Edgewise

Sometimes just being heard is the most important part of a conversation

"I'm surprised you called me. I mean, I'm grateful, but very surprised. I had always hoped we could still be friends, but..."

"I—"

"There's been so many times I missed you, wanted to share something with you. You were always my best friend; you know that, right?"

"Well..."

A good deal of time had gone by since I'd spoken to Yvonne. We had separated nine months before. I hadn't meant to call her at all; I accidentally tapped her number in my contacts list when trying to call "Young Bloods," the bar I own.

"The night that we said goodbye was the worst and best moment of my life, you know that? I didn't know it then, but we were too young for a serious relationship."

"We were—"

"Things only would have gotten crazier. God I was such a mess!"

I pictured her the last time I saw her. She was wearing her apron from Harold's right about two months after the robbery—, and she looked tired. But I didn't remember her looking a mess. "You—"

"If you hadn't been the grown up in our relationship, I might still be clinging on to some half-childish infatuation. I owe you so much."

I rolled my eyes, remembering these interminable, fantastical monologues being one of the real reasons the relationship ended. "Look." I didn't even try to finish; I knew there was no point.

"I appreciate you calling, Jorge, I really do. But...well, now that you know what a wonderful thing is was that you did, even though it hurt...please don't call me anymore. Okay, Jorge?"

"Okay."

"Bye, Love." And the line was dead. I put the phone down.

Jean looked at me with a frown. "What was that all about?"

I chuckled and shook my head. "Nothing, babe. Wrong number."

(Word Count 300)