Steven James - Opening Moves

“I can’t change who I am,” she said, “and I don’t want to-and I couldn’t live like that, with the knowledge that I was holding you back from being loved like you deserve.”

“I’m a big boy, Taci. I can-”

“Don’t say you can handle it. Love isn’t supposed to be something that needs to be handled; it’s supposed to be the thing that helps you handle everything else.”

I had the sense that I was falling, that I’d just stepped off an escarpment and was now plummeting through a thin stretch of air toward the bottom of a cliff.

“I love you.” It was all I could think to say, words that I knew, even as I said them, weren’t going to change anything.

“Yes,” she said simply.

The whole conversation seemed surreal. Two people who love each other, two single, available adults who respect each other, who’re committed to each other and care deeply about each other and have been together for this long being torn apart by nothing more than uncertainties, priorities that might change over time.

At that moment I realized it: hope has the potential to dissolve right before your eyes. You can be looking at it, something golden and precious, like the way I felt when she was joking around with me when she first walked in here, and then suddenly it’s folding back into the air, leaving a dark trail behind-the dissipating smoke of the very things you used to gain strength from.

“Taci, listen, things have been crazy for us both lately. I understand that. But there’s no reason to-”

She clutched her purse in front of her now as if she was using it as an emotional shield. “I can’t.” And before I could stop her, before I could come up with anything to say that might salvage things, she rose. “I’m sorry. I just care about you too much to…to…Second place isn’t right. Not for you, Pat, not for anyone who’s in love.”

I stood up as well, tried to think of a way to talk her out of this, but no words came to me.

She made her way toward the door and slipped outside.

My feet seemed like they’d been rooted there forever. Go! If you just let her walk away, you’ll always regret it!

I hurried outside and made it to her car just as she was climbing in.

“Taci, please. Let’s talk about-”

“No, Pat. It’ll only end up hurting worse. Please.” These were the words she said as she closed the door. Then she pulled onto the road and drove down the street.

Those were the final words she said.

Of course every relationship suffers fractures. I get that. Of course they do, but people work through them, especially when they’re in love.

How is this happening? This cannot be happening!

But it was happening.

It had happened.

She turned the corner.

And then the woman I loved, Taci Vardis, disappeared out of sight.

As I returned to my car and drove to HQ, the questions hit me hard: How could she just let things end like that? Just abandon everything that’d been, the us we’d become, and say it was over? How can someone that important to your life, that central to all of your dreams and plans, so suddenly and unexpectedly walk away?

It happens every day, Pat. People break up. They divorce. Just like that. It’s over. All the time.

I thought it might’ve actually been easier if she were leaving me for someone else, but then it hit me that, ironically, she was leaving me so that I could find someone else.

And she was doing it because she loved me.

A tumble of clouds hung in the sky, lavender gray and still marred with the remnants of night. I left them, and the day they were ushering in, behind and rolled into the dark mouth of the police headquarters’ underground parking garage.

Ten minutes later, at my desk, I was trying to focus on the case, but it didn’t feel like I’d ever be able to concentrate on anything again, only that I would feel numb and distracted and full of unanswered questions from now on.

Ralph’s low voice rumbled through the room. “Just think…” I looked up. He was walking my way, holding up a manila folder. “As computers take over, there’s gonna come a day when these things disappear. Completely obsolete. Can’t wait for that.”

To me it seemed like the more we used computers, the more things we printed out. Manila folders weren’t disappearing at all from the department; they were multiplying like rabbits.

“Yes,” I acknowledged distractedly.

He joined me at my desk. “So, how did it go last night?”

“How did what go?”

“Dinner. On your anniversary.”

“Actually, it turned out to be breakfast.”

A sly grin. “You dog, you.”

“No, no. Not like that. I mean…”

“Did you guys check out any…action movies?” He gave me a wink.

Oh man.

How to do this.

I debated about whether or not to tell him what’d just happened at Anthony’s. In the end, perhaps naively, I decided it probably couldn’t hurt anything. “This morning, just now at breakfast, Taci broke up with me.”

“What? The day after your anniversary?”

“She wanted to tell me last night.”

“Oh man, that’s cold.” It looked like he was about to say more, maybe express in his own distinctively colorful way what he thought of a woman who would do that, but he held back-likely because he wasn’t sure if I was bitter, or if maybe I hoped there was some way we could get back together again.

“Apparently,” I said, “it was a choice between me and her career.”

We were both quiet, then he rested a giant paw on my shoulder. “If there’s anything, seriously, anything I can do. Anything you need, let me know. I’ve been there. If you can’t go to your friends when you need ’em, what good are they anyway?”

I barely knew this man and he already considered himself my friend, one close enough to help me when I was really hurting. And in that moment, I realized the feeling was mutual.

“I’ll let you know, Ralph. Thanks.”

He removed his hand. “Maybe we grab a beer tonight, you know? After work? Get your mind off things?”

“Yeah. We’ll see.”

Then he smacked me on the arm in what I took to be a friendly gesture, but one that just might leave a bruise. “Hang in there, bro.”

“Thanks.” I held back from rubbing my arm. “I will.”

He stepped away and I tried to dial in to the case again, but thoughts of Taci just wouldn’t leave me alone. I shut my eyes and concentrated, concentrated, concentrated, promised myself I wasn’t going to cry. That I wouldn’t let it hurt that bad.

And in the end I succeeded.

I took the pain and shock and dismay and buried them as deeply as I could, telling myself that if I stuffed them down far enough, they wouldn’t be able to bother me anymore.

I didn’t want the tape on my hands all day and the bleeding had stopped, so I peeled it off. Tossed it in the trash. Then I went back to work, reviewing what we knew about yesterday’s homicide and the attack on Adele Westin, a woman who was engaged to a man who was willing to do the unthinkable to save her from a madman.

But I hadn’t succeeded in burying my feelings. Not really. When you stuff your pain like that, it can never be called a success.

Watching the news last night had been informative to Joshua.

He’d learned more about Hendrich’s murder. The Channel 11 News team was reporting that he’d been, “brutally attacked in a neighborhood known for its aggressive gangs and uncontrolled street violence.”

By the end of the night, the anchorwoman was stating that unnamed sources in the police department were confirming “that law enforcement personnel are looking closely at outsiders who frequent that neighborhood” and “that if you have any information regarding the crimes, you should call the police.”