces me. I scan her
mouth, wishing I had a photographic memory.
Her eyes are no longer the same color as her shirt. They’re a lighter
green now because she’s tearing up. Once again I find myself not knowing
what to do. I’ve never seen a girl so all over the place in such a short
amount of time, and none of it feels forced or dramatic. With every move
she makes and every feeling she has, it’s as if she wants to reel them back in
and tuck them away.
She seems embarrassed.
She’s gasping for breath, trying to wipe away the few tears that are
beginning to form, and since I have no idea what the fuck to say, I just hug
her.
What else can I do?
I pull her to me, and for a second, she stiffens, but that’s almost
immediately followed up by a sigh as she relaxes.

---

We’re the only people around. It’s after midnight, everyone is home
sleeping, watching a movie, making love. But I’m here on Main Street,
hugging a really sad girl, wondering why she’s sad, wishing I didn’t think
she was so beautiful.
Her face is pressed against my chest, and her arms are tight around my
waist. Her forehead comes right up to my mouth, but she’s tucked under my
chin.
I rub her arms.
My truck is right around the corner. I always park in the alley, but she
seems upset and I don’t want to encourage her to follow me to an alley
when she’s crying. I lean against an awning post and pull her with me.
Two minutes pass, maybe three. She doesn’t let go. She molds against
me, soaking up the comfort my arms and chest and hands are giving her.
I’m rubbing her back, up and down, my voice still trapped in my throat.
Something is wrong with her, something I’m not sure I even want to
know at this point, but it’s something I can’t just leave her on the sidewalk
and drive away from.
I don’t think she’s crying anymore when she says, “I need to go
home.”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
She shakes her head and pulls away from me. I keep my hands on her
arms, and I notice when she folds her arms over her chest that she touches
my right hand with two of her fingers. It’s just a quick swipe, but it’s
deliberate, like she wants to get one last tiny feel of me before she leaves.
“I don’t live far. I’ll walk.”
She’s crazy if she thinks she’s walking home. “It’s too late to be
walking by yourself.” I point toward the alley. “My truck is ten feet away.”
For obvious reasons, that gesture makes her hesitate, but then she accepts
the hand I’m reaching out to her, and she follows me around the corner.
When my truck comes into view, she stops walking. I turn around, and
she’s staring at my truck with concern in her eyes.
“I can call you an Uber if you’d prefer that. But I swear, I’m just
offering you a ride home. No expectations.”
She looks down at her feet, but continues walking toward my truck. I
open my passenger door for her, and when she climbs inside, she doesn’t
face forward. She’s still facing me, and her legs are preventing me from

---

closing the door. She’s looking at me like she’s torn. Her eyebrows are
drawn apart. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone look so effortlessly sad.
“Are you okay?”
She leans her head against the seat and stares at me. “I will be,” she
says quietly. “Tomorrow is a big day for me. I’m just nervous.”
“What’s tomorrow?” I ask her.
“A big day for me.”
She obviously doesn’t plan on elaborating, so I nod, respecting her
privacy.
Her focus moves to my arm. She touches the hem of my sleeve, so I
put my hand on her knee because I want it somewhere on her, and her knee
seems like the safest place until she lets me know where else she might
want my hand.
I don’t know what her intentions are. Most people show up to bars and
make their intentions clear. You can tell who comes in for a hookup and
who comes in to get shit faced.
I can’t tell with this girl. It seems like she accidentally opened the door
and ended up in my bar and has no idea what she wants from tonight.
Maybe she just wants to skip tonight and get straight to whatever big
thing she’s got going on tomorrow.
I’m waiting for a signal from her on what she wants me to do next,
because I thought I was taking her home, but she hasn’t faced forward. It’s
like she wants me to kiss her again. But I don’t want to make her cry again.