Chapter 8 - THE SPECTER OF REGRET
Life has a funny way of bringing the past back when you least expect it.
Two years after the flight to Denver,
I was walking through the Boston Common on a crisp autumn afternoon.
I was wearing a new coat,
my head held high,
my mind on the upcoming board meeting.
And then I saw him.
Ryan.
He was sitting on a park bench,
feeding the pigeons.
He looked ten years older than thirty-seven.
His clothes were cheap.
His posture was slumped.
The "charming executive" was nowhere to be seen.
He saw me before I could turn away.
“Claire?”
he called out,
his voice tentative.
I stopped,
not out of a desire to talk,
but out of a sense of finality.
I walked over to the bench.
“Hello,
Ryan.”
He looked at me,
his eyes full of a deep,
unsettling regret.
“You look… incredible,”
he said.
“I heard about the board position.”
“And the new development.”
“I’m doing well,
thank you,”
I replied,
my voice polite but distant.
“And you?”
He looked down at the bag of breadcrumbs.
“I’m at the car rental desk still.”
“They promoted me to assistant manager.”
“But it’s not exactly the corner office.”
I didn't offer any words of encouragement.
I didn't offer any pity.
“Chloe?”
I asked,
mostly out of curiosity.
He laughed,
a bitter,
hollow sound.
“She left me three months after we got back from Denver.”
“She realized I didn't have the money she thought I did.”
“She’s married to a guy who sells insurance in her hometown now.”
I felt a strange sense of closure.
The replacement wife had been replaced by reality.
“I’m sorry,
Claire,”
he said,
his voice dropping.
“For everything.”
“I didn't realize what I had until it was gone.”
I looked at him,
truly looked at him,
and realized that I felt absolutely nothing.
The anger was gone.
The pain was gone.
Even the coldness had faded into indifference.
“It doesn't matter now,
Ryan.”
“The past is a site that’s already been cleared.”
“I’ve moved on.”
“I suggest you do the same.”
I turned and walked away,
leaving him on the bench with his pigeons and his breadcrumbs.
The wind blew the fallen leaves around my feet.
The air was cold,
but I was warm.
I reached the edge of the park and hailed a taxi.
As I drove toward the financial district,
I looked at the city through the window.
It was a city of stone,
glass,
and grit.
A city that rewarded the builders and forgot the demolishers.
May you like
I was a builder.
And my legacy was only just beginning.
