Fuck. The word rose into her mind like a talisman to Gabe. Every time she thought it, said it, she relived memories of her potty-mouthed teenage sweetheart. Even now. Tragic. So fucking tragic. Why hadn’t she moved on? She’d had a shit-ton of opportunities, but nothing and no one had felt as right as him, as right as their union.

Though, how right was he if he’d chosen not to follow through on what he’d promised? She stared out into the choppy blue bay, an indefinable, unsettled energy penetrating her bones. Traffic stopped and started across the bridge, though peak hour would kick in soon, slowing progress to a crawl.

She continued her stroll, past a kaleidoscope of cafes and tourist shops, toward the pinnacle of the pier, where colorful boats bobbed in the water. Gabe would have loved that. Instead of Lovebirds—the business name they’d decided on to reflect their bird-connected surnames, Raven and Wren, the name that reflected the love they shared—he’d probably have changed it to The Pinnacle.

Mind you, neither one of them had ever straight up said those three vulnerability-inducing words. But they’d both known. No one had ever made love to her like he had. Her bittersweet first time had occurred the last time they’d spent the afternoon together in person.

Her first sexual experience and possibly forever the best. They’d shared so much passion, free from the full confines of adult society, free from responsibility, from insecurity-driven judgment and expectation.

They should have stayed in contact. They should have opened their dream bar. They should have stayed together. So many shoulds…

Once she’d gotten over the hurt of Gabe not sending the meet-up note, she’d tried calling him, but the number was disconnected. She’d written to him as well, and all her letters came back unopened, marked, ‘Return to sender, not at this address’.

At just before 8:00 AM, she reached the end of Providence Pier and swung around to suss out the new, still-to-be-named place. It looked fancy, flashy. She peered in the window, some construction evident inside. A notice farther up advertised for staff and promoted the opening for the following Friday night.

In her eyes, Friday nights would eternally remain special because she and Gabe had claimed them as their own. Due to their parents’ work schedules, Fridays allowed them the one time during the week that they could consistently be alone. Until late.

“Excuse me.”

She whipped around to find a couple of workmen trying to erect a sign.

“Sorry, ma’am. Please step back. We’ll only be a few minutes, if you want to wait.”

A sign. The sign. The new name. No way would she go anywhere now. She’d have to hold off a bit longer for her post-walk coffee and raisin toast. In moments, she’d be the talk of the gossipy town, revered for her on-the-pulse provision of information.

An ear-splitting smash almost knocked her backward. Her eyes darted toward the bridge, a car crash stopping traffic, an explosion of letters, and a flurry of flowers fluttering across the bay.

The Free Spirit Bell tolled, just like when the Espiritu Libre ferry crashed in 1949—according to the historical accounts of the incident—the wind picking up into a mini-twister, collecting the envelopes and fresh blooms, and transporting them into town.

A swarm, like biblical locusts, whacked and slapped her body, weirdly not losing momentum. The mail and mix of flowers kept coming and coming, and she shielded her eyes with her forearms, further deflecting the bizarre barrage.

After what seemed like ages, but was probably only a few seconds, maybe a minute, the ferocity eased, and she tentatively lowered her arms, an envelope and two white roses smacking her right in the sternum. She reflexively slammed her hand to her heart, and snatched the letter before it blew away. She went to put it in her bag to repost, when the handwriting stopped her, dead still.

No.

No way.

It couldn’t be.

She closed her eyes, rubbed them with the back of her hand, took a deep breath, then scrutinized the script.

Gabe’s fucking handwriting.

She stared and stared at her address in his horribly distinctive, hard-to-read cursive. She flipped it over to reveal his old address, the one he’d supposedly left a few months after their last correspondence.

Tessa turned the letter over again and searched for the postmark.

“Oh!” She clutched her chest and stumbled. Dated a week after they’d last spoken. She tore the envelope open and unfolded the note.

My darling Tessa,

How I’ve missed you. Phone calls and letters are little compensation for us being together in person. But I hope to rectify that soon.

Come away with me. Just you and I. Meet me in Vegas at 1pm on 31st October 2003, in front of the Garden Chapel at the Flamingo, and be my wife. Be mine.

All you need to do is buy your ticket and pack your bag. I’ll arrange everything else.

If you don’t arrive, I’ll assume you’ve changed your mind about us.

I hope with all my heart to see you soon. I can’t wait to share my life with you.

Yours always,

Gabe x

“Oh my God! No!” Tears burst from her eyes, the culmination of pent-up grief pouring out, representing the past twenty-plus years. She could have been with him. They could have been married. They could have had children.

All that time she’d thought he’d changed his mind, but he had entirely fulfilled his promise. And she’d never shown up. He would have believed her non-appearance meant she’d moved on without him. Her lack of presence would have no doubt rammed home her final answer.

But it hadn’t, it fucking hadn’t. Anguish bombarded her body—her stomach clenched, her eyes burned, her hands fidgeted—the overall anxiety shoving and pummeling and stabbing her with overwhelming helplessness and regret.

She would have said yes. No hesitation, no doubt. She would have found a way to get to the safest halfway point between them. She’d have done whatever it required to reach him, to elope, to be his wife.

Sucking gulps of air into her lungs, she folded forward, the letter clasped tightly to her chest—she’d never let go of him again if she had a second chance—devastation circulating right through her system, spreading to the scarred core of her soul.

Why had his letter never been delivered? Had her parents sent it back without her knowing? She’d thought she’d been first to the postman every time, but maybe she hadn’t. She couldn’t even check with them now. Not that it would benefit them either way anymore.

However, if they had done the unthinkable, thrown such a huge obstacle in her path to prevent her from being with Gabe, whether they believed it was for her best interests or not, was that a forgivable offense?

An obstinate gust of wind blew behind her and she stumbled forward, swiping her hair from her face and glancing up at the newly erected sign above the bar. Lovebirds.