Conversations 07 - Moving Forward

Quick writer's note:

Tags for this story: Drama, Husband, Love, Married Couple, Wife

is a flash story, a short story about a conversation between a husband and wife and moving on. It's another installment in an ongoing series of conversations among spouses, lovers, or former ones, and their families

I want to thank my editors for their collaboration and advice. The story is a better one because of them. Charlie, John, Demosthenes384bc, KenD, and HighLuster all have contributed.

I love collaborating with people, so I'm always interested in expanding our editing team. If you are interested in being a part of the team, please send me your email address through private messaging, and I'll shoot you, my stories.

My eyes inched open, struggling to stay that way. The first rays of sunlight were breaching the east-facing windows. I forgot to close the blinds again. I always counted on Taylor to do that.

I surveyed the left side of the bed. It was smooth and vacant. Taylor hasn't been coming to bed lately. I'm getting so tired of her behavior.

How long is it going to last?

Staggering into the bathroom, I took care of business. It's Saturday, so I don't have to rush. I have nowhere to go and all day to get there. I stretched my stiff back, slipped on my sweats, and rummaged around for my cleanest dirty T-shirt from the hamper. Laundry is something else Taylor used to attend to regularly.

I figured out a way to make it down the stairs and towards the kitchen; the smell of fresh coffee called me. I was relieved to find her sitting on the counter, coffee already in hand.

Well, at least she hasn't completely abandoned me.

Her auburn hair glistened in the weak sunlight coming through the all-glass sliding door, picking up the red highlights. I always loved her hair. In the right light, she was damn near a redhead; more often, she was a brunette. The low-cut tank top she wore barely concealed her perky B-cupped breasts. It hung low enough to cover the band of my plaid boxers she insists on wearing.

"Good morning." She is way too lively. Her high school cheer squad personality shines brightly this morning.

I looked at her sideways. "Morning." It was a statement of fact, not just a greeting. "You didn't come to bed again last night."

"I know. It doesn't feel right." She has dropped that perky smile, "I don't feel you've fully forgiven me yet."

Damn, it's way too early to be picking at this scab.

"I don't know how to get over what happened, Taylor." I paused while adding the essentials to my coffee to make it drinkable. "Tell me how, and I'd gladly do it." I would, too. I needed to get past what happened. It hurt me to the core of my being. I hated being such a soft, whiney man, but the damage seemed irreparable. The grievance was just too large to scale.

I picked up my coffee, opened the box of Krispy Kremes left on the counter, grabbed a three-day-old donut, and found my way to our breakfast nook.

No sense in letting eight bucks go to waste.

She followed me out and sat on the table. Her smooth perfect legs dangled in the air.

"Got something against chairs?" I sound much grumpier than I feel.

Her laugh...her laugh is happiness. It's pure joy to a broken heart.

"I like it when you stare." She teased me.

Just how much more of this can I take?

"So, what's on your schedule for today, Love?" She asked like it was so normal, but nothing had been normal for almost a year. And still, here we are, faking it till we make it.

"Same as every other day, except no work." My reply is dry and lacks emotion.

"So, nothing. Just sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself, huh?" My mouth was full of stale donut. I pointed to the tip of my nose, nodding my head.

That smile! I swear she could outshine the moon with that smile. If I weren't so damn devastated right now, I'd take her upstairs and give her even more reasons to smile like that.

"Seriously, you need to find a way to get over this." That smile is a frown now. "I've told you before, get over it. Quit suffering and man up, darling." Her tone was biting. We've had this argument before. "You know, Jenny from my work is more than interested in helping you move on. She'll rock your world for as long as it takes."

Not the Jenny solution again

, I sigh inwardly. Taylor was insisting that I take up with Jenny for about three months now. Almost like I should use Jenny to avenge what was done to me, that having sex with Jenny would provide a way for me to move past all the hurt.

Jenny is a cute twenty-five-year-old brunette. She has a body all men lust after. None of them would argue that her best assets are her C-cup breasts, which, with the proper support, would lead her proudly into any room she cared to enter. She's just under five foot four, weighing maybe a hundred and fifteen pounds of spin-class enhanced lean muscle.

Also, she is as sweet as the day was long, with a million different interests, ranging from kayaking to photography. We've talked about all of them whenever the opportunity arose. The thought of being with her wasn't unpleasant. I wasn't sure it was the right thing to do since she and Taylor were such close friends. I had the feeling she wasn't through with the topic yet. I wasn't wrong.

"You know, the Beach Boys are playing at the State Fair next weekend," she flashed me that knowing smile, "And I know that she loves them almost as much as you do. You should call her and ask her to go with you, then just see where the night takes you."

She was so confident, strong, and secure in her suggestion. I couldn't take it anymore. My anger was boiling, and I wasn't sure if it was directed at her or myself. No matter which, she caught the brunt of it.

"Damn it, Taylor, I don't want to go out and cheat on you with Jenny! You have to knock this crap off!" I slammed my cup hard to the table and flinched when the scalding coffee splashed onto my hand, infuriating me even more. "Why, Taylor, why did it happen‽" I whisper-screamed at her.

Sliding off the table, she knelt before me, resisting the urge to reach out and hold my knee. I could tell all she wanted to do was comfort me. "I didn't mean for it, Brandon."

I looked at her, my eyes blurred with tears.

"I didn't plan on it, baby. It just happened." I could hear her voice cracking, "I never saw the truck. All I wanted to do was get home and share the news about our first child with you. I never planned on being killed at twenty-seven."

I knew that was true. I didn't plan to be a widower either. I lost not only the most important person in my life but also my future child, both in the same accident.

"Brandon, you need to move on, honey. You owe it to yourself to live a good life. And to me."

"I know, baby, I'm not sure I can. I don't know if I'll ever be any good for anyone after you." My insecurities were on full display.

"It's how this works. We live, we love, and we pass through each other's lives. If we're lucky, we get to spend some time together, as we did. Your grief counselor is right. Now you go look after yourself. Jenny may not be the one, but she's willing to explore what's next with you."

"I just want you to be proud of me. I want our child to be proud of me also and know how much I loved you both." My breathing was labored; I was struggling to get a full breath. I looked at her smiling face. I knew she was just a mirage, a figment of my own creation, but I wasn't ready for her to be gone yet.

"Oh baby, we are so proud of you. But you can't go on like this anymore. It's been a year." My subconscious mind was trying to convince me to give her up. "I won't go anywhere, Brandon; I'll always be here with you. I'll be there in your heart and in your memories. Always."

"You have to move forward. Jenny is a great person, and I know she has feelings for you."

I knew that, too; it was clear when she brought my weekly delivery of frozen meals and sat with me for two hours. She even mentioned how fun the Fair would be and how she hardly missed a chance to see the Beach Boys in concert. I knew what I had to do. I knew what I wanted to do.

I nodded as I got up, wandering over to get my cell off the kitchen counter. I searched for Jenny's contact information and pushed the call button. As I waited to be connected, I fidgeted with the coffee maker, making sure the auto brew settings were set for tomorrow.

Then a click.

"Hi, this is Jenny." Her sweet lyrical voice caressed my ear.

"Hi Jenny, this is Brandon."

"I know that silly. I have caller ID." She laughs, not the same as Taylor's laugh but it always makes me smile. Jenny's tone is warm, genuine, and musical. It lingers in my thoughts.

"Hey, I was wondering," I started and then stopped, "I was wondering if you'd like to go see the Beach Boys next weekend."

I looked over at Taylor as I waited for Jenny's response. She wiped a tear off her cheek as a pre-teen girl walked up and nestled herself under Taylor's left arm, molding herself to her mother's body. I always imagined that our lost child was a girl and that she would have been a younger version of Taylor, with the same hair, eyes, and killer smile. I see her at the same age that I met Taylor. My mind plays this trick on me every once in a while. It didn't happen as often as I saw Taylor, but it was enough that I knew who she was. They look at me and offer a slight wave as they fade from the kitchen, and then somehow, I know. I know it's time.

"What? I'm sorry, Jenny," I stifle a sob, "what was that you said?"

"I said, of course, Brandon, I'd love to. Maybe we could make a day of it?"