Red Lets Go

'Red Lets Go' is my most personal short story to date. A continuance of Red, this is a story of love, longing, grief, and the stages that come with it. Our girl Red has been through a lot, and she deserves closure. She deserves to life her life without haunted memories following her around.

I hope you enjoy reading 'Red Lets Go' as much as I enjoyed writing it. It was a catharsis I didn't know I needed until I started chipping away at the story, line by line. Thank you for your support, and for keeping Red alive by reading her story and listening to the audiobook, narrated by Laila Bell.

-Olive

Cupid is nowhere to be found when the Universe throws him back in my path. There are no magical hotel rooms, and there are no mystical incantations to end the night. In fact, Valentine's Day is a long way away when he comes back, and then I know for a fact he wasn't dead; he was just gone.

It starts with an email and a glass of whiskey. His voice echoes through my mind with every word on the screen, until it's all I can hear when I close my eyes and conjure his memory. In my head, he's exactly as I left him in that hotel room, or should I say, he's exactly as he left me.

His hair is red, but there are new, soft strands of white threading themselves across his temples. His blue eyes are bright and full of life, and faded lines crinkle like cellophane in the corners. He is every bit as beautiful as I remember; he is every bit as tragic as I recall.

"Hey, Red," he says, a familiar twang on his lips as he joins me in my dream. We're alone this time, and no one is watching from the wings. He sits beside me and takes my hand, pulling me into his embrace.

        "Didn't think I'd ever see you again," I whisper into his shoulder. I settle into the spot between his shoulder and neck, closing my eyes as I inhale his scent. He still smells like Calvin Klein Obsession, my favorite cologne, and it comforts me.

        "Do you still carry a little bottle of my cologne in your bag?"

        "You know about that?"

        "Darlin', I know everything. Let me see that tattoo."

        I let out a gentle laugh. "Which one? I have a couple of new ones."

        "Show me your Layla." His fingers trail along the curves of my upper arm as he pushes my shirt sleeve away. He traces the raised lines of ink on my skin and hums a few notes.

        "So this is what you do when you get lonely," he muses, his thumb rubbing circles into my flesh.

        "I've always been lonely," I remind him. "This is just what I do when I'm missing you."

        "You shouldn't miss me, Red. You know it wouldn't have worked."

        "And you shouldn't visit me like this, yet here we are."

        "Touche." He lowers my arm and cups my face in his large, callused palm. "Let me look at you."

        I let him take me in. I hold his gaze unflinchingly as his eyes travel across my face. Does he see the new wrinkles between my eyes? Will he notice the dark spots on my cheeks, or the crescent-shaped scar that hangs from my lip like a sliver of the moon? Can he see the years I've put on my liver, or the thousands of miles I've put on this old heart of mine?

        "You're still beautiful, Red."

        "You know, I'm the age now you were when we first met?" I ask, wondering if he keeps track of the passage of time like I have. Seven years have gone by since the first time I held his face in my hands, and when I look at him now, he hasn't aged a day. For this one moment in time, for this one moment in the depths of my mind, we're the same age.

        "I shouldn't have been messing with a twenty-four-year-old girl," he admits.

        I laugh. "I shouldn't have believed your dating profile. Twenty-eight, my ass."

        "Would you do it all over if you could?"

        "What? Meeting you?"

        "Yes."

        "No. Not a single moment. I wouldn't change anything from the last seven years."

        "Even when I left you? Even when I was an ass?"

        "I wouldn't love you if you were any other way."

        "You shouldn't say that," he replies, sadness coloring his voice. "Don't say you love me."

        "We've had this conversation before," I remind him. "You know how I feel."

        "You've been drinking, Red, that's all it is. It's not love. It's nostalgia."

        "It's toska," I counter.

        "Oh, and what are you longing for, Red?" It's a challenge; he wants me to name the unnamable. How do I find the words for something that doesn't exist, that never existed, that I crave more than anything I've ever wanted? How do I put into words how badly I've wanted this, how badly I've needed this, and yet, I still can't have it. This is just a dream; this is just my brain's way of giving me the closure I crave.

        I throw his question back at him. "What are you longing for that you can't have?"

        "I don't know, but this is pretty close."

        When his hand slips out of mine, I don't fight it. He shifts away, rising to his feet, and then offers me his palm. Pulling me up, he wraps his arm around my waist and holds me against his chest. I rest my head under his chin and close my eyes, trying to memorize him one last time. If this is all I get, if this is all I can ever have, I want to have every moment burned into my brain.

        There is no music this time as he spins me around. I hazard a look at his face and find his eyes studying me. I do not shrink away from his gaze; I hold my ground, I hold my breath, and I hold his hand in mine.

        "Did you get that tattoo covered up?"

        "Which one?"

        "The one that reminds you of me?"

        I let out a soft sigh, shaking my head. "No, I couldn't bear to lose another part of you after so long."

        "It's okay to let go, Red."

        "What if I'm not ready? What if letting go is more painful than holding out hope?"

        "I didn't say yoy had to give up your hope," he counters. His soft lips graze the wrinkle between my eyes, and he squeezes my fingers.

        "No, I just have to give you up."

        "You know it's for the best, Red. We can't keep meeting like this. One day, it'll be the last time you ever dream about me, and you won't know it's the last time."

        "Is this the last time?" I ask, resting my cheek against his shoulder. He wraps his arm tighter around me. His silence says it all.

        This is it. This is the last time; there will be no more dreams, no more emails, no more moments of serendipity when I hear Bell Bottom Blues and turn to look for him.

        If this is the last time I get to hold him, I'm going to make the fucking most of it.

        Wordlessly, I break away from his comforting embrace and take his hand in mine, linking our fingers. I feel every scratch, scar, and callus as I lead him deeper inside my dream.

We pass the first house where I knew him; we avoid the house with grey walls and lilac bushes. I drag him through rooms I loved him in.

         We stop in the kitchen for maple whiskey and amarena cherries. We pause in the living room and stare at the long grey couch.

        "Do you think it still has that stain?"

        He laughs. "I hope not. I sold that thing years ago. If it's still there, it's someone else's problem now."

        He sets his glass on the mantle and steps forward. I don't shy away; I down the last of my drink, set the cup on a table off to the side, and square my shoulders. I put on a challenging exterior, but on the inside, I'm trembling.

        "Are we going to do this or what, Red? This is your daydream, you call the shots."

        "Let me look at you a little longer. I don't want to forget you when I'm old."

        "Darlin', I've got news for you. You're already old," he chuckles, blue eyes crinkling at the corners like candy wrappers. "You were old when we met."

        "I was twenty-four," I remind him. "You were the old man. You still are."

        "Don't sass me, Red. There's no time for that."

        "I thought you said this was my daydream."

        "It is, but we all wake up sometime. Kiss me like you mean it, Red."

        I don't need to be told twice. I take his subtly sunburned face between my palms and kiss him with everything I have in me. Somewhere inside the fantasy, a familiar record plays, and as we kiss, he hums a note against my lips.

        "You kept it."

        "It's all I have left of you that isn't on a screen or tucked away in a folder I'm afraid to open."

        "What're you afraid of? It's just a photo."

        "I'm afraid I'll forget your face. Not looking at it makes me remember harder."

        "Red, that is the most ridiculous shit I've ever heard," he laughs. He brushes his hand through my hair, fingers tangling in the curls. It's tender, and then he pulls my face to his with a hunger I remember as if it were my own.

        Madly, furiously, our lips meet, and all words cease. There is no space between us for small talk now. All that's left is passion and a desire to be together one final time.

        Clothes fly off, and there's no time for ceremony. His belt slides off, my top hits the floor. His pants pool at his feet,  my bra goes flying. He stands naked in front of me, and I stand naked in front of him. I don't shrink, I don't move to cover my flaws; I let him see me for the first time in my life.

        "That's new," he points between my breasts, at the garden blooming across my sternum and ribs. His hands skitter across my flesh, nails dragging up my ribcage and over the curve of my breasts before tracing the arc of the flower in the denter. "Did it hurt?"

        "More than you know."

        He bends and presses a kiss to the top petal, eyes closed as if in prayer. When they open, they burn like blue flames. This is the look I remember; this is the look I crave.

        Soon, we fall into a tangle of limbs, landing on the carpet with a heavy thud. He pushes my thighs apart with his knee and positions himself on top of me, holding himself up on shaking arms.

        When I let out a small laugh, his face changes momentarily, like a cloud passing over the sun. Here one moment, gone the next, the shift is almost imperceptible.

        "I'm not laughing at you."

        "Then what?"

        "We don't need protection because you're not real."

        He rolls his eyes, but a smirk spreads over his features. "You're on birth control, Red."

        "Right."

        A beat of silence, and then he pushes himself inside me. There's no time, or need, or desire, for foreplay or tenderness. The last time we met was tender, the last time was loving. This time needs to be animal, this time needs to be raw. This time needs to break me.

        As soon as I feel his cock stretching my pussy, my back arches, and I make unholy noises. He smirks as he finds his stroke, thrusting rhythmically while my nails rake his skin. His arms wobble as he holds himself over me, and I wrap my arms around his back and pull his body to mine. He collapses, spearing me deeper, and I cry out his name. I wrap my ankles around his ass and hold him against me.

        His eyes meet mine, and it takes all my strength not to beg him to stay. It takes every ounce of willpower not to ruin this moment and tell him I love him. There's no room for love, there's only space for hot breath and dripping sweat. There is no love in his blue-eyed gaze, and if there was, he would be the last to admit it.

        He crashes into me over and over, the pleasure building in my core like a pot set to boil. Every rock of his hips fans the flames, every ounce of pressure on my wrists above my head adds gasoline to the fire. He growls and groans, his own release coming dangerously close to the surface. His hot breath on my neck tells me everything I need to know, and when I sink my teeth into his upper arm, he roars and explodes inside me.

   Slipping his hand between our bodies, her strokes my clit and within a heartbeat, I'm moaning his name as stars burst behind my eyelids. My orgasm rips through me, shattering my resolve, and I whimper as he pulls out before the last waves have crested over me. I feel his sweat pooling on my skin as his cum dribbles out of me, soaking into the couch below.

        When all is said and done, the room smells like maple whiskey and sex. Sweat collects in hollows and collarbones, and with one last kiss, he pulls away. We dress in silence, and the world of memories I've created fades into nothingness. The couch, the whiskey, all of it disappears, leaving us standing in white light.

        "So this is it, then?" I ask, shifting back and forth on my feet. I can't meet his eye, and he cups my chin, lifting my face to his.

        "This is it, Red. You've got to let go. You've got to let me go."

        "What if I can't?"

        "When have I ever known you not to rise to a challenge? You've survived every one of the worst days of your life. You can survive letting me go, you can survive moving on."

        "But, I'll miss you."

        "You've got a piece of me with you always, Red. You've got Layla, you've got my mom's record. You've got our memories, and you have my recipe for Old Fashioneds. You have everything you need."

        He kisses my forehead, and the gentleness breaks me. Fat tears roll down my cheeks and I brush them away with the back of my hands.

        "It's going to be okay, Red. You're going to be fine."

        "I hope so."

        "You will. I've left before. I've seen you move on. Go find someone who makes you happy. Go find someone who can love you the way you deserve."

        "It should have been you."

        "Red, you know it was never going to be me. I'm not built for what you need."

        "I know that now."

        "You've known that all along. You just haven't admitted it until now."

        "You're right," I concede, sighing. The ache in my chest grounds me in the moment, reminding me to breathe through the pain.

        He looks at the watch on his wrist. "It's time."

        "What do I do now?"

        "Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and count to ten. When you open your eyes, it'll all be over."

        I swallow more tears and nod, taking his instructions to heart. I inhale, filling my lungs until my chest feels as though it'll burst. I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, and ball up my fists like I'm about to make a wish on a birthday cake.

        "Relax. It won't hurt."

        "You don't know that," I exhale.

        "Trust me, it won't. Do it again."

        I square my shoulders and take one last deep breath. Eyes closed, I exhale as I count to ten. One, two, three...

        On five, he presses a kiss to my temple. On seven, he steps away. On nine, I don't feel him anymore. On ten, he's gone. I'm alone in the white light with nothing but the memory of his lips on my skin.

        When my dream ends and I wake in an empty bed, Layla plays from the speakers on my phone. Not the 1970 version, the 1991 stripped-down, acoustic version that always makes me cry. A new flood of tears streams down my face, drying on my cheeks.

        I let myself wallow in grief until my stomach stops aching and my breathing returns to normal. When the sadness passes, I find the strength to start my day. I run my fingers over the lines of my tattoo and whisper the words of a familiar song like a prayer.

        I do not dream of him again.