Page 66 of Poetry By Dead Men
"Those were his words, just in case you were wondering," she says pointedly, and my cheeks heat.
"I got that, thanks," I say, moving on to her other hand. I keep my eyes down, afraid of what I'll find in hers if I meet them.
She sees right through me and pulls her arm back, forcing me to look at her. "You need to hear him out, Beth."
"I know." It's the truth. Idoknow it. Not just because I owe it to our newfound friendship or for the integrity of the article, but because Bobby was the love of my life, and that deserves a conversation and some closure, for both of us.
"Did he tell you his version of what happened that night?" I ask. Maybe if I hear it from Molly, it'll be easier to chew. Maybe it'll hurt less, or if nothing else, give me some time to process it and decide my response before I talk to Bobby.
Molly shakes her head. "He wouldn't tell me. He said you deserve to hear it first, and you deserve to hear it from him. Jesus, that man’s a saint. I forgot guys like him existed."
"He practically cheated on me, Molly. No matter what else happened, no matter what his excuse is, I know what I saw."
Molly sighs, giving me back her hand. "I know what you think you saw. But there has to be an explanation. I never knew Bobby to be a liar. He was always such a good guy. Remember what he did for Michael?"
The memory stings.
"He was honest, to a fault, even. And completely in love with you. He always put you first.Always."
That's the part that’s never added up. Molly's right. Bobbydidalways put me first. My feelings, my safety, my happiness. He wanted the world for me. And I wanted him. He was my world. And then he took it away, leaving me to create a new one for myself without him in it.
The bus is quiet when I wake far too early, the sun just beginning to peek out above the horizon.
My mind hasn’t stopped spinning since talking to Molly last night. I can’t seem to work out how I feel. Is it possible I have everything wrong?
It shouldn’t be, and yet, the thought refuses to release its hold on me.
As quietly as I can so I don’t wake Molly, I shuffle through my bag until I find my old manuscript—the story based on Bobby and me frombefore.
I’m not sure what I’ll write for the ending.
I’m not even sure Iwillwrite an ending, but maybe reading through it again will give me some clarity. Not just about where Bobby and I could have gone wrong, but about the girl I used to be—full of life and hope and words that mattered.
I creep past the bunks where Bobby’s still asleep, but they’re empty, and I wonder where he is.
No women on the bus.That was my rule. But there was no rule about him not sleeping elsewhere.
A pinch of something ugly settles beneath my ribs, but I work to push the feeling away. Bobby can do whatever he wants, because even though there’s no use denying our history or the emotions that come along with it, pulling out this old manuscript isn’t about him.
It’s about finding myself again.
Flicking on the lamp, I settle into my spot on the couch and pick up a pen. It takes several moments to gather enough courage to flip past the first page—Untitled, by Beth Winters—and when I do, my heart skips a beat.
I fight through the tightness in my chest, and by the time I’ve read through the first chapter, I’m calmer. The writing is choppy, but there’s a story in there full of heart. Full of life, and a flicker of brightness catches behind my sternum, burning away some of the restraints I’ve put on my creativity over the last several years.
Or did Harrison put them there?
I can’t seem to parse out if he forced me into the box he wanted me to fit in, or if I folded myself in willingly. But as I continue to read, I know I can’t go back inside it.
I adjusted for him. If he wants this to work—if that’s even possible—he’ll have to do some adjusting, too.
An hour passes as I make notes, and I’m so engrossed in revisions that I jump when the bus door opens.
I stiffen. An image of Bobby with sex-mussed hair flicks through my mind, making me nauseous, but that’s not the Bobby that walks onto the bus.
He’s sweaty and shirtless, with tennis shoes on and headphones still in his ears. He freezes when he sees me, his forehead creasing in concern.
“Early morning jog?” I ask with a smile, relieved to see he wasn’t with another woman.
