Then one afternoon, everything changed.
Jack was offered an opportunity he couldn’t refuse, a position several states away. The kind of opportunity people spend years hoping for. The kind you say yes to, even when saying yes hurts.
The move wasn’t supposed to end us. At least that was the plan.
We talked for weeks, argued, cried, and made promises. Eventually, we agreed on one thing. Before he left, we’d meet one final time. Not to say goodbye, but to decide what happened next. Long distance. Marriage. Moving. Something. We just needed one last conversation.
We chose a small café downtown. A Saturday afternoon. Two o’clock. I remember every detail, because I spent the next 20 years believing Jack never showed up.
I arrived that afternoon and waited.
Then waited some more. Every time the door opened, I looked up. Every time, it was someone else. Two o’clock became three. Three became four. By five, I finally accepted the truth.
