First, Finally, and Forever

Never Too Late

Across the crowded restaurant, through a column of well-dressed bodies, she saw him.

Collar open, hands stuffed into pockets, rumpled salt and pepper hair. Haunted and masculine, she gathered his hunter pose as he waited for her response. She could almost smell the cologne she knew he would be wearing, could almost trace the finely chiseled jaw, feeling the stubble of hair under her palm. His ice blue eyes, intense and questioning, never left her, never wavered.

She held the rose just delivered to her table, its red maroon colour matching her dress perfectly. The thorns carefully plucked off, the scent delicate and expensive. The conversation hum swelled around her, but she ignored it.

The tag on it simply read "Am I too late?" in his instantly recognized perfect cursive.

Her breath hitched, her heart sped up, excitement and panic battling for supremacy within her.  She had missed him, oh how she had missed him! But it had been so long, over a year, how could she go back to that heartache now, in this split second of surprise? Her body felt a physical pull to run to him, but she was rooted to her chair. Caught in the beam of recognition between them, indecision and emotion swirled like mad animals.

She had secretly loved him, holding a candle into his torrential wind. Never thinking she could live up to what he needed. That candle had finally been blown out by wedding vows. His. But not for her.

It had crushed her, so she had forced herself to move on. What never was should not hold back a life, should it? The tearing of her heart had mended, but the scar was always there. A bump that if you pressed in just the right place, would throb from the remembered agony.

They had been close, and everyone in the office had known it. When he had announced he was getting married, she had smiled through clenched teeth, and congratulated him. She had never told him, they were not a pair, so how was he to know he had just gutted her? Others noticed and offered private condolences. She hadn't wanted any of it. It was embarrassing. It was too late.

She reasoned to everyone who told her to fight for him that he needed a wife who could stand eye-to-eye with him, handle the invasive photos, the required publicity, and the judgemental society. Which she could never live up to with her simple, buttoned-down, affordable personality. Excuses to guard her heart.

She had gone to the wedding, he had wanted her there. She cried all the way home in her car, mascara rivers running down her cheeks, the too-sweet icing aftertaste in her mouth. The thank you card delivered to her desk afterwards has been short, to the point, and in her handwriting.

'Thank you for the lovely gift. It will be a treasure in our home.' Further down, after the dual signature, was a spiky, hastily written post script. 'Stay away from my husband.'

So she had always known too. The humiliation was complete. Likely he would reassure his bride that it was nothing to worry about, placate her with his strong sense of humour and overpowering smile. The smile that could make her agree to anything. The presence that had held her up and brightened her day.

For months, she avoided him, pushing him away as he tried to renew their bond. Until he realized he was no longer a close confidante, she held firm, and eventually, with hurt in his eyes she could barely handle, he left her alone. She had ached to laugh with him, feel the closeness they once had, even in friendship. The loss of him tore her heart in two, and she grieved all over again.

 She had watched the dark circles under his eyes get bigger, the stress lines get deeper, his hair go grey at the temples. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but she kept her distance. He was never hers, she had no right.