A Losing Game

She knew she needed to slow down. Slow down. Those two words were far reaching beyond the pavement she stared at before her. It was early, and hunger was causing her stomach to rub against her backbone. Just a couple more hours and she would be home. Food, a hot shower and her favorite pajamas would make her feel better. With any luck, the combination of those things would cast a magical spell and make the pain go away.

Looking over to the passenger seat, it lay there. Heavy, pressing into the cushion with no indent, its presence was the size of the man who once held it. It wasn't alone. Tucked in between its pages was essentially a goodbye note, but with numbers and a signature. She reached for it, felt it between her fingers. The stiff paper running along the edges of her fingertips. Her hand left the $20,000 check and gently rested on her belly, and her mind wandered off.

New Year's Eve was going to be dreadfully boring this year. Her oldest was away at college, and her youngest two were playing video games in their room. She enjoyed being a single mom. Their father was still a good friend and a great dad. Like many weekends, she had no plans and was sitting on the couch at home tonight, watching the ball drop. Popcorn popped, a movie to fill the time before midnight and she was set.

It was shortly after twelve that her phone buzzed. She was sure it was another friend wishing her a Happy New Year. It was not a friend of sorts, well not until recently. There on the screen was a simple message or Happy New Year. She replied and said thank you. She watched the screen as it indicated he was typing. She found herself smiling. He replied again saying he had been drinking, and added a smiley face emoji. Another exchange, and the chat was over. She gathered up her pillow and blanket and carried them along with her thoughts to bed.

The days passed and he texted again and again. His texts made her smile. They were passing pictures and notes back and forth like teenagers. January faded into February and then March. She was busy starting a new job, and he was traveling and preparing for a cross country move. Texts turned to calls when he could spare them, and soon discussions of a long-distance drive to meet one another was in the works. April rolled around, and the visit was everything she had hoped. Raw and passionate, there was an undeniable connection. They laughed about how old they were, and how the last time they had seen one another was at their high school graduation. Conversations of children, work, family and everything in between, were the many topics explored over the following months.

He moved and was only a few hours away, yet they didn't talk about visits. They didn't talk about much anymore. No calls and short texts told her this thing they had, whatever it was, was over. Affairs never amounted to anything. They were a losing game not to be played. She had not intended to ever play the game, but the fun, the feelings he induced in her, the game seemed worth playing. But now, now she was done. This was not fun anymore and it was verging on hurtful. Her friends and her conscience had told her to walk away before someone got hurt. So, she did just that.

The honking horn blared from behind her, jolting her into forward motion through the light. She was in a small town outside of North Carolina. The rain was pouring and she was almost home, just 40 more miles. Daydreaming and driving are like time traveling. One minute you're a hundred miles from your destination, and the next you're pulling into your driveway. She looked over at the little black book. It was a journal she had given him for his birthday, to write out his thoughts and hopes. When he handed it over earlier, she could tell he had never even cracked it open. Too bad she thought, because writing had saved her life and she had hoped it would save his.

The rain had stopped and she rolled down the window. The day had grown warmer. Spring in the south was so manic. Freezing one day, hotter than hell the next. Drawing closer to the beach, she could smell the salt in the air. Her home was such a healing place. Situated on the 5th floor, her condo overlooked a river. The town she lived in was quaint. On Sundays, she walked to get bagels, and on her way back she would head out past the marina to the pier. There, she would smile and nod at the old man fishing. Today she had decided that after her magical concoction of food, shower and pj's, she would throw in a nap and then a walk to the pier.

The sun had finally come out as she woke from her nap. Sleep came easy, and she was grateful for that. Slipping on maternity shorts and a sweatshirt, she realized she would need to go shopping at some point for normal sized clothes. Hat on head and flops on feet, she grabbed her keys and walked out the door. The early morning drive, at the time, was not enjoyable, but worth it. The evening stroll it had afforded her by the river would do her some good. As she walked, she began to think about the last three years, the good, the bad and the ugly. Man, there was a lot of good she thought, but there was a lot of bad and it was ugly.

She had tried walking away two years ago. They had only been talking for 10 months. He clearly had issues he wasn't dealing with, and she knew better than to get involved with a married man. One month. Just one stinking month was all either of them could handle apart. It was at that moment she knew she was falling in love with him. Did he love her? The word love would not cross anyone's lips for several months.

The sun warmed and dried the wood on the pier. The old man that seemed to always be perched at the end, waved to her. He was happy most days, but others, he had a lost look in his eye. Those days his smile wasn’t as bright. She imagined he was widowed, because she knew that look. It was the look of love that was taken from you. She envied him. At least his love was dead, and not alive walking the earth. She stopped to rest a moment. The doctor had warned her about overdoing it at her age. Her age. God how she hated those words. At the age of 42, she was a successful writer, worked out and ate clean. Admittedly though, she was achieving exhaustion at the speed of light lately.

It wouldn't be long and she would be here, this little human growing inside of her. Just two more months to go. That's why she had went to see him. To give him the opportunity to make a final decision. She wanted him to feel included, to be a father if he wanted. What he chose was to write her a check, stick it in the black leather journal and walk away. She was actually proud of him. He had finally made a decision, the anxiety and depression no longer paralyzing him. Sitting on a bench at the end of the pier she watched the sun and water dance.

She sat on the pier and thought about the second year of their relationship and how the communication had gotten better. There were morning and goodnight texts and calls throughout the day. He was investing time in her. They spent weekends away just getting to know one another more deeply. She began to learn that they both had come from troubled homes, which fed their present anxiety and depression. She was further along in her mental health journey than he was, so she tried to help him. As the summer cooled, there had been a miscarriage, a breakup and a breakdown. He began to acknowledge the two worlds he was living in could not coexist. Yet, he was frozen and stuck due to indecision and fear. She couldn't abandon him, he had no one to talk to but her.

So, it continued. Their days deeply intertwined. They were married in every sense of the word, but not. And then it happened. He came to stay for the weekend. God what a glorious weekend. They had talked and finally gained some ground on him making progress and decisions. It was clear he was not content in his marriage. They laid in bed for hours talking. That day was such a good day. Crawling out of bed, he fixed her lunch, she washed their clothes and they went for a walk on the pier. The next and last day together was tear free. He was headed home with a huge task in front of him. She hated the thought of what he had to face, and promised to be there for him.

Two weeks passed, no call and no period. She was barely making it out of bed except to puke and work. Thank God she could work from home. She was not the type to chase after someone. His lack of response was a response, and she heard it loud and clear. She went to the doctor to let someone with a medical degree tell her what she already knew. One, two, three, four months passed before she heard from him. Thanksgiving was approaching and she was headed out of town to see her children, each in either college or the military. Like her, her luggage felt exceptionally huge.

Her phone was buzzing in her back pocket. She pulled it out to see if it was one of her kids. It was him. She was frozen, but she forced her finger to slide over the screen; she managed a hello. Silence. She said hello again. He finally said hello. Then silence again. She wanted to scream, yell, throw the phone, but she just stood there. What do you want is all she could let escape from her lips. He followed with an apology and a choppy explanation. He finally stopped spilling words, and in the dead air she told him she was pregnant. The silence seemed to envelope them both. He told her he wanted to see her. Asked if she needed anything. That's laughable she thought. What she needed was him. They said goodbye, no sentiments were exchanged. The holidays came and went. The new year began with no communication except to meet halfway so he could give her something. She was broken, but agreed. She continued to lose herself in work and prepping her one-bedroom condo for her new little roommate.

Walking down the pier towards home, she remembered that exchange from just a few hours ago. It had left her numb. She knew the only way to get through would be through writing, and hope of an ending that would bring him home to her.

With the baby cradled in one hand and the little black book in the other, he cried. She had begun to write their story. Two months had flown since he had seen her and had handed over the journal and the check, which she never cashed. The check because he felt it was the right thing to do, the journal because every time he looked at it, he thought of her. She'll never be able to finish the story, but he thought that maybe he could. She had told him once that writing would save his life, she was right.