The Color of Regret

Sam saw her first. She was standing at the platform's edge, watching the downtown 1 train pull away from 72nd Street Station, her reflection fragmenting in the subway's windows. Twenty-three years had passed since he'd last seen Kiara Bianchi, but he recognized her immediately—the slight tilt of her head when she was thinking, the way she held her bag against her hip.

She turned, and their eyes met across the crowd.

For a moment, neither moved. Then Kiara's lips parted slightly, and she took one hesitant step forward.

"Sam?"

He nodded. His throat felt tight.

"I can't believe it's you." She came closer, navigating the stream of commuters with the same grace she'd had at seventeen. Her hair was shorter now, threaded with gray at the temples. Fine lines bracketed her eyes. But she was still herself. "I was just thinking about you last week. About all of you."

"Were you?" Sam adjusted his briefcase. The station's automated voice announced delays he didn't hear.

"My daughter asked me about high school. What my friends were like." Kiara smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I didn't know what to tell her."

They moved to the side, away from the main flow of passengers. Sam noticed she wore no wedding ring, though a pale band of skin suggested there had been one recently.

"Do you have time?" she asked. "For coffee?"

He thought of his afternoon meeting, the blueprints waiting in his office. "Yes," he said.

They found a small café in the West Village, the kind of place Manhattan concealed in its folds—quiet, dimly lit, with a proprietor old enough to remember when the neighborhood was affordable. Kiara ordered a latte. Sam ordered black coffee, as he always had.

"You're still in New York?" she asked.

"I design transit stations," he said. "I never left."

"Of course you do." She stirred her coffee slowly, the spoon making soft clinks against the cup. "That makes perfect sense. Building places where people arrive and depart."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

"I'm divorced," Kiara offered. "Two years now. My daughter is sixteen—the same age we were when..." She trailed off.

When you all stopped talking to me, Sam thought. When you erased me from your lives without explanation. But he'd worked through that. He'd driven upstate, he'd found answers, he'd made his peace. Mostly.

"I know what happened," he said quietly. "I spoke to Garrett. To you, actually. Years ago."

Kiara looked up sharply. "You did?"

"You told me about Becca's accusations. That she believed I'd..." He couldn't say the word. "That she was convinced of something that never happened."

"I remember." Kiara set down her spoon with precision. "You came to my office in Albany. You were so calm, so controlled. I couldn't believe how calm you were."

"I wasn't calm inside."

"I know." She met his eyes. "I could see it. I've always been able to see through you, Sam."

The proprietor brought them water in small glasses. Outside, the afternoon light slanted through the narrow street, turning the brick buildings gold.

"Why did you believe her?" Sam asked. It was a question he'd asked before, years ago, but he found he needed to hear the answer again. "Why did all of you believe I could do that?"

Kiara was quiet for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Because I loved you."

Sam's hand stopped halfway to his coffee cup.

"I loved you," Kiara repeated, "and I couldn't bear that you didn't love me back. That you were so complete without needing any of us, really. Especially without needing me."

"I needed all of you more than anything."

"Did you?" She leaned back in her chair. "You were always the one who could be alone. Jordan and Garrett and Becca and I—we needed each other desperately. But you, Sam, you seemed to float above all of that need. You were there, but not quite. Part of the group, but also separate from it."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Kiara's eyes were bright, but no tears fell. "When Becca came to us with her story, hysterical and broken, part of me—God, I hate admitting this—part of me wanted to believe her. Because if you were capable of something so terrible, then it meant you weren't actually better than the rest of us. It meant you were flawed, human, reachable."

Sam felt something cold spreading through his chest. "That's why you believed her? Out of jealousy?"

"Not jealousy. Not exactly." Kiara wrapped both hands around her cup, seeking warmth. "It was more complicated than that. Becca was falling apart. She was having nightmares, panic attacks. Something happened to her—someone hurt her. We all knew that. And when she said your name..." Kiara paused. "I think part of her believed it was you. Her mind was trying to make sense of trauma, and somehow she fixated on you. Maybe because you seemed safe. Maybe because she loved you too, in her way."

"She died," Sam said. "Garrett told me."

"Yes. Ten years ago. She jumped in front of a train." Kiara's voice cracked. "Not the subway. Metro-North, up in Poughkeepsie. She'd moved there to be near her parents again. She was getting treatment, taking medication. And then one day she just walked to the station and..."

They sat in silence. The proprietor polished glasses behind the counter, the sound rhythmic, meditative.

"I'm sorry," Kiara said finally. "I'm so sorry, Sam. For believing her. For cutting you off. For never calling, never explaining. I was twenty-two years old and I was a coward, and I've regretted it every day since."

"But not enough to reach out."

"No." She looked directly at him. "Not enough for that. Because what would I have said? 'Sorry we destroyed you based on a false accusation'? 'Sorry I was in love with you and let that warp my judgment'? There are some things you can't take back with apologies."

Sam drank his coffee. It was bitter, over-extracted. Perfect.

"I thought about you, though," Kiara continued. "All the time. I'd see someone on the subway with a blank expression, lost in thought, and I'd think: that's Sam. That's how he looks when he's designing his perfect stations in his mind. I'd hear Keith Jarrett's 'Köln Concert' and I'd wonder if you still listened to it. If you were still yourself."

"I am," he said. "Different, but still myself."

"Are you happy?"

The question surprised him. "Sometimes. Are you?"

"Sometimes." She smiled, and this time it was genuine. "My daughter looks like me but acts like her father. She's stubborn, brilliant, infuriating. She wants to study marine biology. She has no interest in my work—I teach literature at SUNY—but she tolerates my book recommendations. Last week she actually read Baldwin without me forcing her."

"That's something."

"It is." Kiara paused. "She asked me if I had friends when I was young. Real friends. The kind you can tell anything to."

"What did you tell her?"

"I said yes. Once." Kiara's eyes were wet now. "I said I had four friends, and we thought we'd be together forever. But we were wrong. Life isn't like that."

"No," Sam agreed. "It isn't."

They finished their coffee. Outside, the afternoon was aging into evening. Soon the office workers would flood the streets, seeking bars and oblivion. The city would transform again, as it did every night.

"I should go," Kiara said. She stood, gathering her bag. "My daughter has a recital tonight. Cello."

Sam stood too. At the register, they argued briefly about who should pay. He won.

On the sidewalk, they faced each other. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of pizza and exhaust.

"Thank you," Kiara said, "for the coffee. And for listening."

"Thank you for telling me the truth."

"Did it help? Knowing why?"

Sam considered this. "I don't know. Ask me in another twenty years."

She laughed—a short, sad sound. "Can I ask you something? Before we say goodbye?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever love any of us? Really love us? Or were we just... there?"

Sam looked at her—this woman who'd been part of his universe, who'd helped destroy him and who'd suffered her own destruction in turn.

"I loved all of you," he said. "More than I knew how to express. That was my failing, not yours."

Kiara nodded slowly. "I thought so. I thought maybe that was it." She reached out, hesitated, then touched his arm briefly. "Goodbye, Sam."

"Goodbye, Kiara."

He watched her walk away, disappearing into the Manhattan evening. Tomorrow he'd return to his blueprints, his stations, his careful life of arrivals and departures. But tonight, standing on this side street with the taste of bitter coffee in his mouth, he let himself remember what it was to be the one who didn't quite fit, and to have loved people who couldn't quite love him back—not in the way he needed, not in the way that lasted.

The city flowed around him, indifferent and eternal. Somewhere, a train announced its departure. Sam picked up his briefcase and walked toward the subway, toward home, toward whatever came next.

He didn't look back.