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This is a novel that I am working on ... I want to post chapter by chapter, feedback is welcome as it will only make me a better writer.

CHAPTER 1

I’ve never been one to reminisce. To sit and ponder the way things might have been or the way things were supposed to be. Looking back like that will only get you stuck in the river of life. I’d rather dip my oar in deep and plunge forward, maneuvering through the rushing currents that are determined to keep me stagnant. I like to stay focused on the path ahead. It’s simple really, because everyone knows that you can’t change the past, the mistakes and the hurt. You can only take the lesson and keep it folded neatly in your breast pocket, hoping that it will serve you well next time around.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I try to forget my past. I’ll never forget it. I couldn’t even if I tried. It’s the past that has formed me into the person I am today. I just choose not to linger in the memory because doing that will open wounds. Wounds that have taken far to long heal. Wounds that have left scars.
I’d like to think my wounds have healed, that I’ve moved forward successfully, triumphing over my jaded past. But as I cleaned out the last pile of junk that had collected over the past few years in the back of my closet, I realized that maybe my wounds had never healed in the first place. Maybe I just had hoped that they would go away on their own. Maybe I was fooling myself.

***

“Whatever you don’t need, just throw that in the junk box and I’ll sell it in a garage sale,” Jacob said coldly. His eyes were sunken, he face shallow and decorated with two days of unshaven stubble.
“Junk box?” I scanned the empty bedroom.
“It’s in the spare room.”
I nodded. Lifted my body up off the floor and wandered into the spare bedroom. That too was empty. Three years worth of marriage packed up into boxes, waiting patiently to be split between the two of us as we went our separate ways. Forward. Keep moving forward.
“I don’t see it,” I called. My voice echoed throughout the apartment, bounced off the bare walls.
“It’s the box labeled, junk,” he answered. His was voice rigid, like a piece of broken glass.
I kneeled down, read the sides of the boxes. Searched for the word, “junk.”
That’s just like him, I thought. Always so organized. Labeling boxes. I wouldn’t think to do that. Organized, I was not. I was always leaving a mess. Much like what my life had become, one vast mess. The thought of cleaning it up overwhelmed me, so I tried hard not to think about it.
Jacob and I were different from the very beginning. It wasn’t that things shifted or changed between us during our relationship, it was that things just stayed the same. I think that he thought he could change me and in a way, I wanted him to. But deep down inside I always knew it wasn’t right. I should have never married him. But should is a word my therapist said to never use. “You should never have to do anything,” she said. “Use could, because could gives you a choice.”
I had a choice. I could have chosen to walk away. But I chose to stay. And now I have to live with my decision. Another mistake. Another reason to move on.
“Find it?” I heard from over my shoulder. His warm breath trickled down and graced the back of neck.
“Found it,” I returned, junk box in hand. As much as I tried to keep my voice as steady as his, as withdrawn as his, it still fluttered with emotion. Regret, sadness, relief, hope – every emotion that circled my heart and seeped through my brain clung to my voice and teased him with each spoken word.
I could see it in his eyes, taste it on his breath. He wished I could be cold, wished I didn’t care. Then it would be easier. Then maybe he wouldn’t care. Then maybe he could move forward.
He smiled awkwardly, passed by me like a stranger on a crowded street. The rain-fresh smell of his deodorant swept by my nose, brought with it a memory of me huddled under his arms on a chilly day in the city, when I wrapped myself beneath his jacket and we walked as one beneath the shelter of the thick cotton.
I remembered, even relived the warmth I felt but I refused to stay there in the memory. Instead, I forced myself back to the closet of our bedroom, back to the pile of junk. I hated junk, couldn’t stand clutter. I’d be glad once the packing was finished. Once the life I had grown accustomed to was tightly pack up in a box labeled, “the past.” Then I’d be free.
It had been a difficult month, from the moment I told him I didn’t love him, not like that, to the moment he handed me back his wedding ring. The platinum band that he had once worn with pride glimmered in the sunlight as he placed it carefully in my palm. That was the day before yesterday. He didn’t want it, said it was too hard to keep. I said nothing, took it and put it my pocket, then left the room. He told me the U-haul was coming Saturday afternoon and that I’d have to have everything packed by then. I nodded, retreated to the mattress in the bedroom. Threw down a sheet, slept. The next day I slept some more.
When I woke up this morning, I finally began packing my things. I’ve been packing ever since. My wristwatch read quarter after two. The silver timepiece dangled from my wrist. I’d lost a few pounds over the past few weeks. Everything I ate seemed to go right through me. No doubt a result of the anxiety. That and my mother calling me two or three times a day to suggest going on antidepressants.
I sighed, realized I had about an hour left until the U-haul pulled into our driveway. All that remained was my corner of the bedroom closet. The closet. The metaphor was blaringly obvious. Here I was, clearing out the rest of my closet and the reason why our marriage had ended was because I chose to clear out my emotional closet. Stepped out into the world and admitted to myself that I was gay. I had always known really, it was just a matter of accepting it. Only I had managed to finally accept it after I had already pledged my love, for better or for worse, to a man. But there was no better, no worse and now, no marriage. There was only the mess I made and now had to sort through and clean up.
The afternoon drifted on, like the sun drifted from the sky, slowly and with purpose. I finished sorting through the pile, tossed some things in the garbage can, tossed others in the junk box.
I reached for an old T-shirt, wrinkled like a grandmother’s cheeks, and pulled it out from under the pile. It jarred loose a book, caught by a tear in the bottom of the shirt, and tossed it out in front of me.
I threw the shirt in the garbage bag behind me without bothering to see why I might have kept it in the first place. I couldn’t help it. My eyes were drawn to the object at my knees, the way the edges of the pages had turned the color of pee and the way the once vibrant blue cover had faded to a dull purple.
I knew instantly what it was. It wasn’t a book at all. It was a journal. A friendship journal. And it was full of memories in which I hadn’t dared revisit for a long time. I stared at it, tried to open it with my eyes. It wouldn’t budge. Finally, I reached down and flipped it open to no page in particular. At first I tried to scan the familiar scribble without really reading it. But curiosity took hold, longing took hold and more significantly, love took hold.
It was then that I felt the wound in my chest break open, the blood rushed through my veins and the air in my lungs disappeared.
I couldn’t help myself. I could only read.

Story ID:	930
Written by:	Lyndsey Darcangelo (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Buffalo USA
Year:	2006