Free If I Could Do It Again by Ashley Stoyanoff Page A

Finding what could very well be an epic love, and then watching it vanish before it has a chance to turn into what it could be.
What it’s meant to be.
    “Why are you telling me this?” I whisper eventually.
    “Because.”
    He says nothing more. Just
because
as though that’s an answer in itself.
    Maybe it is.
    Or maybe he’s just being an ass.
    “Because why?” I ask, although I’m almost certain I don’t want to hear the answer.
    “Because you’re my best friend,” he says simply. “Who else am I supposed to tell?”
    Anyone.
“What else did she have to say?”
    “That she’d be a good wife, cooking and cleaning and taking care of all my needs.”
    I’m sure she would.
    “Maybe you should give her a shot, that is, if you think she’ll actually stick it out this time around.”
    “Is that what you want me to do?” he asks curiously.
    I laugh dryly, slipping out of my chair and standing up. My legs are wobbly, my knees weak. Damn this stupid conversation.
    Ugh, I need a smoke (or ten).
    “It doesn’t really matter what I want,” I say, walking out of my office and down the stairs. “You do whatever it is you want to do.”
    “I
will
do whatever I want,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want your opinion.”
    I head through the quiet house, letting silence fill the line as I grab my cigarettes off the counter, and then I open the patio door and step out into the backyard. Walking across the lawn, I stop at the pool, sitting down and letting my feet dangle in the cool water as I light one up, inhaling deeply. “I’m not sure what you want me to say here.”
    “Are you smoking?” he asks.
    “Uh …” I glance down at my cigarette, watching the smoke curl from the lit end. “Yeah, I’m smoking.”
    “I hope you’re using the e-cigarette.”
    “Nope,” I mutter, taking another long drag, soothing my nerves. “I’m sitting at the pool with my feet in the water, smoking a real cigarette.”
    “Why?” he asks, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I thought you were quitting that shit.”
    “I am,” I say, taking another drag. “I just want a real one right now.”
    “Baby,” he says, drawing out the word. “Don’t get all stressy. We’re just tal …”
    His voice is cut off mid-word, the goddamn recording letting us know that we only have one minute left.
    “There’s a line-up for the phone,” he says, once the recording ends. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can get back on.”
    “You don’t have to wait in line,” I mumble. “We can just talk tomorrow or whatever.”
    “No,” he responds instantly. “I’m not done talking to you. I’ll call you back.”
    He hangs up then, and I let out a long sigh, setting my phone down on the travertine pool deck, and swishing my legs back and forth through the water. I don’t know how long it takes for the phone to ring again. It could be seconds, minutes, even an hour. I’m not sure. I’m dazed, feeling lost, and so damn lonely it hurts.
    It hurts a lot.
    So much so my chest feels constricted.
    Is this it? Could it really be over before it even starts? Do I even care if it is?
    My expression falls. Yes, I care. I care far more than I should.
    When the phone rings, I answer it right away, lighting up another cigarette as I wait out the recording for my chance to accept the call. As soon as the call clicks through, he says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
    No
hey, beautiful
, no real greeting at all. I shouldn’t be surprised, the last call was the same, but I am.
    Shit.
Two calls and I’m already missing his sweet greetings.
    I sigh, rolling my cigarette between my fingers. “I’m thinking that you’re trying to make me jealous. I’m thinking this is your way of digging, trying to find out if I’d give a shit if you start dating someone.”
    “Would you give a shit?” he asks.
    The question stalls me and I hesitate, frowning. I take another drag of my cigarette. “Of course I would. I care about you a lot,