The low living room lights and evergreen candles flickered on the kitchen table, setting off a romantic vibe. The November breeze cut through the tension as Marissa traced my eyes; she closed them and sighed as though she’d melted into my arms. I moved to connect our lips. Before I could meet her kiss, she broke free of my embrace.
Marissa motioned. “I have to go,” she whimpered.
“What’d I—?”
She grabbed her coat.
“I have to go,” Marissa sobbed.
In shock, I let her go.
It was just my luck in November. I can’t catch a break for shit. I grinned at Dad’s reflection in me in the window. Before he died, Dad told me if a woman you love leaves and returns down the road, you know she’s the one.
Five years later, I sat over Heineken. I watched the Army-Navy game. I drank more water than alcohol, and I smoked cancer sticks. I waved at the waiter for another glass of iced water. Army was up three points in the fourth quarter, so I was in good spirits. I almost lit another cancer stick when I heard my name.
“Nathan?” a voice said.
I twisted around. “Yes?”
“It’s you,” Marissa said.
“And it’s you,” I said, ruder than I’d intended. I collected my keys and finished the water.
“Let me explain,” Marissa said. She placed her warm hand on my arm.
I sat and folded my arms. “Well.”
“If I stayed,” Marissa said. “I’d never have left.”
“Ok,” I said. “This sounds like a pity party.”
“I know.” Marissa motioned and moved her long, dark bangs behind her ear. “But it’s not.”
“Then what?”
“Do you remember what your father said?”
“He said a lot of shit.”
Marissa rolled her eyes and folded her lips under her teeth. “You know what I mean.”
“I thought about you,” I said, as though it spilled out without a filter.
“Often?” Marissa dapped her eyes with a tissue.
I cleared my throat. “Every day.”
“I had to go to law school,” Marissa said.
I nodded. “I know,” I said. “I know you did.”
“But I’m back.” Marissa interlocked our hands. “And I’m never leaving again.”
“Promise?”
“Kiss me,” Marissa said.
I turned my head either way. “Right here?” I said. “Right now?”
“Right here.” Marissa closed her eyes. “Right now.”
People in the dive bar overheard a chant spread: “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
I kissed her.
“Our last first kiss,” Marissa said.
Drunk people clapped.
My dad and I weren’t so different.