Letting go

 The soft light of the candles spill over the table, their flickering selves creating a small, burning heat in the chilly night. Rome gently lifts the vase of blood-red roses and straightens it, ignoring the small stabs of remembrance that fight the barrier of her subconscious. She repositions the table, tugs at the tablecloth, and fixes the chairs so they stand straight. Unlike her. When she is done, she trades the cold balcony for a warm kitchen, the loud sounds of clanging pots and angry chefs barely reaching her. The manager directs couples to their seats, checking reservations and apologizing to those who “forgot” to pre-order a table.  

 “Rome!” he half-shouts over the clamoring of guests, gesturing for her to come. She obeys, dragging her feet as though they are weighed down with lead. Even then, she arrives at his side too quickly.  

“You set up the table?” She nods. “And you are watching for when they arrive?” She nods again.  

 She understands his frantic state. Every Valentine’s Day provides a rush of costumers, and though the extra income benefits her some, their obsessive need for candy hearts and expensive dinners sickens her. To her, their love is blatant, if only an obsession.  

 The manager leaves, and Rome stands there, still as ever, as the chaos around her ensues. In a way, it reminds her of her life, the way she is stuck in one place, frozen, as she watches her world erupt around her. But that is the way of things, she thinks. I am made to watch, to see what I cannot have, always reaching, but never fully grasping it. And so, she concludes, the pattern continues, as do I.  

A man walks in then, and for a moment, she thinks it is him. He has his eyes, the same curve in his nose. His hair falls in loose curls, the same way his did. But when he smiles, she notices. There is no small divot in his cheek, and his hair is chestnut brown, so different from the dark chocolate color she was expecting. So, it is not him. The universe has a funny way of showing itself, she thinks.  

 He waits, standing almost awkwardly, no one making any move toward him. Rome sighs, and forces herself to walk up to the man. When he sees her coming, he smiles his dimple-less smile, and a little bit of her heart breaks. Why are you doing this to me? Her question is directed toward no one but herself. Why do you choose to see him in everything? In everyone? Why, when you look in the mirror, you no longer see yourself the way he saw you? Every time she allows herself to hope that this time it really is him, she is crushed. Because she will never see him again, and deep inside, she knows that if she really let herself believe that, she would find no more solace in living.  

 The man clears his throat, and she is jerked out of her reverie. She doesn’t think she can fully speak, but manages to choke out a, “Table for two?” He nods. 

 “Um... yeah. Reservation under Jones?” his voice carries a note of worry that she recognizes as the same every man has when he comes into a restaurant on Valentine’s Day with a ring in his pocket and commitment on his mind.  

 “Rooftop?” She keeps her sentences short and clipped so she can hide the bitter jealousy in her tone. He just nods.  

 She leads him toward the roof where the table waits, urging her eyes away from the couples who talk and laugh, living in a world of their own. She frowns, knowing she used to be just like them. She opens the door to the top level of the building, and despite only being a single story above the chatter, it is silent. The man—Jones was his name—gazes at the setup on the table with smiling eyes.  

 “She’ll love it,” he whispers, more to himself, before he turns to Rome and says, “Thank you. For this.” He sweeps his arm across the table, gesturing to the perfect roses, the burning candles, and the view from the balcony. She nods, leaving him to prepare for his future wife.  

 As soon as she is out the door, she crouches down, placing her head between her knees like her therapist told her, taking deep breaths. The scene makes her sick. When her breathing slows, she rises to her feet, returning to reality, the job she hates, and the world that has taken everything from her and knows it.  

* 

 Her dress was hideous. A frilly, lacey white thing that was too big for sense. But she loved it. Not the dress, exactly, but the wedding. And him. She loved him, too. She could see him waiting for her at the end of the rows of pews, despite the thick veil separating them. Rome focused all her energy on reaching him, balancing precariously on the heels that her bridesmaids had insisted she wear. When she finally did, and reached out to him for support, he gripped her arm, and whispered in her ear what he would also say in his vows. “I won’t let you go.” At the time, she smiled and whispered back, “I’ll hold on.”  

It was years later, yet she still kept track of the promises he broke.  

* 

 When her shift ends, Rome feels a lot of things, but the prominent emotion is relief. She has made it another year, and the rest of it will be spent dreading the next February 14. She gathers her things from her employee locker, and slips into the chilly air. She feels slightly bad for the couple on the roof, probably freezing. The thought brings a small smile to her lips, just a curve, but she winces, almost shameful for it. They probably deserve love more than she does, anyway.  

 The air around her is crisp, and she shivers, her coat not thick enough to combat the frigid air. The familiar path is lit only by the beams of a few street lamps, and her front door is shaded by the awning above it. When she is only ten feet from the door to her house, she sees it. A figure, masked almost entirely by the darkness, stands on the stoop. He is almost indistinguishable but for the wisp of a curl peeking out from under a cap. When he turns to faces her, the light from the street dances across his features, and the planes of his face are ones she knows only too well. His smile, a sloppy half-grin, reveals a tiny depression on the surface of his cheek, the ray of light dancing off his hair, exactly the right shade.  

 She turns, echoes of his words in her head, and runs.  

* 

 They sit on the couch, sides pressed against one another, and look at the wedding photo. He smiles at her, and Rome turns her head to kiss his parted lips. She can feel him smiling, and pulls her head back so she can look at his face. This is perfect, she thinks. She debates telling him about the test she took that day, the one that confirmed what she had been guessing at for weeks. Would he be happy? Does he want to be a father? The questions nudge her, and her stomach flutters a little. Soon, she is smiling too. Yes, she decides. He has to know.  

 The next morning, she reaches her fingers out to brush against his, but is met with cool sheets. The note on his pillow is the only thing left of him.  

* 

 Rome listens to the thudding of his footsteps behind her as she runs, not wanting him to catch her, worried that if she sees his face one more time, it will kill her to let go again. When she thinks she hears them fade, she stops, dropping to the ground, despite the cold of the hard earth. She closes her eyes, wishing to be invisible, so when he does find her, all he will see is what she did when he left. Empty air.   

 “Rome.” His voice makes her jump. She looks up, really looking at him for the first time in years. Five years did little to change him, and he is still as beautiful as he was when she first saw him. But there is something else, too. A look of content in his eyes, the wild reflection of youth gone. She feels something the numbness never let her: anger. 

 “Five years. It was five years ago.” Her voice is laced with the hurt he left her with.  

 “I know. I know I broke my promise, but I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to have a family, to be a dad. I was young, and stupid, and I missed you too much.” He looks up at her then, his eyes showing he really means what he says next. “I’m sorry.” 

 “She would have been five years old,” she cries, her voice loud and broken. “You would have had a daughter. I never told you that, did I? But no matter, she’s gone now, just like you wanted. And she was beautiful, you know that? I still see her every time I close my eyes. All bloody and still as a stone.” She takes a breath before adding, “She looked like you.” He closes his eyes, sitting down next to her on the frigid ground. “I needed you. When she died, I needed someone so bad.... The nights I spent lying awake, thinking about her, thinking about you. It killed me.” She lets out a sob then, a sorrowful, broken cry that could only come from a mother who had lost her only child.  

 He reaches for her hand, and she sees in him what he lacked before, like something shifted, if only a little. He changed, she thought, But too late. She lifts herself from the ground and leaves him behind. This time, he doesn’t follow.  

 The fire in the hearth is warm, blazing, even, and Rome watches the flames dance and sway to their own kind of music. It crackles, a familiar sound, and she feeds the flames bits of torn photos, until just one remains. It’s their wedding day, and she sees the look in his eyes she had missed before. He was never ready. She had just loved him too much to notice. She watches the last piece of him she has die amongst the flames. It’s funny, she thinks, that I should see him today, of all days, on the anniversary of his leaving, on the holiday I hate because of what it reminds me of. But she understands. The universe, she feels, gave her a gift. And so, she decides, she will break her vows like he broke his.  

That is the moment she stops holding on.