When You Leave

Epilogue

The End

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The wedding had arrived. No one was quite sure why I was depressed: moping around, crying occasionally, not even excited anymore. I wanted so badly to smile, to laugh, to let him go; God knows he deserved it. But I couldn’t seem to. I missed him so bad; the nights were quiet, the walks lonely. I couldn’t even visit the park anymore. And I had loved that park.

Emma and Tiffany had asked, but when I told them I couldn’t explain, had tried their best to comfort me, not pushing for information. Angelo left, telling me to be happy. And I tried: I listened to news of the wedding, talked to other people, drank coffee at the Attic with Mac and Abby. And you would think, since he’d arrived because my beliefs had taken a fall, I would go back to swearing, partying, not going to church in an effort for him to revisit. But, for some reason, I couldn’t; in fact, I’d put more effort into it.

I was putting on my bridesmaid’s dress, a simple, light pink dress with spaghetti straps and high heels. I had my hair fixed, pulled up on my head and curled, and my makeup was done by my mother. I glanced at the mirror, hoping my eyes weren’t as sad as they seemed. This was such a happy day, a day when two people, who loved each other enough to announce it to the world, could do just that. I craved their happiness, their love; and I had had it. It had just been lost.

I walked down the stairs, seeing my mother rush to find my dad; my brother, dressed in his tucks, heading for the car; and the door behind which Annie stood, wearing her wedding dress. She looked gorgeous, her red hair curled and loose, her white dress, her shining eyes. She wore no veil, high heels, and bright red lipstick, but she looked like any traditional bride. In the days she’d been here, we had become close, despite my sadness. She was a happy person in general, funny with a corny sense of humor, serious when it counted, and loving of anyone or anything.

I grasped her hand, whispering, “You look beautiful.”

She looked at me, smiling. “Thank you, Omie, that means a lot to me.” She brushed a stray curl from my forehead and asked, “How have you been?”

Her concern for me on her wedding day made me want to cry, that and the fact that she’d asked her how I was. Sometimes, that’s all people need to start crying and release everything. However, composing myself I said, “I’m doing better.” And as I said it, I realized it was true.

At the church, I watched as though it was a movie. I walked down the isle with my flowers, handed her the ring, watched as they kissed—their first as a married couple—and then went to the reception back at home. Relatives passed by, grasping my elbow, kissing my cheek, hugging me tightly; all of them commented on how I’d ‘grown up’ or ‘become so pretty’ or ‘didn’t even look like little Sophie anymore!’ My mother, ever the sentimental person, cried when they were getting married, but now was beaming, walking around, helping everyone find seats and food. A band, I didn’t know which one, played and my brother danced with Annie. Someone, maybe Annie’s relative, maybe a friend of the family, asked me to dance. Politely, I turned them down and they nodded and went on. I watched as everyone ate cake, as Annie had her dance with her father, as everyone left, heading back to their hotels.

Then I went upstairs, after kissing my brother’s cheek, hugging Annie tightly, wishing them both good luck. In my room, I changed into pajamas and went to sleep, exhausted.

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Now here I was, years later, walking down my old street. Blake and Annie’s girl, a brunette six year old with huge eyes named Meghan, ran ahead of me, my own daughter, Kayla, running close behind. They were laughing and heading towards the swings.

I followed slowly, thinking back to ten years ago when I had last been to this park. Memories, buried but never forgotten, popped back into my mind and I stopped. I glanced at the spot where we had sat, the place I had cried, and breathed sharply. Turning to the girls, I took a deep breath, to clear my head

When I was twenty, and in my second year of college, I’d met Garret. He had blonde hair, so light it was almost white, and dark, dark eyes. When I’d first seen him, walking across campus, backpack flung carelessly over a shoulder, I’d thought he was Angelo, back again. I’d walked, stunned, towards him and only stopped when I realized it wasn’t him, but another boy. Too curious to walk away, I hurried up and caught him before he went into the library. “Hello,” I said quietly, carefully.

He turned towards me and smiled, showing perfect white teeth. “Hey!” I couldn’t say anything, do anything; he reminded me so much of Angelo. “Can I help you?”

“Um, no. You just—you reminded me of a friend I lost a while back. I—” I shook my head and smiled. “I’m Sophie, but please call me Omie.”

He chuckled and said, “I’m Garret. Are you studying in the library?”

“Actually, yes.” I had my books with me, after all, and wanted to get to know this boy who looked like my first and only love. We walked inside and sat in the back, pulling out books we never intended to use. We started talking and I couldn’t help but think he was so much like Angelo, so much I almost thought that maybe, just maybe, Angelo had come back in a human body. After that afternoon, we’d gone out for the rest of the year. By my senior year, we were engaged. I realized, slowly, that Garret might be like Angelo, but was still his own person. Three dates into it, I found him to have a different sense of humor and had a hard time being serious. He was religious and we went to chapel together, happy to have someone to sit with for once.

We got married when I was twenty-two and had moved a ways from my parents and Blake. Then we had had Kayla, with her blonde hair and dark eyes. She was five now, and happy to trail after her cousin. I was visiting my family, and had finally decided I had to visit this park again.

Leaving the girls on the swings, I walked over to the edge of the creek, where we had sat that day, and watched the water. I’d never told anyone about Angelo, not even Garret. Now, with the sun shining off the water and the memory of him leaving, I whispered, “Angelo…” at the same moment I turned and walked back to the girls.

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A/N: There it is: the shortest story I’ve written, complete. I hope it was good, even though it was short. Thank you to everyone who reviewed this story, especially RoxyFairy who rocks because she reviewed every chapter and helped with the idea for the last chapter. : )