Closure

She opened the front door, and he was on his knees. Why did it excite her to see him begging? She knew there was absolutely nothing he could say or do that would make her take him back. Her lips, which had been curved into a faint smile a moment ago, somewhat flattened now into a satisfying, surreptitious smirk. But there she was, giving the appearance of a peacemaker. Providing some semblance of hope to the hopeless.

Truth be told, she'd cut him off, moved on, sung all the sad songs, and memorized the lyrics. She'd deglazed her house of his memory, even removing the reed diffuser that gently smelled of his ocean breeze scent. The time when she’d yearned for his voice, or some sort of contact, was met with cold, hollow absence. Abandonment. Closure.

He’d rejected the memory of their memories to build memories with a new memory. Now he was at her door, his problem-solving skills were out the window, and he’d been reduced to the lowest form of regretful acknowledgment he could muster.

So when she opened her door, expecting a food delivery from Tacos Amor, she didn't expect to see Jeremy's 6-foot-5 frame, on his knees, and still almost as tall as she was. His sapphire eyes sparkled with unshed tears. His nervous chest heaved, trembling with knowing fear of rejection, and his large hands fiddled to find an anchor.

She couldn't imagine that he'd ever done anything like this. Famous high school football player, all-star college athlete, first pick attorney after passing the bar with flying colors.

There was a breeze, and he was letting in the cold. Her robe was thin because it was silk. The silk robe he'd bought her during happier times. She'd considered donating it or selling it on a marketplace or high-profile clothing exchange, but regardless of the gift giver, it was her favorite robe. She couldn't deny the quality of the fabric, design, or the stitching. She was short, and it hung just right. Not gathering at her feet so she wouldn't trip and fall as she had with many others. No, it flowed like a bridal train or a hero's cape. She liked it.

His shirt, she realized, was rumpled and disorderly, completely opposite of his type A personality. It intrigued her. What had gotten him up and over to her house before it was time to go to bed? Couldn't he have come earlier if he had a sad monologue to deliver?

Her hair was tied in her silk scarf, and she was preparing to eat her tacos while watching a comedy and going to bed. She'd earned it. Not that anyone had ever given her credit. It seemed like everyone tried to convince her that she wasn't enough. That despite her overachieving, near perfection that she still missed the threshold to be recognized for her brilliance.

He'd been one of those people. Not that he'd ever disparaged her, but he never defended her when she needed it. How had it come to this? They'd been high school sweethearts, college sweethearts, and all.

More than a decade, so much so that he hadn’t just been her confidant, lover, and friend, he’d been the bedrock of her being. They’d blended their lives together in every aspect. They’d celebrated every holiday, praised at every service, and shared the same circle of friends. He’d been the main character in every future dream she’d had.

His emotional distance over the years and lack of vulnerability chipped away at her like a sculptor’s slow, negligent hand. She carried the burden of his external brilliance being enough. His decision to sever the last thread that held them together ruined her illusion of his love.

She’d had to sift through the ashes to rise like a phoenix, to rebuild the life he shattered. The life she believed was hers to have. His absence, while not as long as their decade together, had been long enough for her to forge a wall that he no longer had the tools to scale.

He no longer had the tools to appease her after his folly. He could no longer bend her to his will.

A bead of sweat ran down his forehead, and her eyebrows rose slightly. She'd never seen him sweat. She knew his nervous ticks, his tells, the things he chose to keep secret, but somehow he spilled to her anyway. They'd been best friends.

The concrete step that he kneeled on couldn't be comfortable. It was a harsh pedestal for a man accustomed to plush office rugs and genuine leather seats. She saw the discomfort in his face, but he didn’t once ask to be released from self-imposed prison. It was self-flagellation, but it wasn’t for her; it was for him. He believed he deserved it. She knew that whatever realization he’d come to that she was the best thing he’d ever had was too little too late.

This performance was his admission of failure. A final, public confession in the only way he knew how to lose.

She loved grand gestures, and he’d known that. The grander the better. There came a point when a gesture could only convey so much. It was the twenty percent, but the eighty percent still lingered. The friendly thing to do would be to let him in, out of the cold, and onto her plush sofa, where she would offer him some hot cocoa like she'd done many times before. Always catering to him and anticipating his needs before he asked.

Beams of light drove up her driveway and stopped, parking before the car door opened, and a scraggly young boy with a brown paper bag stepped out. He made his way to her doorstep, pausing only temporarily when he saw the scene.

Jeremy was frozen like a deer in the headlights of a poorly lit stage play. She reached around Jeremy, and the boy gave her the bag. She'd thanked him. He looked to Jeremy with curiosity and maybe concern. She noticed his momentary hesitation. The dart of his eyes that took in Jeremy’s dishevelment. It was a brief, silent jury, but ultimately the boy decided against inserting himself into the scene and drove off.

She returned to the comfort and safety of her hardwood floors behind the threshold, now holding her brown paper bag. She grabbed the doorknob and slowly but firmly closed and locked the door.