Chapter 9 - The Mirror of the Past
Three months later, in early July, I was walking through the air-conditioned concourse of the Fashion Square mall in Scottsdale, holding a shopping bag from a boutique store where I had just purchased a gorgeous emerald-green silk dress for an upcoming industry awards gala.
As I passed a small, mid-tier coffee kiosk near the department store entrance, I heard a voice call out—weak, hesitant, and trembling.
"Valerie?"
I paused, turning slowly around.
Standing near the sugar station, holding a paper cup of black drip coffee, was Garrett.
If I hadn't recognized his posture, I might not have known it was him. He had lost at least twenty pounds, his face was gaunt, and his clothes—an ill-fitting polo shirt and faded jeans—looked unwashed. The confident, arrogant man who had stood at the foot of my bed with a bucket of ice water four months ago had completely evaporated.
"Hello, Garrett," I said politely, keeping my distance, my hands comfortably holding my shopping bag.
He took two timid steps toward me, looking around as if terrified that Eleanor Vance or a police officer might materialize out of the shadows.
"I... I know I'm not supposed to talk to you," he stammered, his eyes darting to my face. "I'm not trying to break the order. I just... I saw you, and I wanted to say... I'm sorry."
I stood quietly, watching him. I didn't interrupt.
"I lost everything, Val," he whispered, his eyes swelling with sudden, pathetic tears. "My job, my apartment... Mom and Tabitha fight every single day. They blame me for losing the house. Mom calls me a failure every time I walk through the door. I realized... I realized you were the only person in my life who was actually building something real."
He took another step closer, his eyes pleading.
"Is there... is there any chance? Even a tiny chance... that after I pay back the money, after I get my life together... we could just talk? Maybe go for coffee?"
I looked at Garrett.
I looked at his pale, defeated face, his sagging shoulders, his desperate reach for the life he had so carelessly destroyed.
And in that moment, I realized the final, greatest gift of this entire ordeal: I felt absolutely nothing.
No anger. No hatred. No lingering pain. No romantic nostalgia. He was simply a stranger who had once occupied space in my home.
"Garrett," I said, my voice rich, calm, and resonant in the quiet concourse. "I don't hate you. But the woman who used to accept your apologies, the woman who used to bend her boundaries to keep your family comfortable... she didn't survive that five o'clock morning in March."
He swallowed hard, tears slipping down his nose. "Val, please—"
"I hope you get the help you need, Garrett," I said softly. "I hope you learn how to stand on your own two feet without your mother’s hand on your back. But you will do it far away from me."
May you like
I turned on my heel, my emerald silk dress rustling softly against my legs, and walked away toward the bright summer sunlight waiting outside the glass doors.
He didn't follow me. He couldn't.
