Isaac would have given anything to keep Riley with him. Sookie would have done anything not to let the smoke and fire take her, to have her chance with Dempsey.
But I wasn't willing to stop and even consider that I might have been wrong, to keep Willow with me? To be with her and never want her to go away from me? What in hell was wrong with me?
The sheets fell to the floor when I left the bed and I started then to rehearse what I'd say to her. "I'm sorry" didn't seem good enough, neither did "I can explain … " because nothing would make up for the way I'd left her.
"Please forgive me" sounded a little better, but even as I spoke it aloud, tugging on my shirt and slipping my feet into my Chucks, it still seemed off, not nearly good enough. I'd crawl on my knees if that's what she needed. I might not understand what was happening, and despite everything, I still couldn't wrap my head around past lives or anything like that. But, I wanted her. No, it was more than that-I needed her. Apologies might not be enough, I thought, jogging out of my apartment and into the stairwell, taking steps two at a time as I went, but they were all I had. I'd thrown away everything else.
How long had I spent acting like she was an irritation? Months? Like I was too fucking important to waste my precious time on her, and then, when I'd finally gotten my head out of my ass, I ended up walking away.
I was a fuck up, something solidified and certain, I decided, as I got to her floor, skirting around two guys in gray overalls as they carried boxes toward the elevator. An epic fuck up who would die alone, apparently.
The door to Willow's apartment was open and I slipped inside, bypassing another coverall-wearing guy with no neck as he held a lamp in each hand. A knot formed in my chest and the further I came into that apartment, the larger that knot got.
The crowded space that normally looked like a Technicolor wet dream was sparse. I only just noticed with all the furniture missing and windows, free of curtains or tapestries, that the walls were a soft gray and the floor, usually covered by blankets and rugs, was dark oak. Without Willow to decorate this small chunk of the world, it seemed lifeless and boring. I could relate.
"Hey!" I called, stopping the mover before he could punch the down button. He paused, moving his chin toward me in answer to my call. Standing in front of him, I'd guess he might have been 5'6 but no taller than that and had small, glassy blue eyes. "The woman who booked this gig, where is she?"
He shrugged, ignoring me as he elbowed the button on the wall. "I just move the boxes and furniture, man." The bell chimed and he walked inside the elevator, adjusting the lamps. "There was a car outside next to our van, but it's full. Pretty sure she's gone already."
Willow
My great grandfather liked to talk about the old days, especially when he'd smoked too many stogies and had too much bourbon.
"It's not the same, Buttercup. It's not how it used to be." Normally "it" had something to do with the government and the mess politicians made of it. But my grandfather wasn't a typical grumpy old man. He didn't bemoan the world because he missed the way things were in the past. He complained because we still, in his view, hadn't gotten our shit together.
"Two hundred years and only one black president and still, after all this time, no women. If I had my way … "
He'd go on and on, hours sometimes and then, when he had gone quiet, when the fire had gone out of him, he'd sometimes talk about the things that normally were shut up inside of him My great grandfather was the last. After him there'd be no grandparents on my father's side of the family. He knew it. Often, he'd apologize about it.
"No man should have to bury his children or his bride, Buttercup and I've done that more than once."
Those nights he'd gotten quiet and the anger and loneliness inside him had rushed through him like a windstorm. Those were the nights he'd played Coltrane loud and told me about his childhood. "No one should live the way they made me. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy and, cher, I've had plenty." That also came out when he drank a lot-the hidden French words he never used when sober. The childhood back in New Orleans had done something to him, but it had never left him completely. That's the way of things, I guessed. We never really lose who we are.
"Who would be your enemy, Gramps?" I'd asked him, not understanding how this gentle old man could ever piss anyone off. "You're the best of them all."
"No, Buttercup. Not by a long shot. That was your granny, God rest her. Your granny and our sweet girl."
He never talked much about either of them. Only when the bourbon came out and Coltrane came on and even then, it was the same stories-the time his daughter had learned to ride a bike; the day his wife came down the isle of a tiny Berlin church wearing a borrowed dress and her hair up in pin curls. "Perfection," he'd called them and he'd meant it. I'd always wondered if anyone would ever think that of me.