A lifeline
by Cheryl, posted on July 1st, 2011 in Red Writing Hood
This story is fiction and is a continuation of last week’s scene, where the bartender asks for Cam’s number and she says she’s married. The post is inspired by the prompt, “write about a forgotten letter of card your character finds” for The Red Dress Club.
“Oh. Sorry. You’re not wearing a ring,” he said, nodding toward my naked finger.
I’d taken off the simple solitaire and the platinum band on the year anniversary of Justin’s death. I’d returned the diamond to the same blue box in which I first saw it more than four years before, when Justin got down on one knee practically in the middle of Addison Street as the fans poured out of Wrigley Field.
It was loud and crazy and when a few people passing by noticed what was going on we ended up surrounded by a throng of happy drunks, cheering our engagement as Justin kissed the breath out of me.
It was perfect.
But after he’d been gone a year I started realizing he really wasn’t coming back. Ever. So I gently placed the solitaire and the band back in the velvet holder, closed the box and tucked it away in the nightstand drawer and had actually made it a few days at a time without taking it back out and rubbing the cold diamond against my cheek.
And now I gazed at my empty finger, on which I still often tried twisting the rings that were no longer there.
“Yeah. See, my husband…he died.”
I looked back up into bright blue eyes and felt my own fill with tears.
“Jesus, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry,” he said, as he watched the tears spill down my cheeks. “You wanna get out of here?”
I nodded. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out into the street.
“Shit. I have to go back to work. But I hate to leave you like this. Wait.”
He dug into his jeans and came up with a folded piece of paper with fuzzy edges like it might have been through the wash.
“Got a pen?”
I handed him the one I always kept in my purse. He scribbled something on the paper and handed it to me.
“I left my phone back at the bar, but this is my name and number. Please call when you get home so I know you made it okay. Or text me if you don’t want to talk. Although, if you do want to talk, I’m a great listener. It’s in my line of work.”
He flashed a smile, then turned and grabbed the cab that magically appeared in front of the pizza place. He opened the door for me and I got in. He closed it firmly behind me and stood on the sidewalk, watching as we drove away.
I looked at the writing on the worn paper he’d given me.
Ryan Hennessey.
And his phone number.
I carefully unfolded the rest of the paper. There was writing on the other side, the loopy curves made it clear it was by a woman.
I need you to come back. I’ve never asked you for anything. Please, Ryan. It’s time.
Tags: bartenders are great listeners, fiction, kyle, red writing hood, the red dress club, widow
Kris Says:
Cheryl Reply:
July 3rd, 2011 at 9:06 am
I don’t even know who this woman is. Yet.
[Reply]