A young couple passed me, carrying bulging bags of groceries. A long scarf wound around both their necks, binding them together.
The girl looked worried. "It's just the two of us tonight. Think we can actually pull off a New Year's Eve dinner?"
The boy ruffled her hair. "If we can't, we'll order takeout. As long as we're together, who cares what we eat?"
That was exactly the scene I'd imagined for myself. For us.
I still couldn't understand.
Why was Kevin doing this to me?
We used to be so good together. So good.
I'm twenty-eight years old this year. We've known each other for twenty-eight years.
At four, on the first day of kindergarten, he grabbed my hand.
"Millie, when we play house, you're the only one I want as my wife."
At twelve, too young to understand love, he'd rush to my desk the second class ended. At that age, when reputation meant everything, he ignored the teasing and the jeers.
At fifteen, in the thick of adolescence, his face erupted in acne. His grades hit rock bottom. His parents were disappointed. He doubted everything about himself.
"Millie, what do I do? Do I even have a future?"
I held his hand and, trying to sound casual, told him something I'd never told anyone.