The rain beats down on my coat like it knows the secret I'm going to keep. Every drop hits my shoulders, runs down my hair in streams, and leaves trails across my cheeks. Lightning strikes overhead, lighting up the darkness for a second and showing the antique brass knocker on his door, which shines like a promise I'm about to break.
I was a shy girl with a loud crush nine years ago. I hid my feelings. I smiled at him across the classroom tables, laughed at his jokes, and wanted just one touch. But that night, the rules were broken. Only the storm could block out the thumping in my ears. I knew I had to go home. I should have turned aside and let fate do its thing. I chose impulse instead.
A burst of wind makes my scarf come loose. I hold it tightly and knot it up. The note in my coat pocket flutters against my ribs. The ink is smudged from tears and rain. I wrote it a thousand times, and each time it was more honest than the last:
I'm sorry. I've always adored you. I can't let this feel like a mistake.
It hangs on the border of my coat, which is wet. I don't know what to do. As I ball the letter up in my fist, my knuckles turn white. I take a breath of air that is full with storms.
You deserve this. You should have him.
I take a step forward.
A gentle buzz from the hallway light behind the door makes the shadows darker. Every footfall sounds hollow and unsure. I remember how he laughed, how his mouth curved as he made fun of me in my dorm room and how his palm brushed mine over pizza boxes. Moments of innocence—until they weren't. I swallow the lump in my throat. I get my courage back tonight.
My heart beats like a drum before calamity. My fingers are just above the knocker. I stop moving, remembering the words I never said: "If you love something, let it go."
But at that moment, I don't want to be free. I want him. I desire the life we could have had.
I rap the knocker once. Again.
Be quiet.
The rain gets harder and harder, making new beats on the wood. I work my gloves off and see that my fingers are numb. This time I knock harder, with three loud thuds.
"Rowan—" I start to say, but my voice becomes stuck. It feels weird to say his name, like I've been holding it back for too long.
Nothing.
My breathing is short and quick. There is thunder. I make myself call again: "Rowan Hart, open up!"
Footsteps—soft and unsure—come inside. The lock turns with a quiet click. The door opens a little bit... and I can see her.
She stands in the light from the door, her silhouette thin and her hair falling past her shoulders. She has a silk coat over a chair behind her. It's the same pale blue color as the one he wore in a picture I found when I still had hope.
She smiles and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "Isla?"
My heart skips a beat. I know her voice well; it's warm. He never made the introductions. He never informed her who I was. And yet, here she is, like she was invited, like I belong. My chest is turning.
"Hey," I say, my voice a choked whisper. My palm shakes as I hold the letter.
She moves to the side. "Come in before you get sick."
I walk forward, and my boots splash through the puddles on the door. The door closes behind me with a slight thud. It makes the rain sound quieter, but it echoes in my heart. I'm in his house. I'm getting in the way of someone else's happiness.
She leans back against the doorframe with her arms crossed. She looks at me: my wet coat, my wild hair stuck to my face, and the raw tightness in my stance. A flash of something—pity? Amusement? —crosses her face.
"You look like you've been in a war."
"Feels like one," I remark, but the words don't mean anything. I look around the foyer: ancestral photos on a side table and a vase of lilies with fresh petals that are as white as my determination. The air smells like candles and cinnamon. Warmth. Home.
I wipe my forehead with my palm, mixing rain and mascara. My heart is beating so hard that I can nearly hear it in my ears.
"Where is he?" I ask, my voice low.
She raises an eyebrow. "He's in the living room." Should I—
"No." I swallow. "It's okay."
She gently nods once and then moves out of the way. I walk over the wooden floor, and every crack reminds me of the choice I made. I don't know what I thought would happen—an furious push, a door slamming, or "What are you doing here?" But I'm not sure how to feel about her acceptance.
I can see him around the corner. He's tall, with dark hair, and big shoulders. He stands with his back to me beside the window, looking out at the storm. The light from the lamp makes his shadow stretch out far across the carpet. He held a coffee mug in his fingers, and the steam curled up into the dark light.
I can't breathe. He turns around.
Something gentler, like relief or perplexity, flashes in his gaze. For a moment, time breaks apart. The lightning outside breaks the sky, and for a moment, I can see everything: the stubble on his jaw, the crease in his brow, and the want in his eyes.
"I—" I start to say, but he closes his eyes. He shakes his head, as if to get rid of recollections. He puts the mug down with a quiet clink.
"Isla," he adds in a calm, steady voice. "What are you doing here?"
My heart races. The letter is hot in my pocket. This is it: the time when I have to deal with the results of my choices.
"I needed to see you," I say, and the words come out. "I had to tell you something."
He looks at me with his arms folded. Lightning strikes again, and I can feel the weight of a thousand unheard words pressing against my chest.
She stands at the door for a long time—his girlfriend, the one I never met. Her presence makes me question my place in his universe. I look at her, then at him again.
He moves closer, as if being closer to me could make the years between us less. "Is everything all right? You look— He points at my damp coat.
"I'm okay." My voice is steadier than I am. I pushed the letter between us on the coffee table. There are ink smudges on the wood. "Read it."
He pulls it up and looks at the page. His forehead wrinkles. I wait, my heart racing.
She walks into the room behind him. She watches without saying anything, without judging or getting in the way. She is just curious. I look at her and say I'm sorry, but she just looks at me in a way that I can't read.
He is done reading. He puts the letter down and stares at me. His eyes are so black that they seem to have a lot of questions. I get ready. The storm outside gets worse, as the wind shakes the windows.
He takes a deep breath. "Why now?"
I swallow. "I can't change what I did." And I can't go on living as if it never happened.
He gets closer. "You can't just—" He stutters when he speaks. "You can't just show up and think things will be the same."
The second woman moves closer, and her face shows worry. She might say something. She could get in the way. But she doesn't do anything.
I look for his face. "I don't think that will happen." I— The words fail. It was meant to be a simple night: rain, confession, and closure. It's not what it should be.
He shakes his head slowly, and pain flashes across his face. "You should have stayed away."
I squeeze my lips together to stop myself from arguing. I reach out and touch his arm with my fingertips. "Maybe." But I couldn't.
The flash of lightning shows the three of us: Isla, Rowan, and the woman who had the life I never really had. And at that moment, the question cuts through me: What have I done?
He takes a step back. Space. The sound of thunder rolls like a judge's voice.
I look at the door. Behind me is the storm, and in front of me is a collision of hearts that I don't know what will happen. My breathing is very quick. The letter on the table looks little and not enough now.
He looks at me with a mix of rage and something else—maybe regret? What is hope? I can't read him.
I say, barely above a whisper, "I'm sorry."
He blinks. The only sound in the room is our breathing. The storm outside is wild and never-ending.
Then, a door snaps shut behind me, shutting out the light and putting this moment in darkness.
I stand there, wet and naked, stuck between recollection and consequence, while the thunder shakes my bones.