Before You Left Him

You stare out the window, watching buildings blur past as your sister talks over the phone.

“I can’t wait for you to get here.”

Her voice is bright. Bubbly. The kind of happy you can hear without seeing her face.

A quiet laugh slips from your lips. “I’ll be pulling into the city limits soon.”

“Ooh, did I tell you what he did for me the other day?”

You sink farther into the back seat.

Of course she did.

Probably twice.

That doesn’t stop her.

“He came home with these flowers—not roses, because apparently he remembered I said roses were boring—and then he made dinner. Like, actually made it. From scratch. Mara, I didn’t even know he could cook.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile still finds its way through.

For the past three months, nearly every conversation with Cort has somehow circled back to her fiancé.The flowers he bought her.The dinner he surprised her with.The tiny things he remembered weeks after she’d forgotten mentioning them.

You haven’t even met the man, and somehow you know more about him than half the people you actually know.

Still, there’s no mistaking how happy she is.

And that’s what matters.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You turn toward the window again. Buildings stretch higher around you now, swallowing pieces of the afternoon sky. People crowd the sidewalks. Cars squeeze through intersections that seem designed specifically to make you nervous.

You’ve never been much of a city girl.

Cort loves it.

Apparently her fiancé does too.

Fiancé.

Your smile weakens.

Even that word still feels strange.

Your baby sister is getting married.

Not tomorrow. Not even particularly soon, from what she’s told you. They haven’t picked a date yet. But there’s a ring on her finger and a man waiting at the end of all those plans she’s been making.

A man you’ve somehow managed not to meet.

Until tonight.

“So anyway,” Cort continues, “I told him you were coming and—”

“Cort, I’m about to get out of the cab, so I’m gonna go.”

“Oh! Right. Okay. Do you remember how to get here?”

You glance at the message she sent you earlier.

“Yes.”

“Mara.”

“I have the address.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

You laugh. “Find the clock tower. Head north. Wittmore Street.”

“And?”

“And walk until I see the obnoxiously large brick wall.”

“It isn’t obnoxious.”

“You told me it surrounds the entire property.”

A pause.

“Okay. Maybe it’s a little obnoxious.”

You grin.

There she is.

“Text me if you get lost.”

“I won’t get lost.”

“You got lost going to Mom’s new dentist.”

“That building had two entrances.”

“They were on the same street.”

“Goodbye, Cort.”

Her laughter fills your ear. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You end the call just as the car eases toward the curb.

The driver glances at you through the rearview mirror. “This good?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

You grab your bag and step onto the sidewalk.

Noise hits you immediately.

A horn somewhere behind you. Music spilling through an open storefront. Conversations overlapping as strangers pass close enough that you instinctively pull your bag tighter against your side.

The car disappears back into traffic.

You stand there for a moment.

Alone.

“Okay.”

You pull out your phone.

Find the clock tower.

Head north.

Easy.

You glance down the street.

Nothing.

The other direction—

There.

The clock tower rises between two buildings in the distance.

You adjust your bag over your shoulder and start walking.

Slow.

Steady.

You check every street sign you pass even though Cort assured you it wasn’t far.

Marshall.

No.

Briar.

Still no.

You glance at your phone again.

Wittmore.

Definitely Wittmore.

You shove the phone back into your pocket.

A strange feeling has been following you since this morning.

You haven’t been able to name it.

At first, you blamed nerves. Meeting the man your sister intends to marry isn’t exactly a small thing. Maybe some part of you is worried you won’t like him.

Or worse.

Maybe he won’t like you.

Cort has talked about this visit for weeks. She wants everything to be perfect.

You want that for her.

You really do.

So why does every step toward her feel heavier?

You push the thought away.

It’s nerves.

Nothing more.

Two women sitting behind a folding table catch your attention as you reach the next intersection.

Books cover nearly every inch of it.

Not novels. They’re too small for that. Each is thin enough to fit in the palm of your hand, with different quotes printed across the covers.

You slow.

You shouldn’t.

Cort is waiting.

But one of the women smiles at you, and your eyes drop to the books.

Little collections of inspirational quotes.

Of course.

Cort would probably love one.

You step closer.

Your fingers skim across the covers.

Some are bright and cheerful.

Choose happiness.

You move past it.

Believe in the person you’re becoming.

Not bad.

Another one makes you cringe hard enough that you immediately put it back.

Then your hand stops.

Black cover.

Plain white lettering.

Nothing particularly special about it.

You pick it up anyway.

The book falls open somewhere near the middle.

Your eyes settle on a single quote.

Some people walk away not because they stopped loving you…

but because they never stopped.

Your thumb stills against the edge of the page.

The city seems quieter for a second.

You read it again.

Something presses beneath your ribs.

An old ache.

One you haven’t allowed yourself to touch in years.

A face tries to follow it.

Dark eyes.

A crooked smile.

A hand reaching for yours—

You snap the book closed.

No.

You aren’t doing this today.

“How much?” you ask.

“Five dollars.”

You stare at the book in your hand.

You hadn’t planned on buying anything.

You don’t need it.

You don’t even know why you picked it up.

“Sure.”

You pay her and tuck it into your bag.

“Hope you find something in there you need,” the woman says.

You give her a small smile. “They’re just quotes.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes that’s enough.”

You turn away before you can think too much about her answer.

Wittmore Street appears at the next corner.

Finally.

You cross with the light and continue north.

The buildings begin to change as you walk. Storefronts give way to quieter streets. The crowds thin. Trees appear between carefully maintained properties.

Your phone buzzes.

Cort: You close???

You smile.

You: Found Wittmore.

Three dots appear immediately.

Cort: OMG HURRY

Another message follows.

Cort: I want you to meet him!!

You stare at it a second longer than necessary.

That feeling returns.

Small.

Unreasonable.

Persistent.

You lock your phone and slip it into your pocket.

You’re being ridiculous.

This is Cort.

Your sister.

She’s happy.

And tonight you’re finally going to meet the man responsible for that happiness.

You should be excited.

Instead, as you continue toward the house on the hill, your hand slips into your bag and brushes against the little black book.

You don’t understand why that quote bothered you.

Not yet.