Unwritten

A year has passed, but losing Rob still sits heavy in my chest. When I look at the kids, I see him there, his smile, his eyes, small pieces of him moving through the world without him.

Being back in our hometown with his family is both heavy and grounding at the same time. I feel safest with those that loved him first. I don’t have to explain how I’m feeling because they already know.

The cousins are playing, laughter spilling out of them in a way that I haven't seen in a year. I hear whispers. They’re all beaming.

They drift to Julie, talking all at once. She listens and nods once, a smile spreading across her face.

“Cousin sleepover!” they shout together.

“Mom, please, can we have a sleepover?” my youngest asks. “Aunt Julie said we could!”

I look at Julie. “Are you sure you don’t mind an extra three kids?”

“Of course not,” she says. “They’re family. Leave them with us. Have a quiet night alone, you deserve it.”

I sit in my car with the engine off. The quiet settles in around me. I haven’t had silence like this in over a year. What do I even do without the kids?

I start the car and drive down the road with no destination in mind. A lit-up sign glows in the distance, pulling me in. A bar. I can’t remember the last time I sat at one with a crisp cold beer.

The bar isn’t how I imagined it. I realize I never had an image at all.

The tables are full of people catching up. The bar is mostly empty. I sit at the end, far enough from the noise to feel hidden.

I’m used to telling the bartender that I’m waiting on my husband, that we’re finally out without the kids. I could pretend life is the same, no one would know the truth.

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks.

“Your most popular IPA, please” I say, looking up from my phone.

“I’ll have one too!”

That voice sounds familiar, but the face doesn’t come with it right away.

Then I look up. Blue eyes. Dimples. That same flirty smirk I remember from a lifetime ago.

The bartender places two glasses down. One in front of me and one at the seat next to me. The glasses are cold, condensation already sliding down the sides.

I look back up.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The years have been kind to him. Broader, steadier. It surprises me that noticing still feels automatic.

He pulls the stool out, a low scrape of wood against worn floors. The room carries on around us, loud and unaware. To everyone else, we’re just two people sharing a bar.

For a second, I’m fifteen again, sitting beside him in my room, the way he always leaned into me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

No one ever saw us this close before.

He was mine first. He came over for me, slipping into the quiet corners of a loud house when everyone else was busy living their own lives. Somehow, we carved out something that felt separate from the rest of it.

We went to different schools. Our days didn’t overlap. I didn’t see the hallways he walked or the conversations he had. I didn’t see him becoming closer to my brother, the way their jokes grew easier, the way his name started showing up in stories I hadn’t been part of.

By the time I noticed, it had already happened. Their circles had folded into each other somewhere I didn’t exist.

He didn’t leave. He just stopped being mine.

The clink of a glass pulls me back to the bar.

I wrap my hands around my glass, willing myself to stay in the present.

“It’s been a long time,” he says, breaking the silence between us. “How’s your brother?”

I take a slow sip of my beer. “He’s good. He’s getting married next year.”

“Is this…better than last time?” he asks.

“Yes, she’s amazing,” I say. “You’d like her.”

“Good,” he says, “he deserves to be happy.”

“What have you been up to?” I ask.

“Army,” he says with a small shrug. “Been in since high school. Guess it straightened me out.”

I remember the suspension, the way ninety days off school once felt like a badge of honor. He doesn’t look like that kid anymore.

“And you?” he asks.

“I was married,” I say. “Rob passed last year. We were married for thirteen years and we have three kids.”

His name doesn’t break me.

“I’m sorry.”

I nod, wrapping my hands around the glass. The silence isn’t sharp. Just real.

He exhales, like he’s been holding something in longer than he meant to.

“I didn’t handle things well back then,” he says, the words coming quicker now. “I thought I was balancing everything. I wasn’t.”

He shakes his head, almost at himself.

“You were important to me. Back then.”

The words settle between us.

For years, I thought he chose my brother over me. Sitting here now, I see how young we were, how badly we were both trying to belong in rooms that didn’t quite fit us yet.

“We were kids,” I say.

He lets out a small breath, something between a laugh and relief. “Yeah. We were.”

The weight shifts. Not gone. Just lighter.

I take the last sip of my beer and set the glass back down. I move the stool back and stand up, grabbing my purse.

“Ally, wait.” He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a card. “If you ever want to grab another beer, or just talk.”

I hesitate for half a second before taking it. Our fingers brush briefly, not accidentally.

We both notice.

He steps closer, not enough to assume, just enough to ask.

I let him hug me.

It’s warm. Familiar in a way that surprises me. Not fifteen. Not reckless. Just steady.

When I pull away, he doesn’t hold on.

“Goodbye, Kevin.”

He looks like he might add something, his mouth opening slightly, then closing.

“Goodnight Ally.”

I walk towards the door. Something hangs between us, something unwritten.

The outside air is cool, the smell of the ocean in the wind. I pause once I get to my car and hold the card in my hand.

I don't look at it.

I slip it into my purse and get in my car.

I start the engine and the headlights cut through the dark. The card rests unseen in my purse.

I don’t have to decide anything tonight.

The future can wait.

I drive home to my kids.