Our Last Date

“And a glass of merlot too, please,” Char hears herself say. Why did she do that? As if this so called date isn’t crazy enough already. She should’ve listened to Jen and went out with her new coworkers instead to, how did she put it? “Stop dwelling in the past and get a life, you’re only 40! You’re doing so much better! Maybe you’ll even manage to get laid before cobwebs start to--”

Char did not let her finish that sentence before stalking out the door to begin the hour drive to La Fleur, leaving Aunt Jen to watch Brody yet again.

She’s nowhere near ready, cobwebs or not. Besides, she’s barely 39, plenty of time to waste before becoming a dried up spinster. Jen is always doing that, declaring her years older than she is, so labeling her as 40 was an attempt at compassion. At the thought of Jen, she starts to tear up.

I don’t know how I’d have made it through this last year of madness without you little sister, even if you are an occasional ass.

She could still make it and forget this whole experiment, pretend to be a normal woman getting to know her nice new coworkers at any place but this one. She’s made extreme progress these past months, so maybe it would be okay to skip this final step?

No, I must follow through. I’m ready.

“It’s morbid, Char,” Jen had argued 6 months ago when she’d told her what Dr. Caudill wanted her to do. “Haven’t you been through enough? What about the pills?”

“Screw the pills, Brody needs me present, not zonked out all the time.”

“Brody needs you better.”

“Brody needs his father!”

Damn it, Jen thinks, and softens at the gut-punched look on Char’s face.

“It’s not a good idea, babe.”

“He says it’s a form of exposure therapy, that if I can go back and relive what happened that night, it will help me accept,” she swallows hard and chokes out, “Accept that it wasn’t my fault.”

Silence.

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“No, please, I need you to watch Brody. Dr. Caudill says for it to work, I have to go by myself since--”

“This is insane!” Jen yells to cut her off, ready to launch into a tirade about this quack therapist, tell her where he should stick his so called exposure therapy, and convince her not to do this.

She looks at Char for the first time in months, sees her gaunt cheeks and harrowed demeanor, dark blonde curls stringy and dirty. Pain, grief, and guilt have stolen the light from her once vivacious best friend, and it scares her. Jen opens her arms.

“I’m sorry, honey, come here.”

Char sinks into Jen as sobs wrack her wasting frame. They slide to the floor and Jen holds her like a child, rocking them both while her sister unleashes agony.

“Okay, shhhhhh it’s okay,” she gently coos. “We’ll try it.”

She’s not supposed to think about their first date, or when Sebastian proposed and her engagement ring ended up in the wrong champagne flute, or when she told him they were pregnant with their rainbow baby, and he’d bought a round for everyone in the building.

Those memories are off limits. Tonight, she can only focus on their last.

I am not a murderer, I didn’t kill him, it’s not my fault. I am not a murderer, I didn’t kill him, it’s not my fau--

“You want the merlot aaand the Bellini?” the waiter snarks, snapping her back to the present. “Are you expecting someone else, ma’am?” She feels her pale cheeks instantly fill with splotches of red.

“No! I mean, yes. It’s just me.” Deep breath. “Bring me both.” Smile. “Please.” Better.

Char pulls out her journal remembering Dr. Caudill’s instructions.

“You need to relive what happened that night,” he’d said. “It was a horrible accident, and someone is responsible, but it’s not you, Charlotte. You are not a murderer.”

“But if I hadn’t been so angry and left him there alone, he wouldn’t have walked, and maybe--”

“Stop. You can’t move on if you don’t tell yourself the truth!”

“But we don’t know the truth, do we? The police have no leads, they--”

“What if they never do? Most hit and run cases go unsolved, and if anyone had information they would’ve come forward by now. Are you going to torture yourself forever? What about Brody?” He closes his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

"Do you trust me, Charlotte?”

“I, uh, yes.”

“Then I need you to trust this process. Go there, one more time, one last date with yourself where you and Sebastian shared so much. Write down what happened that night, the facts, and your emotions. Don’t judge or repress anything, just let it flow onto the paper.”

Betrayal. How’s that for an emotion.

“Write down what you planned to tell him that night, but never got the chance to say. Everything. Finish it, Charlotte. Can you do that?”

She’d agreed, and now it’s time to face the truth she’s buried. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins.

Sebastian had been living in a hotel for nearly two months after I kicked him out. Brody didn’t understand why I made Daddy leave and blames me for everything. He showed up nearly 30 minutes late for our...

She pauses, not wanting to write “date,” as that feels like a lie. Unable to think of a better word, she continues.

…date. I was pissed, and he was drunk, which pissed me off more. I told him to call me when he sobered up and I left him there. Alone.

Facts AND emotions in one sentence, Dr. Caudill will be so impressed.

She almost cracks a smile, thinking how Sebastian would’ve laughed at that.

Oh, Sebastian. I’m so sorry my love. I’m so very sorry. If only I hadn’t--

Her drinks arrive, saving her from this forbidden thought train.

“One aaand two,” the waiter says as he places them in front of her. “Are you ready to order or do you need more ti--”

She swallows back tears and cuts him off with what she hopes is a steady voice. “Give me a few minutes? Thanks.” He glares at her briefly before stalking off to another table.

What, you don’t get a lot of deranged grieving widows ordering their husband’s favorite wine on the anniversary of his death and our first date?

She almost hears Sebastian’s admonishing laughter in her ears.

“Calm down,” he’d say softly while taking her hand. “Cut the kid a break.”

Since when did I start having imaginary conversations with you?

“Since now,” she imagines his reply. “Tell me.”

Tell you what?

“You know. Tell me what you were going to tell me on our last date.”

Don’t call it that...

“I’m in your head, remember?”

Touché.

“Tell me, Char.”

“No,” she says aloud. This small emotional outburst pulls the gaze of a man seated at the table across from her. Odd, she hadn’t noticed him before. Then again, she’s in her own world talking to ghosts. His eyes meet hers and for a moment she thinks she recognizes him.

“You do,” Sebastian affirms in her mind.

No, I don’t think so.

“You do. We’ve seen him before. Think.”

She tries, but now she’s staring, so with a smile and shake of her head, she dismisses the notion. He smiles back with a slight nod before turning his attention to the approaching waiter.

Looking at the two beverages competing for attention in front of her, she chooses the merlot. Closing her eyes, she breathes it in and takes a drink, then another.

“Sebastian,” she whimpers into her glass, remembering the first time she tasted this wine on his lips. It was the night of their first date, exactly 15 years ago this very hour, in this very spot.

“That was delicious,” Charlotte demurred as she looked at the gorgeous darkly featured man sitting across from her.

“I’m so glad you liked it,” he said with a slight Italian accent she found completely irresistible.

He had perfect olive-toned skin and full pink lips. She couldn’t stop staring at the way his mouth moved when he spoke. It was mesmerizing. And he was so sweet and smart and--

Sebastian downed his merlot, and in a single stride had her in his arms. She melted into him as he kissed her in a way that left her tingling and a little embarrassed as some of the patrons expressed appreciation for their spontaneous display.

“I think you’re delicious,” he purred, and in that magical moment, her fate was sealed.

She takes another drink, trying to pinpoint where they went wrong, and wipes away the tears sitting fat in the corners of her eyes.

“Tell me, Char,” she hears him say again in her head. “Tell me why you asked me to meet you here, in this place where it all began.”

I can’t say it.

“Then write it down. You must. I’m gone, Char, but you’re still here. Our son is still here.”

She looks down at her journal, closes her eyes and whispers, “I’m so sorry,” before finally writing the truth.

Sebastian, it’s over. I want to legally separate.

“So do I.”

What? No! You’re supposed to beg me to take you back, say you made a huge mistake and your life is nothing without us! This isn’t how it’s supposed to end!

Is this what she’s been afraid of all along? If she admits this awful truth, she has to accept she lost him years before he was killed. Sebastian had been done with her, and she knew it. That’s why he was drunk. He needed liquid courage to tell her it was over.

Screw you, Sebastian! I gave you everything and you destroyed us!

“I loved you, Char.”

Liar!

With that, she finishes her wine, starts on her second drink, and doesn’t stop until it’s gone too.

I need to get out of here.

Looking around wildly, reeling from her devastating revelation, she notices the man staring at her again.

Or not. Move on? Yes, that’s exactly what I need to do.

She takes a deep calming breath and waves.

He looks around before waving back.

Well that was cute. I’m certain I’ve seen him before...

“You have,” she hears her imagined Sebastian say again.

Maybe I’ll go ask him where.

“Charlotte don’t, he’s dangerous! He’s the one that--”

Shut up! You’re dead! And even if you weren’t, we’d be divorced by now! I need to stop blaming myself for everything and let you go!

She grabs her pen and writes with conviction.

It wasn’t my fault.

Goodbye, Sebastian.

She slams her journal shut, stuffs it back into her purse, and strides to the man’s table before she loses her nerve.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound as nervous as she feels, “but do we know each other?”

He stands as she approaches, and the intensity in his bright blue eyes destabilizes her. A small shiver runs down the length of her spine, and she feels the hair on the back of her neck rise.

You’re just nervous, don’t be dumb.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I wasn’t trying to stare. There’s just not many places to look and--”

“No, you’re fine, I--”

“--you look so familiar.”

“--think I know you from somewhere?”

They laugh awkwardly, putting Char at ease.

“Would you like to join me and figure it out?” he proposes. “Or if that’s too weird--”

She only hesitates a moment before, “Let’s do it.”

Finally, he thinks, as the woman he’s loved secretly for nearly two years sits down at his table. We’re having our first date.