WEBVTT
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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