Burning Bridges
Megan Thomas
I always knew it would come to this, but God help me if I hadn’t prayed every night: not today, please God, let us last one more day.
Crash. His eyes snapped shut. From our first glance, blue eyes meeting brown, I knew he would be trouble. Not because he wouldn’t love me enough, but because he would — and then he wouldn’t — leaving me with a hole that could never be filled. One look drew me in.
Slam. The car door on his rusty Toyota. The same car he’d driven on that first date. As I traipsed down the porch steps in the cotton dress I’d bought for this occasion, he smiled, both substantial and unsubstantial. Like gentlemen of old, he’d opened the car door and held my hand as I climbed inside. Soft, sweet, gentle. After drinks and dinner, dancing and flirting, he kissed me and closed his teeth around my lip. Hard, strong, potent. Years of being meek trained me to pull away. Hot breath fogged up the windows. I realized I liked it and we crashed together again.
Click. The buckle of the seatbelt I’d installed just before the first baby arrived. I warned him that the car seat would bounce the way he drove, but he only smiled that disarming way he did. So I bought the seatbelts and, nine months pregnant, attached them to the seats after he’d fallen asleep. Even when he held our sons for the first time, cradling each new, red infant, I could already envision the moment he’d hand the child back to me for good.
Clink. The key in the ignition. My fears grew as our sons passed through infancy to childhood. The bed turned cold on nights when he didn’t return until the early morning. I could only lie there and stare at the dark ceiling, wondering whether today would be the day. Repeating the silent prayer over and over: not today, please God, let us last one more day.
Vr-vr-vroom. The rusted engine took one, two, three tries to turn over. I almost hoped it wouldn’t start; maybe then I could imagine that this wasn’t happening. I didn’t want to admit I’d seen it coming. I hadn’t heeded the whispers from friends that he was dangerous. He wasn’t dangerous now: eyes closed, blood blooming from the wound to his temple, chest shuddering. He was still alive, buckled into the Toyota.
Whoosh. A slip of the match on the box. I marveled at how quickly the gas tank caught. It wouldn’t take long for someone to find him here, strapped into the conflagration. I wanted it to shine bright and hot.
I wasn’t a fool. An investigation would descend on the town, and his enemies and friends alike would be scrutinized. But the grieving widow? Invisible. I would leave this place, weeping about reliving bad memories and needing a fresh start. We would vanish.
He didn’t have to choose when to leave us — I chose for him.
