The before tends to be the good times. Everything that occurs before the bad.
The after is the shit that’s dealt.
Whether it’s depression, heartbreak, or losing everything that mattered to you in the “before.”
Both signify a chapter ending.
Both also depict a gnarly picture.
One thing you’ll learn, nothing can change the before like the after, and nothing can change the after without accepting the before.
- Toby
Prologue
Toby
Every day, it’s like this.
Run.
Sweat.
Weightlifting.
Exhaustion.
To distract myself from my problems, I run until I can’t. I work out until my limbs are heavy with exhaustion. I exert myself until my body shuts down. My mind works until it’s a heap of nothingness, too, because that’s easier than accepting the fate I’ve been given. The one I single-handedly served myself on a platter full of blood, guts, and bones, hoping for a better outcome than becoming a meal. But that’s what happens when you hope. You lose, and until you weigh the loss with the outcome, you’re bound to give up more than you bargained for.
My feet stop at the Magic Bean, the shop Lo and I always went to after runs. The craving for a Danish—one I’ve bought her on many occasions—stabs through my stomach, reminding me how little I eat or indulge anymore. As soon as I walk through the door, the heat outside is replaced by a crisp breeze and the scent of my favorite beverage. Black coffee, no sugar.
The clerk behind the counter isn’t someone I recognize, but of course not. A lot has changed in the five years I’ve been gone. Why not take my favorite barista too?
As soon as it’s my turn at the counter, I see Alara. My favorite coffee shop employee comes out from the back, eyeing me almost as if she’s not sure it’s really me. As soon as her mind connects with my face, she smiles and moves the dude clerk away.
“Tobias Hayes, is that you?” she questions in her usual cheery voice.
I grin back, happy to see a friendly face in Hollow Ridge. “Sure is. Can I get my regular?”
“A black coffee?” she jests and laughs.
She used to joke that only psychopaths drink coffee black. It’s not a bad assessment, according to the people around me.
With a nod, I give her my card. As soon as I sign the receipt, giving her a nice tip, I wait for my coffee. Thirty seconds later, I have it gripped in my hand.
When I turn around, my hand slips.
Do you hear that sound? That’s my life fracturing at this moment. The room is silent, yet the coffee cup dropping from my grasp, toppling to the ground and spilling is like a large thump, mimicking my heartbeat. Everyone’s gaze meets mine, making me more aware of where I’m currently residing. Their expressions range from worry and confusion to annoyed and amused.
I ignore them. In the end, they don’t matter.
My eyes go back to what made me drop my coffee, or rather, who.
Years.
It’s been several since I’ve seen her, yet the pain is as fresh as a brutal collision. It’s as real as a moment of disaster in a beautiful package. It’s as damning as an end before it began.
Her short hair is now long again, the tresses hitting the middle of her back like then. But it’s not then. It’s now. It’s bitterness in a glass of whiskey. It’s distaste in a cup of joe with sugar. It’s heartbreak in a room of dead people.
She’s even more beautiful now.
Radiant.
Delicate.
Fierce.
Her eyes light up, but the glossiness isn’t the same. Back then, they were always brimming with tears of heartache, and now, they shine with affection. The vast difference between before and now is stifling.
The affection she offers has everything to do with the russet brown-haired toddler begging for her attention. He can’t be older than four, but something about him triggers something in me.
That single night.
The one that changed it all.
My forehead beads with sweat, my stomach concaving with the possibilities. No. She wouldn’t keep that from me. Even with our past in the air, our pain on repeat, our friendship gone... she wouldn’t keep a child—my child, if that’s the case—away from me.
Right?
She feeds little pieces of a bagel to him, her eyes lighting up as he smiles and giggles. Her eyes, the ones I’ve loved for years, gaze at him as if he created the earth itself. Maybe he did. Maybe he’s godly and ethereal. Maybe, by some chance, he’s a miracle. Our miracle.