Dec. 28, 2025

"Last Call" - A New Year's Resolution

"Last Call" - A New Year's Resolution

Margot Sullivan walks into a bar that shouldn't exist on New Year's Eve—and discovers each drink takes her back to a pivotal moment she's spent decades regretting. The night she didn't confess her feelings. The career she didn't pursue. The goodbye she didn't get to say.But the mysterious bartender guiding her through her past knows more than he should. When midnight approaches, Margot finally recognizes him—and learns the truth about the guilt she's carried for twenty years.Some doors only open once a year. And some truths can only be spoken at the threshold between what was and what will be.

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Calorogu Shark Media.

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Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled

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Last Call.

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The bar wasn't there yesterday. I know this because I

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walk past this corner every day, have for three years,

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ever since I moved into the apartment on Lexington with

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the bay window and the radiator that clanks like a

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dying animal. There's a dry cleaner on this corner, has

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been since before I moved in. But tonight, New Year's Eve,

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the dry cleaner is gone, and in its place is

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a bar with a hand painted sign that says last

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Call in letters that seem to shimmer when I look

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at them directly. I should keep walking. I have a

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party to not go to, A bottle of wine waiting

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at home, a tradition of watching the ball drop alone

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while pretending. I prefer it that way. But something about

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the warm light spilling through the windows, the faint sound

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of jazz from inside, the way the door seems to

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open slightly as I approach I go in the interior

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is impossible. I know it's impossible, because the dry cleaner

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was barely twelve feet deep, and this bar stretches back forever,

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all dark wood and leather, booths and candles that flicker

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without any apparent draft. It's empty except for a man

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behind the bar, polishing a glass with the kind of

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meditative focus that suggests he's been doing it for a

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very long time. Margo, he says, without looking up, I

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was wondering when you'd find your way here. I stop

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halfway to the bar. Do I know you? He looks

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up then, and something in my chest twists. He's handsome

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in a way that feels familiar, dark hair, kind eyes,

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a smile that's more sad than happy, mid thirties, maybe

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my age. But I can't place him, can't fit him

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into any category of my life. You did, he says, once,

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sit down, let me make you a drink. I should leave.

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Every instinct I've developed in thirty eight years of being

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a woman alone in the world says this is wrong,

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This is dangerous. This is a story that ends badly.

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But my feet carry me to the bar anyway, and

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I slide onto a stool that, somehow how exactly the

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right height, and I watch his hands as he reaches

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for bottles. I don't recognize what are you making something

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for the occasion? He pours amber liquid into a shaker

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adds something that sparkles, something that smokes. New Year's Eve

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is a threshold, you know, a door between what was

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and what will be. Most people just get drunk and

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kiss strangers. But some people. He shakes the mixture, and

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the sound is like distant bells. Some people need to

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walk through the door properly. I don't understand you will.

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He strains the drink into a coop glass and slides

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it across the bar. The liquid is gold, flecked with

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something that looks like starlight. Drink this and remember. I

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don't know why I trust him. Maybe it's the way

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he says my name like it matters. Maybe it's the

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way this whole night feels like a dream I'm not

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ready to wake from. Maybe I'm just tired, twenty years

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of tired, the kind that settles into your bones and

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makes you stop asking questions. I drink. The party is

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loud and bright and full of people I'm pretending to know.

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I'm seventeen years old, wearing a dress I borrowed from

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my sister, standing in the corner of Marcus Wheeler's basement

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while the year ticks toward its end. I know this

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night I've replayed it a thousand times, dissecting every moment,

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cataloging every mistake. Daniel is across the room. He's talking

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to some girl from the volleyball team, but his eyes

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keep drifting to me. They've been doing that all night,

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all year. Really, if I'm honest, we've been best friends

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since seventh grade. But something shifted last summer, something I'm

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too afraid to name. I should go to him, I

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should cross this room and take his hand and say

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all the things I've been writing in journals and deleting

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from text messages. But I don't because what if I'm wrong?

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What if I ruin everything? What if he looks at

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me with pity instead of love. So I stay in

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my corner, and at eleven forty seven, I watch him

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grab his coat and head for the door. This is

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where the memory usually ends. This is the last image

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I have of him, his back retreating, gone before I

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could say goodbye. But tonight something is different. Tonight I

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can move. I follow him through the crowd, up the stairs,

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out the front door, into the december cold. He's standing

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on the porch, phone in his hand, and when he

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sees me, his face does something complicated Margo. He shoves

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the phone in his pocket. I was just I was

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going to text you you were leaving. I was coming

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to find you. He steps closer, and I can see

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his breath fogging in the cold. I've been trying to

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talk to you all night, but you keep he laughs, nervous,

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you keep hiding. I'm not hiding. You're always hiding. His

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voice is gentle, from me especially, and I need to

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know why, because I've been going crazy for six months

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trying to figure out if, if, what. He's so close, now,

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close enough that I can see the snowflakes catching in

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his dark hair, the way his eyes reflect the Christmas

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lights still strung along the porch railing. If you feel

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it too, he says, My heart stops, actually stops, frozen

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in this moment I never knew existed. I was coming

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to find you, he says again, to tell you before midnight,

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because I figured if you didn't feel the same way,

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at least we'd have a whole new year to get

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past the awkwardness. He smiles, and it's the saddest, most

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beautiful thing I've ever seen. But you never came outside, Margo.

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You never knew the scene fractures, splinters. I'm falling through

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time and his face is the last thing I see.

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I'm back at the bar, gasping the empty coop glass

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in my hand. What I can't breathe? What was that?

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The bartender takes the glass begins mixing another drink. The

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night you thought you ruined by staying silent, he was

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coming to find you. He felt it too, but he left.

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He drove away. He drove to your house to wait

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for you, to tell you in person when you got home.

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The bartender's hands are steady, but something in his voice wavers.

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He never made it. I know this part. Everyone in

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my hometown knows this part. Daniel Ashford, seventeen years old,

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killed by a drunk driver on New Year's Eve. They

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said he was driving too fast. They said he should

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have stayed at the party. They never told me where

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he was going. Drink, the bartender says, sliding another glass

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across the bar. This one is silver, cold to the touch.

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There's more you need to see. I'm twenty three, standing

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in my childhood bedroom holding two envelopes. One is thick,

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cream colored embossed with the logo of a prestigious art

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fellowship in Paris. The other is thin corporate, offering me

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an entry level position at a marketing firm in Chicago.

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I know what I chose. I've regretted it every day since.

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But this time I can see my mother in the doorway.

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She's trying to hide something. I can see it in

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the way she holds her body, the tightness around her eyes.

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She's been looking like that for months. I thought it

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was just worry about me, about my future. Mum, whatever

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you decide, she says, I'll support you, you know that,

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But she hesitates. Then slowly she crosses to her dresser

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and pulls out a stack of papers, medical bills, final notices,

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numbers that make my stuff. When did it doesn't matter?

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She tries to take them back, But I've already seen

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thousands of dollars, tens of thousands, a diagnosis she never

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told me about. Mom. I didn't want to influence your decision.

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The fellowship is a wonderful opportunity. Paris doesn't have health insurance.

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The words come out flat. Paris doesn't have a salary

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for two years, Paris doesn't. I stop look at her, really,

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look at her. For the first time in months, How

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long have you been sick. It's manageable. I didn't want

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you to give up your dreams for me. I think

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about the painting I've been working on, the portfolio I assembled,

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the future I imagined in some sun soaked studio, learning

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from masters, becoming someone extraordinary. Then I think about my

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mother alone in this house, drowning in bills. She hid

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so I could chase a fantasy. I chose Chicago. I've

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hated myself for it ever since, for being practical, for

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being scared, for not being brave enough to risk everything

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for art. But here in this memory I never fully understood.

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I see what I was actually choosing. I was choosing her.

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The bar again, the silver drink is gone. My face

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is wet. I didn't know I whisper. She never told me.

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She didn't want you to carry that weight. The bartender

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is making a third drink, something dark as midnight. But

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you carried it anyway. You've been carrying it for fifteen years,

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believing you chose fear when you actually chose love. She

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died anyway six years later. Six years she wouldn't have

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had six years of you coming home for Sunday dinners,

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calling every night, being there when it mattered. He slides

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the dark drink across She knew, Margo, even if you didn't,

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I drink without being told. I'm twenty nine, running through

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a hospital corridor, and I already know I'm too late.

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This is the memory I can't escape, the one that

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wakes me at three am, heart pounding, tears already falling.

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I was in a meeting when she called. I was

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in traffic when she coded. I was parking the car

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when she stopped breathing. Two minutes. I missed her by

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two minutes. But this time I can see the room,

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can see my mother, peaceful, eyes closed, can see the

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nurse holding her hand, leaning close. Is someone coming? The

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nurse asks, is their family? My mother's lips move barely

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a whisper, but I can hear it now, I can

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finally hear it. Tell Margo, I'm proud, Tell her she

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did everything right. The nurse nods, writes something down. But

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when I arrived, hysterical, broken, she didn't tell me. Maybe

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she forgot, maybe she thought it would make things worse.

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Maybe she just didn't know how much those words would

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have mattered. Sink to the floor of the hospital room,

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twenty nine years old and nine years past it, and

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I let myself hear what I've needed to hear for

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almost a decade. She was proud, she knew she loved me.

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I did everything right. The bar is spinning when I

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come back, or maybe I'm spinning. The bartender catches my hand,

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steadies me. One more, he says, just one more, and

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then you'll understand, understand what. I'm crying openly now, tears

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streaming down my face. What is this place? Who are you?

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One more drink? He presses a glass into my hands.

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This one is rose gold, warm as a heartbeat, and

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then I'll tell you everything. I'm thirty four, standing on

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a rooftop in Brooklyn and the man I've been dating

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for two years is holding a ring. I know this

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isn't how you pictured it, James says. I know you

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think you don't deserve this, but Margo, I can't. The

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words are out before I can stop them, the same

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words I said that night four years ago, the words

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that ended everything. But this time I can see his face,

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not the anger I remembered, not the hurt I assumed,

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just understanding. You're not saying no because you don't love me,

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he says slowly, you're saying no because you do. That

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doesn't make sense. It makes perfect sense. You're terrified that

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you'll ruin this, that you'll let me down, somehow, break

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something you can't fix. He closes the ring box, puts

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it back in his pocket. I've watched you do this

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for two years, Margo. Push me away every time we

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get too close. Convince yourself you're not worthy of the

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things you want. I'm not.

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You are.

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He takes my hands. You're the most worthy person I've

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ever met. You just can't see it, and I can't

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make you see it. That's something you have to do

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for yourself. He kissed me, then, gentle, final, and he

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walked away, not angry, not hurt, just patient, willing to wait,

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hoping I'd figure it out. I never called him. I

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told myself it was too late, that i'd missed my chance,

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that some doors only open once. But looking at his

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face now I can see the truth. The door was

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never closed. I just convinced myself I didn't deserve to

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walk through it. The bar is quiet, the jazz has stopped.

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It's just me and the bartender, and the clock on

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the wall reads eleven fifty five. Who are you my

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voice's hoarse. How do you know all of this? How

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did you you know who I am? Margot? He comes

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around the bar, sits on the stool beside me. This close,

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I can see things I missed before, the exact shade

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of his eyes, the curve of his smile, the tiny

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scar on his chin from when he fell off his

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bike in eighth grade. And I walked him home with

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my hand pressed against the blood. Daniel, Hi, His smile

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is sad and sweet and exactly the way I remember it.

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I've been waiting a long time for you to find

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this place. This isn't real. You died twenty one years ago.

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You I died going to tell you I loved you,

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He says it simply, no accusation, no blame. And I've

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been stuck in the in between ever since, the space

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between one year and the next, watching you live your life,

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unable to reach you. Why because you were stuck too,

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carrying guilt you didn't deserve, believing lies about yourself that

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weren't true. And as long as you were stuck, I

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was stuck. That's how it works. In the threshold, spaces

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were tied together, Margo. We always have been. I'm shaking.

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I've spent twenty years thinking I killed you, thinking if

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I'd just gone outside said something, been brave. I died

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because a drunk driver ran a red light. That's all

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not because of you, not because of anything you did

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or didn't do. He takes my hand and his skin

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is warm, real solid. I need you to hear me.

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It was never your fault and your life, the choices

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you've made, the love you've shown, the way you keep

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trying even when you're terrified. It's beautiful, Margo, all of it,

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even the parts you regret. The clock reads eleven fifty eight.

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What happens now? Now you go back, You walk through

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the door into the new year, and you live. His

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eyes are bright with tears, he can't quite shed. You

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call that man James, the one with the ring. You

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tell him you're ready. Now you paint again. I know

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you stopped, and you shouldn't have because you're extraordinary. Stop

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hiding in corners, you stop believing you ruin everything you touch?

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What about you? I get to finally move on. He

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squeezes my hand. That's the deal. Once you're unstuck, I

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am too. Wherever that takes me. I don't want to

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lose you again. You never lost me. He leans forward,

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presses a kiss to my forehead. I've been with you

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every New Year's Eve for twenty one years, watching you

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drink alone, wishing I could tell you that it gets better.

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He pulls back, smiles. It gets better, Margot, I promise.

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The clock strikes midnight. The bar dissolves around me, the candles,

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the bottles, the impossible depth of the room. Daniel's hand

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fades from mine, but his smile stays, burning itself into

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my memory like a photograph. Live the year I didn't get,

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he says, for both of us. And then I'm standing

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on the street in front of the dry cleaner, and

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fireworks are exploding over the city, and my phone is buzzing.

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In my pocket a text from a number I never deleted.

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Happy New Year, Margo. I'm still here if you ever

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want to talk, James. I look back at the dry cleaner,

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just a dry cleaner, dark windows closed for the holiday.

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But in my pocket, next to my phone, there's something

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that wasn't there before. A cocktail, napkin, soft and real,

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with handwriting i'd recognize anywhere.

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Live.

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I type a reply to James three words. The bravest

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three words I've ever written. Can we talk? The fireworks

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are still falling when my phone rings. Happy New Year

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from Romance Weekly. May you find resolution, release, and the

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courage to walk through every door that opens for you.