I’ll Walk Home with You

Chapter 1

Luke was always good to me, even back at the orphanage.

After he got adopted, he remained the same.

He’d sneak his family’s pork ribs for me, swipe his dad’s cash to buy me barrettes.

When we grew up, he got his eardrum busted up for me, losing his chance at college.

But he used his protection racket money to fund my music school, buy me the prettiest dresses.

From our first time at eighteen until graduation, we were inseparable.

Then, after I won first prize in my competition and rushed to celebrate with him,

I saw him on the street, making out like crazy with some knockout.

I ran over, slapped him.

He sneered, “My dad says you’re just a stage whore, a cheapskate. You didn’t sleep with the judges, you couldn’t have won.”

“Whatever, I’m bored anyway. Sarah, we’re done.”

I tossed my trophy at him.

“Yeah, me too. Have fun with your new toys every day.”

1

That day, I walked for hours in the pouring rain, the icy water mixing with my tears, soaking me to the bone.

A car hit me; my knee bled, staining my dress crimson.

The driver frantically asked if I was okay.

All I could think was, this dress is ruined, just like my love for Luke. It’s stained, irredeemable, never going back to how it was.

I haven’t worn a dress since.

Five years later, it’s the anniversary of our breakup.

Torrential rain again. Every year on this day, it pours.

Maybe the rain in my heart never stopped.

Lost in thought, my car lurched forward.

I jolted back to reality. Red light, I rear-ended someone.

I walked over, umbrella in hand, and tapped on the driver’s window.

He didn’t get out, just rolled the window down. Seeing who it was, my heart skipped a beat.

Luke, 28 years old.

I’d imagined him countless ways: a hoodlum, slicked-back hair, gold chains; or a regular Joe, plain clothes, a total office drone.

Never this: a sharp suit, gold-rimmed glasses, a high-roller.

His car—a million-dollar-plus ride.

His eyes flashed, a brief spark, then icy indifference.

My throat tightened, tears welling, but I kept it cool. “Long time no see.”

Our reunion wasn’t like I’d imagined. He coldly said, “No need for compensation.”

Then he sped off, splashing me.

Back in my car, I sobbed.

I slapped myself, repeatedly.

I hated myself, for still harboring unrealistic hope.

They say former lovers can’t handle seeing each other again. No matter the time, there’s an urge to hug, to have it all again.

That only applies to me, apparently. He’s moved on.

Pulling over, I called, “Amy, I need a drink.”

That night, drunk, I raged in Amy’s arms.

“I’m not ugly, I have a great body, I can sing, we had twenty-something years together, why would he just dump me?”

“Amy, I don’t get it! Tell me! Can someone really stop loving you that fast? Yesterday, he was holding me, wishing me luck, and then, poof, no love?”

My tears and snot were all over Amy.

He sighed, hugging me. “Sweetheart, not every question has an answer.”

“I’ll help you one last time. If he’s still cold, I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

2

The next morning, I woke up with a splitting headache, in my bed, makeup removed.

Amy did it. We met at that singing competition after college.

He was fresh-faced then, a crew cut, black-framed glasses, playing his original song, making it to the finals.

A male judge, jealous of his talent, gave him a low score, second place.

I thought he’d resent my win, but after the show, he hugged me, genuinely happy.

Ironically, he was the one who hit me in the rain that day.

We became friends, he comforted me, carried me home countless times.

Now, he’s a mega-star, and I’m a behind-the-scenes sound engineer.

I picked up a glass of water, a note underneath.

Luke’s phone number.

A message: Last chance.

My hand trembled. That unfamiliar number, tears falling again.

He’d changed numbers ages ago.

I opened my social media, years of posts and photos, visible only to him. It was ridiculous.

After the breakup, Amy took me back to his place.

I regretted it days later. I searched online for relationship advice, paid for astrological readings, looking for confirmation that we were destined to be together.

I spent all my savings.

Three days later, I returned to our apartment.

Empty. He was gone.

I called, texted, endlessly.

At first: “Say sorry, and I’ll forgive you.”

Then, begging. “Come back, I don’t care about others, please don’t leave me, you’re my only family.”

Hysterical. “Where are you?! Are you dead?! Even breaking up needs a face-to-face!”

Then, just despair.

I pretended we were still together, sharing my days, even after I stopped messaging him.

I posted on social media, only visible to him.

I’d read, “Don’t love too much, don’t stay up too late.”

I needed to keep some dignity.

Weekly posts, then monthly, then silence for half a year.

I even boasted to Amy, “See? I’m over him. I’ve let go.”

Seeing him, my fortress crumbled.

I washed up, put on makeup, a nice dress, and dialed the number.

As if he could see me.

3

The dial tone echoed my racing heart.

My palms sweating, the phone finally rang. A deep voice.

“Sarah, what is it?”

My heart stopped.

He remembered my number. My voice cracked.

“I, uh… hit your car yesterday. How much? I’ll pay.”

“No need.”

His coldness was like treating a stranger.

My prepared speech vanished.

We were silent, he didn’t hang up.

After a minute, I tried again. “I do owe you. I’m not irresponsible. Let’s meet.”

Silence. I heard his heavy breathing.

“Bring your estimate.”

“Fine.”

A quiet cafe. I waited, staring out at the blue sky.

When will things be clear between us?

The scent of citrus pulled me back. Luke sat across from me.

A light beige outfit, sharp, no trace of the street punk from five years ago.

He handed me a document. “If you need to, you can pay in installments.”

The estimate: over $5,000.

I scoffed. “Still generous, huh? Without my call, you’d really pay yourself?”

He didn’t answer. “Money isn’t important to me.”

Anger flared. I cried.

“Yeah, money isn’t, but twenty years of love isn’t either. What is? The thrill of a new girlfriend? The satisfaction of dumping someone who loved you?”

He watched me calmly, offering a tissue. “Don’t.”

His indifference choked my tears.

I chuckled, wiped my face, and smiled politely.

“Sorry, I lost it. I’m not as rich as you, let’s exchange contact info. I’ll pay in installments.”

I offered my phone.

He didn’t take it, tapped his phone.

A text: his account number.

“Transfer here.”

He left, leaving me shattered.

4

I called Amy.

“Lend me $5,000.”

I wasn’t lying. I was broke.

An orphan, my dream was a home of my own.

I’d put a down payment on a house.

Monthly payments drained me, but I felt secure.

Amy sent the money.

I input Luke’s number, then saw my lucky sun doll.

Our first anniversary gift.

He hoped my days would be sunny.

But I lived in a storm.

With a final burst of strength,

I reduced the amount by two zeros and transferred it.

How many “lasts” had I promised myself? Just one more try.

Maybe seeing the regular transfers, he’d remember, soften up.

After work, I was grabbed from behind, losing consciousness.

I woke up bound in a warehouse, a woman next to me.

A thug lifted my chin.

“Nice girl. Let’s have some fun.”

He groped me. I bit his hand, and he beat me.

The door crashed open.

Luke burst in, iron pipe in hand, fighting.

He quickly subdued them.

He ran towards me; my heart melted, “Luke…”

He bypassed me, freeing the woman.

She sobbed in his arms. Guards untied me.

My heart froze.

He gently hugged her, approaching me. “Sorry, ex-employees, trying to extort me. They meant to kidnap Vivian, wrong person.”

He held Vivian close. Pain stabbed me.

Needing an answer, “Who is she?”

“My fiancée.”

Smiling, I wiped my tears. “Coincidence, I’m getting married soon. I won’t pay back the rest, consider it compensation for the trouble.”

I left, numb.

Text to Amy: “My last chance is gone.”