Page 63 of Still The One

‘You do?’

I glance at her, confused. ‘I remember all our days, Evie.’

‘I’ll admit, I’ve tried desperately to forget over the years.’

That makes me sad. I get it, love hurts. But damn. She didn’t even want to remember me?

It takes her a few minutes but eventually, she gets the lid off the shoebox and we stare into it, silently.

Among the scattered items in the box are photos I printed and framed, a crumpled movie ticket stub from the first film we watched together, a quirky fridge magnet she bought that says ‘Keep Portland Weird’, and a dried flower from the bouquet she held at our wedding. Each piece holds a memory, a fragment of our shared past that suddenly feels more tangible.

Eve picks up the small flower, tracing its delicate petals with her fingertips.

‘You kept this?’ There’s a wistful smile playing on her lips as she gazes at it, lost in thought.

I watch her quietly, feeling a rush of emotions welling up inside me. Our history is heavy, but there’s also a glimmer of hope, the flutter of something new and uncertain.

‘I dreamed about our wedding last night,’ she murmurs, breaking the silence. ‘It was so weird, like I was there, reliving it.’

‘And you hated it?’ I ask, fully expecting that to be her answer, but she shakes her head.

‘No,’ she admits. ‘I can’t quit thinking about it, actually. Everything was so perfect.’

Her confession about dreaming of our wedding catches me off guard, making my heart race with a mixture of uncertainty and excitement.

‘It was perfect because it was with you,’ I say, my voice soft yet filled with sincerity. ‘Despite everything that happened after, that day still holds a special place in my heart.’

Eve’s gaze meets mine and it’s as if we’re standing at the edge of a precipice, teetering between the past and the present, unsure of which way to step next.

‘I miss us,’ she says, her voice tinged with regret. ‘I miss the way we used to be before everything got so complicated.’

Right then her phone starts ringing. Damn it. What is with the interruptions tonight? She ignores it for a minute but when the number calls back, she answers.

‘What’s up, Gen?’ she asks, sounding less than thrilled to have our moment disrupted. She listens to the caller on the other end. ‘I already forgive you,’ she says. ‘A club? Tomorrow night? What? You want me to bring him? I guess so.’ After a few minutes of chatter, she hangs up the phone and looks my way with a smile.

‘Booty call?’ I ask, completely kidding, but she laughs.

‘Clubbing call – which I rarely do any more. I sort of preoccupy myself with work twenty-four seven, according to my friends. But I don’t doubt you’re feeling stir-crazy by now and you’re doing really well at moving.’

‘Ten blocks recently,’ I brag.

‘Exactly. So, whadya think? Will you be feeling “clubby” tomorrow night?’

Excitement bubbles inside me like recently poured champagne. We went clubbing once. I’ve never smiled so hard. I can’t believe I’m being given a second chance to rewrite the unfinished chapters of our story, to rediscover the parts of ourselves we thought were lost.

‘I doubt I’ll be very dancy, but I can babysit your drinks and purse. Count me in,’ I reply, unable to hide the hopeful tone in my voice.

Five Years Ago

The sun beats down relentlessly on the open motorcycle track, surrounded by rows of stadium seating and tall swaying trees. The crowd is dressed in tank tops and shorts, their skin glistening with sweat under the scorching Oregon summer heat. Colorful banners and posters promoting sponsors sway in the warm breeze, adding vibrancy to the scene. Fans eagerly line the edges of the dirt course, anticipating a chance to meet and greet their favorite riders.

Once the event dies down, I make my way toward the lingering crowd as I always do, still dressed in my riding gear. My bright green flat-bill hat with my number fifteen stitched in black on the front sits firmly on my head. I have a stack of the same ones ready to be handed out to anyone who wants one. After a few minutes of chatting with some male fans, all of the hats are gone and now you can see specks of green bobbing through the crowd as people leave for their cars.

‘Could you snap a picture?’ A woman hands her phone to one of the volunteers and wraps her arm around my waist, leaning her head on my shoulder as if we were together. It’s one of the benefits of the job that I have no objections to – fangirls. I lean in and kiss her cheek while the blonde-haired beauty in front of us takes our photo.

‘If you’re ever looking for a wife…’ the young woman says with a flirty giggle as she backs away, flashing a wink and a smile that’ll be hard to forget.

Our photographer – the volunteer track girl wearing my jersey – doesn’t smile, at least not in my direction. She simplygives the phone back to its owner and moves on to the next person in line, fulfilling her duties and taking the next camera being offered to her.

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