I open my eyes blearily, trying to focus. I look around at the room. I'm in the living room and I seem to be wearing the same clothes that I've been wearing for a while. What woke me? It's dark outside, so it wasn't the sun.

I reach for my whiskey, but find that the bottle is empty.

Fuck.

That means I'm out. I'll have to make a trip to town.

And then I hear what woke me. Pounding on the door.

My heart twinges. I know it's probably Mila. She's been here a hundred times this week, trying to get me to open the door, but I never get off the couch to do it. She doesn't need to see me this way. She doesn't deserve to be here like this.

The pounding gets louder, very loud.

Fuck. She's pissed now. I'm impressed with the strength she's using on that door.

And then, there's a loud crack and something breaks.

What the fuck?

I stand up and the room spins. I haven't been on my feet in a couple of days. I steady myself and re-open my eyes. When I do, I find my father standing in front of me. He is clean and shaven and dressed in jeans.

"What are you doing here?" I ask him. "Did you just break down my fucking door?"

My father's jaw clenches. "That's what happens when you don't answer it for a week. Your girlfriend called me because she was worried. Get in the shower. We're going to talk."

I glare at him. "Fuck you. The time to talk was years ago. In fact, you've had any number of chances over the years to talk. But you didn't. And now I don't want to talk. Get over it."

I try to shove past him, to walk through to the kitchen, but he grabs my arm.

His grip is strong and determined.

"Take a shower," he says slowly and deliberately. "You smell like piss. Get clean clothes on and come back out here. We're going to talk. Now. Today."

I stare at him and he stares back. He's not backing down. And I do smell like piss. Finally, I look away.

"Whatever. I do need a shower."

I leave the room without looking back. I step into my shower and let the water run over me while my fucking head pounds. I can't remember if I drank any water this week at all. I actually don't remember much at all about this week. Every time I woke up, I simply took more pills and drank more whiskey.

I wash, shave and get dressed.

Then I make my way to the kitchen, where I chug two bottles of water. Even after that, my mouth is still dry so I must be pretty dehydrated. I take another bottle of water with me to the living room, where my father is waiting for me.

He's cleaned the place up while he waited, picking up the empty bottles of whiskey from the floor. He's sitting in a chair now.

He stares at me as I enter.

He's grim and sober and I find that I suddenly don't want to have this conversation.

"Fuck this," I tell my dad. "We haven't talked about this in years. I don't see the reason to talk about it now. The damage is done."

My father looks at me.

"The damage has been done," he agrees. "But there's no reason to make it worse. Let's talk."

I sit down and take a swig of water.

"Fine. Why didn't you force me to talk about what happened?"

If we're going to talk, we might as well cut to the chase.

My father stares at me, then his gaze drops to the floor.

"Because it was easier that way. I took you to a therapist and you wouldn't talk. I tried to get you to talk about it myself, you refused. And then I decided that maybe I really didn't want to know what happened. If it had scarred you so badly, then I wasn't sure that I could deal with it either. So I stopped trying. And then the therapist told me that he thought you had actually suppressed the memories, so it seemed to be for the best."

I take another drink. My tongue feels thick from dehydration.

"Did they ever catch him?"

I cringe when my dad shakes his head. "No. They didn't have a description to go on. None of the neighbors saw anything, they didn't see anyone coming or going. The police didn't have anything to work with."

Fuck. Yet another reason to feel guilty. I could have given them a description.

"What happened that day?" my dad asks. "I need to know. There was gun residue on your hands. And you had that cut. But the police couldn't determine what happened, except your mother wasn't sexually violated. She had epithelial cells in her mouth, but no trace of semen. There was no match to the DNA sample in the police database. I know this is hard to think about or talk about. But what did you see?"

I close my eyes, squeezing them hard before I open them again. My dad is still staring at me, still waiting for answers.

"I heard mom crying. I found the guy in your room with a gun held to mom's side. The guy forced her to give him a blowjob. I tried to help, but when I did, I bumped the gun and it went off. She's dead because I tried to help. If I hadn't, she would still be here today."

My father chokes a little and I try to swallow the fucking lump that keeps forming in my throat. He looks at me.

"Do you really think he would have left her alive?" Dad finally says. "Think about that, Pax. She knew what he looked like. If he told you that he wouldn't have killed her, he was lying."

"He left me alive," I tell him limply. "Maybe he would have left her, too."

My dad shakes his head, his cheeks flushed. "No. He wouldn't have. He probably couldn't bring himself to kill a kid in cold blood and he felt confident enough that he'd scared you into silence. Your mom never stood a chance, Pax. There wasn't anything you could've done about it."

He turns away now, staring out the window.

"But there's something you can do now. Now that you remember, come with me. Let's fly to Connecticut right now and sit down with the detective who handled the case. You can give him the description. What did the guy look like, anyway?"

I feel a chill run through me as I picture the guy's sneering face. "He was skinny, with a gray ponytail and yellow teeth. Really yellow teeth. He was wearing a blue striped shirt."

My father is frozen.

"I know who you are talking about. That was our mailman. I'd never forget that gray ponytail or those horrible teeth. Pax, go pack a bag. We're going to Connecticut."

"The mailman?" I am incredulous. "I don't remember the mail man at all."

"You wouldn't, would you?" my dad answers. "You were only seven. I used to tease your mother that he would find silly reasons to bring the mail to the door instead of leaving it in the box. I used to joke with her that he had a thing for her. We laughed about it. We thought he was just a little strange and lonely. I had no idea..."

Dad's voice chokes off and he looks away for a minute and pulls himself together before he looks back at me.

"Get your things, Pax. That sick bastard deserves to pay."

The idea that I might find just a bit of redemption spurs me and I do get off the couch and go pack a bag. As I'm cramming my toothbrush into my overnight case, I see a ring laying on the counter. I pick it up. Mila must've left it. Her mother's wedding ring. I slide it onto my pinkie and finish packing.

In my haste, I leave my cellphone in the house and don't realize it until we are speeding away toward Chicago.

"Don't worry," my dad says. "If you need a phone, you can use mine. We won't be gone that long anyway. Maybe a couple of days. This is huge, Pax. That fucking guy will finally get what he deserves. All they'll need to do is match his DNA. This is huge."

My dad is more animated now than I've ever seen him. There is life in his eyes. I look at him.

"Dad, why did you think it might be best if I never remembered? What did you mean? Best for me? Or best for you?"

My dad glances at me with a sober look before returning his eyes to the road.

"Maybe for both of us. I knew the memories would shatter you. And after they found the gunpowder residue on your hands, I didn't think I wanted to know what happened. I couldn't begin to imagine, but I wasn't in a good place. And if I'd found out that you had a hand in her death, even accidentally, I didn't know if I could get past it."

"But I was a kid," I choke out. "I was trying to help her."

"Yes," my dad says, leveling a gaze at me. "You were. I'm glad you realize that. But I was in a bad way then. Grief does that to a person. And so I coped in the only way I knew how. I threw myself into work. And when that didn't stop the pain, I packed us up and moved us across the country."

"Did that stop the pain?" I ask him.

He looks at me. "No."

I glance down at my hands and stare at the ring on my finger. I take it off, spinning it round and round in my hands. The inside has words inscribed. I peer closer to read them. Love Never Fails.

I gulp.

Sometimes, love does fail. I've certainly proven that. I've failed everyone. I failed my mother. I failed my father when I repressed the memories and couldn't tell anyone what the killer looked like. And I've certainly failed Mila. I know I've ripped her heart out and I doubt I can ever put it back together again.

I close my eyes to soothe the stinging in them.

I nap in the airport until our plane takes off, then I nap on the plane. I think about trying to call Mila, but decide that I'd better not. Our conversation isn't one for the phone. I'll need to see her, face-to-face. In the meantime, I have something important to do.

When we touch down in Hartford, we check into a hotel. Our dinner in the posh hotel restaurant is fairly silent.

I watch my father swirling his scotch absently in his glass for a long time before I finally speak up.

"It wasn't your fault, either, dad."

He looks up at me.

"No? Pax, we joked about that guy. The fucking mailman. I thought he was a joke. But he took my life away. Or he might as well have. Some joke. I guess he got the last laugh."

The bitter agony on my father's face is apparent and as pissed as I am at him, I can't help but feel terrible for him at the same time. I can't imagine what he must feel like.

"Dad," I attempt again. But he interrupts.

"Pax, you don't understand. You can't imagine how many times over the years I've wondered...what if I had left work early that day? What if I'd not stopped for gas? What if I'd hit one less red light? If any of those things had happened, maybe I could have stopped it. The constant not-knowing was terrible. But now, to find out that the fucking mailman took her life...my guilt is ten thousand times worse than it ever was. Because if I'd taken him seriously- if I'd recognized him for the perverted fuck that he was, your mother would be alive today. That's an unarguable fact."

I gulp down the rest of my water before I answer.

"Dad, mom must not have realized how fucked up he was, either. You said you both joked about it. That means that he hid it pretty well. You can't feel guilty for someone else's mental illness. There's no way that you could have known."

I can tell my father doesn't believe me, though and we finish our meal in silence. To be honest, I think we both are happy to be alone with our thoughts.

After a fairly sleepless night, we go the police station first thing in the morning. The detective is more than happy to hear from us.

"This case has haunted me for years," he admits to me, his mouth tight. "I'd never seen anything like it. I've never forgotten it, or the sight of your little face. Your eyes were so big and sad. You'd seen the unimaginable. I'm glad to see you've grown up so well."

So well. Huh. That's debatable.

He takes my official statement and assures us that they will be pursuing a warrant to collect DNA evidence from our old mailman as soon as they can get a name from Post Office records. I feel a feeling of intense satisfaction as we walk down the steps of the station and out into the brisk, fresh air.

Justice might finally be served. My mom might finally be vindicated. It's only taken seventeen years.

"Where is she buried?" I ask my father as we climb into the car. He looks at me.

"Let's stop and get some flowers, and I'll show you."

So we do exactly that. We stop and get two dozen roses apiece and we drive to a beautiful, silent cemetery. It is lined with trees and the ice hangs on the branches, sparkling in the winter sun. It's serene. I decide that if you must be buried, it might as well be here in this tranquil place.

As we walk among the graves, I feel as though I've been here before and I know that I have. I have fleeting glimpses of her funeral, of the casket being lowered into the ground. I remember the intense feeling of sadness that I had felt watching it.

I swallow hard.

Ahead of us, I see a statue of an angel and I recognize it. It is lying across a slab, weeping into its hands and I know that it sits next to my mother's grave. I remember it.

"Your grandfather had the statue brought in," my father says, nodding toward it.

"It seems fitting," I answer. And it does.

My mother's headstone sits next to the angel, made from white marble. It's gleaming and bright. I turn to my dad. "Someone's been taking care of it."

He nods. "Of course. I pay someone."

Of course.

I stare down.

Susanna Alexander Tate

Beloved wife and mother

She walked in beauty,

She sleeps in peace.

The cold wind blows gently against my face and once again, a knot forms in my throat. I am flooded with guilt that I haven't been here to visit her in years. I kneel to place my flowers by her name and for the first time in as long as I can remember; I feel a tear streaking my cheek. I wipe it away.

"Do you think she is? At peace?"

My father looks at me.

"Son, you were your mother's peace. You brought her so much peace and joy from the very first time she held you, that she knew she had to name you Pax. Your mother loved you more than anything in the world. She would have gladly given her life a hundred times over to keep you safe. Whatever you do, just live a good life for her. She had so many hopes for you. But when it boils down to it, all she would want is for you to be happy."

The tears flow freely now and my father wraps his arms around me. And just like that, two grown men stand embracing in front of a lonely headstone.

It is a few minutes before he pulls away and I see that he is crying too.

"I love you, too, Pax. I hope you know that."

I nod, too choked up to speak. I feel as though someone has twisted my guts in their hands and shoved them back down my throat into all the wrong places. Everything hurts. But for the first time, the pain is okay. The pain feels normal, like it's the kind I should feel. It doesn't feel like the shameful pain that I felt as a kid, back when I couldn't save my mom.

The old void in my heart is gone. It has been replaced with a quiet sort of acceptance. My life is what it is. My mom died a violent death and I watched it happen. I've got to get past it and move forward. It's what she would want me to do.

Standing here, in front of her grave in this serene place, I know now that I couldn't have saved her. I was seven years old. My father was right. The intruder would've killed her regardless. It was his plan all along or he wouldn't have even brought the gun.

We ride back to the airport in silence.

Finally, my father speaks. "You should call Mila. She's been very worried about you."

I look at him in surprise. "She said that to you?"

He nods. "She's the reason I came to your house, remember? She called me or I wouldn't have known that things were so bad. She loves you, Pax. And if there's anything that you should take away from this is that you need to live for today. Tomorrow is not promised to you."

"I don't deserve her," I tell him honestly. "I've been an asshole. All I've done is hurt her."

My father looks at me doubtfully. "If that were true, then she wouldn't love you so much. She's waiting for you. She's checked on you a hundred times and has asked me a million questions that I don't know the answers to. Only you do. You need to answer them for her."

"Such as?"

"Such as, are you coming back? Are you going to be okay? How are you handling things now? Things that you don't talk about so I don't know. You're going to have to get some help figuring out how to deal with uncomfortable things. You can't keep burying things in drugs and whiskey. You know that."

I nod. And it's painful because it's true.

"I've fucked up," I say simply.

"Yes," my father agrees. "But haven't we all?"

I don't answer. I slip away into my thoughts and continue to twirl Mila's ring on my finger. As we make our way through the airport, dad turns to me.

"I'm going to tell your grandfather that you remember. It's one of the reasons that he stopped talking to us. He didn't agree with me not forcing you to think about it because he wanted your mother's killer found. When I refused to try and force you, he couldn't bring himself to go along with the lies that I told you, that your mother died in a car-crash. His absence isn't his fault, it's mine. The blame rests on my shoulders. And I'm sorry."

I nod. To be honest, I'll worry about that later. It's the last thing I'm worried about right now. There's only one face in my mind and it is beautiful and soft and has wide, green eyes.

Our plane touches down in Chicago and my father drives me home.

"I hope things will get better for us now, Pax," he tells me in my driveway and I can see that he is sincere. I nod.

"I hope so too," I answer. I find that I mean it. It will take a while, I'm sure. We can't fix years of damage to our relationship in a minute. But at least it's a start. If we keep at it, maybe someday we'll be okay again.

He backs out and I watch until I can no longer see his red taillights before I drop into Danger and speed for town. I can only think of one thing.

Her.

I burst into the door of her shop and she looks up in surprise from the counter. She is alone and seems to be studying a portfolio. As I walk in and she recognizes me, at first her expression leaps. In joy.

But it quickly becomes guarded and I feel the sting of that all the way into the center of my heart. I did that to her. I taught her to be guarded and protective around me because I might crush her. That knowledge kills me.

I stride across the store, not stopping, not hesitating. I step around the counter and smash her to me tightly.

"Please," I tell her. "Please forgive me. I'm so sorry that I hurt you. I'm so sorry that I've been an asshole and that I shut you out. I didn't know how to handle things without being self-destructive. Self-destruction is all I've ever known. Deep down, it's what I felt like I deserved."

I pause and look down. She's staring up at me with her gorgeous, clear eyes and my gut clenches.

"Give me another chance," I ask urgently. "I will do anything that you want me to do if you just tell me that we can start again. I know I don't deserve it, but I'm asking anyway. I honestly don't know if I can breathe without you. Please. I love you, Mila. Please tell me we can work it out."

I stare into her eyes and she seems uncertain and I feel a moment of panic.

"I don't want to start over again," she says slowly. "I like what we had. I don't want to re-do it. I love you, Pax. But I don't know if I can handle it if you leave me like that again. You shut me out and I couldn't help you. That's not what people do when they love someone. You ripped my heart out and stomped on it."

"I know," I agree. "I know that. You have no idea how sorry I am. I'm just not that good at relationships. I haven't had any practice. But if you stay with me, if you stay... I promise that I will never leave you again. I will never shut you out again. I'll put in the work and I'll fix what is broken. I promise."

"I want to believe you," she says slowly, her eyes still frozen on mine. "But I'm too afraid, Pax. You scared me. A lot. How do I know that you won't shut me out like that again? How do I know that the next difficult thing we come across won't send you into another tailspin and I'll find you on the back yard, like we found Jill?"

She pauses, her eyes pleading, wanting me to say something, wanting me to argue that she's wrong. But I don't know that she is. So I can't say anything.

"Jill's two babies are in foster care now, Pax. Their whole lives have been shattered. I don't know that I can trust you not to do that to me. I haven't slept in days and when I do sleep, I have horrible nightmares. I'm a wreck, Pax. And I don't want to go through this again. I just don't think I can."

Her words terrify me and I pull off the ring, holding it out with a shaking hand.

"Love never fails, Mila. That's what your parents believed. And because of you, it's what I believe now, too. You stuck by me and loved me when I didn't deserve it. All I want is a chance to prove that I can be worthy of it. Your parents were sort of fucked up in their own way, like me, and they never got the help that they needed. But I will. I promise. I will put the work in. I will learn how to cope with painful things and I will never leave you again. Just tell me that you'll stay with me."

I stare at her, waiting, holding my breath.

"Please," I whisper.

Finally, finally, she takes the ring from my hand and leans on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to mine, ever so softly.

"I love you so much," she whispers. "I love you so much. But I can't. Not right now."

A vice-grip crushes my heart as I stare at her; at the face that is so beautiful and delicate, at the woman who has seen me at my worst but is still standing in front of me today without judgment or derision. My chest tightens and my eyes burn. I feel utterly empty.

"I know," I tell her, honestly. "I understand."

And I do.

It is a truth so raw and honest that it hurts. But I haven't given her a reason to stay so there is no way that she should. There's only one thing that I can do...give her one.

I swallow hard, willing the lump in my throat to dissipate.

"I'll give you a reason," I tell her, my voice raw. "I promise. If you give me the chance, I will give you a reason to be with me."

She kisses me again and I fight the urge to inhale her, to crush her to my chest and never let go, to force her to stay.

"I'm counting on that," Mila murmurs as she steps away. "I just need some time Pax; time for you to show that you are serious about this, about putting the work in. That's all I need."

I know this is as hard for her as it is for me and I hate that I did this to her. I hate that I put that hurt on her face.

I nod slowly and the movement seems painful.

"You can have all the time that you need, Mila. I'll wait forever if I have to."

A tear slips down her cheek and she looks away. My gut feels like a cement block as I use my thumb to wipe her tear, then to pull her chin up.

I kiss her cheek. "I love you," I murmur into her ear.

And then I gather every ounce of my strength, because that's what it takes to walk away from her.

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