Can’t explain why, but her understanding of this notion brings a wave of tears to me; one falls from each of my eyes at the same time. I swallow, step back a little. “I didn’t want it to cloud your judgment. I just wanted what was best for you in case the worst happened.” I shrug, smile a little as I wipe the tears away. “And the worst happened.” She closes the gap between us and hugs me with whatever strength has yet to be sapped from her.
“You’ll never be ripped from a lover’s arms again,” I say. “This will be the last time.”
Melody looks at me, studies every detail of my face, of my expression, like she’s trying to record an elaborate likeness, planning to repeatedly recall this detailed memory. Then she kisses me and I cannot draw back. It’s not the aggressive, passion-fueled kiss of lovers leaving, but gentle and measured. She presses her lips against mine so softly I might’ve otherwise mistaken it for her first kiss, but then she presses slightly harder and I can feel the pressure of her tongue against mine, she runs her hands up under my sweater and shirt and slides her fingers up my back.
Then she stands on her toes, moves her mouth to my ear and whispers, “You were my first, Jonathan. You will always be my first.” She looks at me and smiles, shows me who the tough one is right now, gives to me what I could not accept on my own.
And there it is: the image of Melody I will never be able to shake, the ineffaceable stamp in my brain, a memory that will never be erased or replaced. The image that every other woman over the remainder of my life will be compared to, the one to which they will suffer in comparison. The image of what could have been. The everlasting image, for I will no longer be able to watch her mature and age; she will remain twenty-six and beautiful and strong. The image that will run through my mind as I stare blankly out the window when the girl beside me asks, “Where are you?” and when I do not respond, she will further ask, “Is there someone else?” and I will let out a quiet sigh before eventually offering my answer: “Not the way you’re thinking.”
I hold Melody’s hands in mine and begin to step backward toward the door, our arms lifting as the bridge between us lengthens. I smile and stare at her but she’s so blurry now, the tears fogging my eyes and drifting down the sides of my face, that I can barely keep myself under control.
“No matter what’s about to happen,” I say, “this was all worth it.” And as the tips of her fingers break free of mine, as I keep walking backward, she puts a hand to her mouth as she begins to cry again. “It was all worth it.”
As I turn and walk out of the terminal, Melody does not budge, watches me through the hazy window, her saddened and dead expression as apparent as when I saw her staring through the window of the A&P on the day her parents were murdered. I get in my car and sit there for a second, glance over and see Melody drop her head, pick up the bag, and slowly blend into the crowd of the terminal. She gets smaller and smaller until I can no longer decipher her from the other patrons in the busy building. How hard it is to keep from running back inside and stealing her away, allowing my selfish love for her to override her safety, to preclude her having any chance at a real relationship with a man who can give her the stability and care and innocent love that I could never offer.
I know I’ll never see her again. For the first time in her life she’s been truly emancipated—from my family, from the feds, and finally, from me. As the man protecting and stalking her for two decades, it makes me sick to permanently cut these ties, to know the woman I had always loved will open herself to be loved again by another.
I start my car and drift forward a car length so I’m positioned closer to the Enterprise Rent-A-Car next to the terminal. I stare out my window and watch mothers taking their children into Cookie’s, a store dedicated to toys, clothes, and school uniforms for