Everybody thinks Blythe Turner is heartless.
She’s seen the Facebook posts, e-mail chains and overheard gossip of her own team calling her the heartless bitch and looking over their shoulders at her.
Sometimes college and high school are the same thing on repeat. Especially the official party school of Massachusetts where most the girls she knows are looking for their MRS degrees.
She keeps her head up amid the gossip, she’ll confront anyone with no problem, but walking up to St. Gertrude’s she is trembling. Swinging the door open there are old people everywhere and it creeps her out.
Blythe doesn’t expect her to look so good, but she does.
Better even.
Abigail’s thinner, her cheekbones show higher and her purple jumpsuit lays on her body nicely.
She notices all this, which is awful.
The hole she’d pulled herself out of this last year is between her and Abigail and she realize if she gets any closer to her past she’ll fall back down.
Blythe stands outside the glass and watches the peppy young woman help Abigail keep her balance as she navigates a twisty path drawn on the rehab center floor. When Abigail gets to the end with little assistance the woman applauds her and pats her on the back before bouncing over to a young boy holding a medicine ball.
The rehab facility seemed infinitely nicer than the court appointed one she’d been shipped to for alcoholism.
Abigail looks around the large workout room and locks eyes with Blythe behind the viewing window. Blythe wasn’t sure what expression to prepare for from her ex-girlfriend, but Abigail is emotionless.
She had invited her here after all.
Using a cane tied with pretty ribbons for support, Abigail walks out and leads Blythe to the benches in the hallway. Their only audience is a pair of loudly gossiping orderlies.
Before Abigail can get a word out, Blythe reaches into her windbreaker and throws the dented pink lock with their initials on a magazine table. Blythe barely remembers the purchase, just the fearful sweat drenched minutes she spent crowbarring the evidence of her crime off the bridge’s railing as she effectively damaged a city landmark.
“Corinne and Jonah told me you how took that off .” Abigail tells her, picking at her sweat suit leg.
“Who are those two anyway ?,” Blythe asks. “I honestly don’t remember them.”
“I can’t believe you kept that thing,” Abigail switches subjects.
“I had to,” Blythe tells her. “I didn’t just forget, okay ? I couldn’t let myself off the hook. I hope you know that wasn’t me. I’m so much better now.”
“Well, my parents don’t want me seeing you,” Abigail says. “I think they’re right.”
Blythe didn’t agree, buts she knew this wasn’t about her.
“Okay…well, I guess I’ll go--,”
“Wait, not yet.” Abigail says. “I have thirty minutes, I told them the appointment would be running late. They’ve been hovering.”
Blythe nods in understanding. Her family had become hovers too.
“The first thing I did when I got up was look up that bridge with the love locks… The Pont des Arts--,” Abigail starts
“And ?,” Blythe interrupts forgetting herself. Her fascination with love locks felt childish and distant now.
“It collapsed ,” Abigail says. “Two years ago, the weight of the locks caused the bridge to collapse and the city took all the love locks down. Did you know that ?”
Despite her fascination feeling childish this makes Blythe sad.
“I didn’t know,” she says.
“I just thought it was morbid how easily love can destroy things,”
“You were always so poetic,” Blythe teases, falling into comfortable banter by mistake.
“We should get students to put love locks on Strauss bridge.” Abigail says. “ Collapse it too. Its screwed up so many lives including ours.”
“No it didn’t. Things don’t screw up lives, other people do. ,” Blythe’s voice cracks. “I fucked up our life and I’m sorry.”
Black lines of mascara run down her crumpled face for only a moment before she composes herself again and apologizes.
“I…forgive you,” Abigail says.
“You don’t have to--,”
“No, I do,” Abigail says. “It’s the only way I can move on with my life. “
Blythe turns and for the first time they make direct eye contact, a familiar rhythm moves Abigail to kiss Blythe. Their lips touch and part around each other.
The kiss tastes like sorrow and the end.
And the beginning.
---
Actually they took the locks off the Pon Arts 5 months ago, but it's been a problem for a while. Still, it's sweet:
