Disclaimer: S. Myer owns all, but what I wouldn't give for a Jasper of my very own-sigh.

A/N- They say we are product of our environments. If that is true, and we consider our stories to be our 'children', then this is definitely a product of my environment, my emotional one to be exact. It is my Twilight interpretation of one of my favorite holiday songs, "Same Old Lang Syne" by Dan Fogelberg. Those familiar with the song will know it is not a happy go lucky song, and thus have been warned.

Pronoun fail and repetitiveness are done on purpose.

Huge thanks to C Me Smile for her quick turn around on this baby!

Huge hugs and thanks to Dannie, as always, for the encouragement, the hand holding, and the love.

More author notes at the end.

"**~~**

Fucking Christmas Eve.

Didn't these people have anything else to do than to be at the grocery store on Christmas Eve? Didn't they have family or friends to be with? To sit around their perfectly decorated trees and fireplaces laughing and sipping wine while they played charades and talked about the good old days.

Why the fuck were they all at the grocery store only hours before they would be up opening presents with loved ones?

Shuffling behind the old woman in her long brown wool coat and fur boots three sizes too large, I sighed in frustration as she stopped once fucking again to look at the canned salmon. It was fucking canned salmon. It all tasted like shit, just pick one and move on! My knuckles turned white as I strangled the handles of the red basket in my hand instead of her neck. Squishing between her and an older gentleman to my left, I made my way past them and headed for the frozen food.

Nothing said Christmas Eve more than a frozen pizza for dinner. No family or friends or perfectly decorated tree waiting for me at home. Just the Yuletide log on the television.

It was the way I preferred it. Alone was good, alone was stable, alone was dependable. If you were alone, there was no one to let you down, no one to disappoint you.

No one to break your heart.

To give my family credit, my mother had called earlier in the day, reminding me, once again, that I was welcomed over for dinner. Declining, I told her I would be there the next day, bright and early. I could handle only so much of family, and of my father's disappointment at my chosen career.

What the fuck did he know anyway?

Sure, maybe I wasn't sitting in some posh suite in Los Angeles, but I had a few CDs out, they were selling…I was managing.

I was doing what I loved, and to me, that's what mattered; not that my car sat in my driveway because it had broken down yet again. Once it had hit one hundred thousand miles, it spent more time in my driveway than on the street. It didn't matter anyway; in the city, I could walk to just about every where I needed to go.

Besides, if a few more CDs sold, I could afford a new car. Well, perhaps not brand new, but definitely newer than the piece of shit I was driving.

Sighing, I scanned the freezers in front of me. Too many fucking choices. Rising crust, original crust, supreme, crispy.

I just wanted fucking pizza.

Settling on the rising crust supreme, I opened the door and pulled it out, tossing it in my basket. I turned to wander down the isle, thinking ice cream might be a fitting desert.

As I turned the corner, I saw her.

She was as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more so. Taller than I remembered, her hair was still thick and long as it hung down her back in soft mahogany waves. Her tight brown sweater showed off the incredible figure I knew so well.

Every freckle, every scar, every delicious inch.

Dark jeans curved around her ass, clinging tightly to her legs, and as my eyes traveled down her legs, I saw the reason for her growth spurt - black heeled boots. I couldn't help but smile, thinking she must have gotten brave to be wearing heels, something she never would have worn years ago.

Standing less than six feet from me, she faced the freezer staring at the ice cream options, gnawing on her bottom lip with indecision.

Some things never change.

We had both been freshmen at college when we met in a music appreciation class. She appreciated the music while I appreciated her. I was an aspiring songwriter; she was an English major on track to become the next great journalist. After a few weeks of light flirting, demure glances, and quiet giggles, I had finally gathered enough courage to ask her out.

That was the first time I had seen her bite her bottom lip. She had walked next to me as we headed to our next class while she considered my offer, finally smiling and saying yes.

Over the next three years, I saw her nibble that lip thousands of times. Each and every time made my heart skip a beat. Whenever she did it, I knew something was churning in her beautiful mind, and it always thrilled me.

We had been inseparable. Even going to each others' homes over the holidays, her family had welcomed me into their warm home with open arms and an acceptance I had never been granted from my own family.

My family had welcomed her with a glare of suspicion.

Together, we had overcome many hurdles. She had to deal with the baggage that I had brought with me as a result of my shitty family, and I had to deal with her constantly pushing me to be a better person.

I could never live up to who she wanted me to be, who she believed I was.

And in the end, I wasn't enough.

For three years we had been each others' everything, we laughed, we cried, we made love…we said good bye.

We graduated, she moved on and I had merely survived.

Well, survived might have been an overstatement.

I had barely made it through the first year, drinking myself into a stupor most nights in an attempt to numb my heart. Anything to prevent the all-encompassing pain that tightened around it at any and every unsuspecting moment.

Standing in line at the DVM I would hear a similar giggle.

Ache.

Waiting for the light to turn green, 'our song' would come on.

Pain.

The dates that inevitably and painfully rolled around each year, birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, each one more painful than the one before it, were the worst.

Crippling pain.

It was those nights that would leave me with red puffy eyes sore from crying, that left a hole in my chest that I knew would never be filled by another. I had learned to live with the void. It was had become a place of comfort, a place that accepted me and my many faults.

Blinking under the bright lights of the store, I debated turning around, leaving…fuck, running, to the check-out and getting the hell of out of there. I hadn't seen her in seven years, and yet, it all came back, flooding not just my heart but every fiber of my body as I stood there behind her, wanting so desperately to leave and knowing I couldn't.

I had been doing so well too. I was prepared for a nice quiet night at home, almost beginning to accept my loneliness, and then she fucking walked back into my life.

I spun on my heel to leave, my breathing a bit faster than I would have wanted.

That's when I felt it.

The unexplainable pull that we had shared.

The feeling, the fucking need, to be near each other at all times. It had been one of our downfalls, our constant desire to be in the presence of the other. Somehow, our desire had turned to smothering and we were both drowning, looking for a life raft of sorts that we could climb onto to save ourselves, our relationship.

She found her life raft about a year later.

It was that fucking undeniable pull that had me reaching out with my hand to tug on her sleeve.

Jumping, she squealed and turned around. Staring up at me, she continued to bite her lip as she tried to recall my face.

When her dark chocolate eyes grew wide, I knew she remembered. Grinning, she went to hug me, but she stumbled and spilled her bag on the ugly gray tiled floor.

She hadn't changed at all, still the clumsy girl that used to constantly grab my arm as she tripped over every pebble in her path. We had giggled at her lack of coordination, joking she would trip over air as I wrapped my arm around her waist for support.

Even as the ache surrounded my heart, I laughed and knelt to help her pick up her things. She scrambled, shoveling the contents of her busy life back into her bag. Manicured nails reached out for the items and I couldn't help but notice the huge rock on her left hand.

It was the fucking Hope diamond.

My breath left my body as I looked at her. She hadn't aged at all, it was like she was twenty all over again, even under the expensive make-up, I could see her perfect porcelain skin.

Apologies flowed from her mouth as we both stood up.

Her voice hit me and my heart shattered all over again.

The sound of her laughing in the dark of our bedroom as we lay naked in bed after making love, the sound she made as my mouth traced over her belly button, the sound of her crying as I told her I had to go find myself.

And myself wasn't with her.

After a moment of silence, I think we were both stunned, she smiled. Reaching up, she pushed my hair off my face.

"Still got crazy hair, huh?"

Nodding, I grabbed her hand and took it in mine. Her skin was as soft as I remembered, and I idly I wondered if she still used the same hand cream or if she had upgraded to the high quality stuff. Gasping at my touch, she took her hand from my grip and gave me an apologetic smile.

I knew she had felt it. There was no way she didn't feel the current of electricity that had passed through us when we had touched. Just as strong as ever, it flowed freely between us, even though we stood apart, heating the cold air of the fluorescent lit isle. It had been that spark that had made it so difficult to walk away all those years ago, for I knew I would never find another that created the same energy with me that she did.

The closest I had come to it was with my music. It was the only thing that gave me anywhere near the same high her presence had graced me with. When it was just me and my music, I was at safe to express myself without fear or repercussions.

There was no judging.

Even once I started playing in front of crowds that sat before me in the dark smoky bars, I didn't feel as though I was being judged.

She was grinning up at me and I realized she had asked me a question.

How was I?

Lonely. Miserable. Worn.

"I'm okay. You?"

"I can't complain," she sighed. Looking at me through her lashes, she gave me her heart-melting smirk. "Pizza for dinner on Christmas Eve?" she observed, pointing at my basket.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't in the mood for Mom's bad cooking and Dad's disapproving comments."

"Ah, yes, I remember them well. How are the Doc and your mother?"

"They haven't changed much." I admitted. They were my parents, I avoided them and they let me. The relationship worked for me. "Doc will never forgive me for not following in his footsteps though."

"Of course not. God forbid you have a career doing something you love, right?" Her rhetorical question was not one we had time to answer. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she motioned toward the check-out. "Are you ready to check out?"

Nodding, I motioned for her to go ahead of me and we made our way to the front of the store. I waited as she paid, watching every movement she made, memorizing it in the smallest of details.

I had remembered so much.

The way her eyes sparkled, the way she forgave me for my mistakes, or the way her hair fanned out under her as I lay over her, slowly pushing between her welcoming legs.

I had forgotten so much.

The way she gave strangers a half-smile of thanks, the way she counted her money backwards, or the way she just tossed things into her bag, nothing ever having a proper place.

She waited while I paid for my pizza and then we headed toward the exit side by side. I walked slowly, not wanting our few precious moments to be over so fucking soon. As the burst of winter air hit me, I pulled the collar of my pea coat up and tucked my chin down to my chest. The snow was falling heavier now, a few inches had gathered on the ground since I had entered the store.

Turning to me, she bit her lip.

I sighed.

"So…."

"So…."

It might have been fucking cold outside but standing there, in such close proximity to her, to her glow, I felt warmer than I had in ages. Even the awkward silence we were sharing was better than anything I had felt in seven fucking long years. Towering over her, I gripped the bag in my hand in order to avoid reaching out to touch her again, to feel that skin against me one last time before she was gone, before she was nothing more than a memory.

She broke first. "Where's your car?" she asked glancing around the parking lot.

"I walked," I answered, still not able to take my eyes off her face. Her freckles were hidden under the make-up, her lips were colored a dark shade of pink, her cheeks stained with a fake blush. With me, she had always been natural, rarely wearing make up when we went out, her blush was always one caused by me and my sexual innuendo.

"Can I give you a ride home?" she offered, folding her arms across her chest to ward off the chill.

Fuck, yes, please.

"No, that's okay. I'm only a few blocks away."

Please argue with me.

"Let me give you a ride. This weather's too shitty to walk."

Good girl.

She started toward the parking lot, assuming I was following.

And of course, I was.

"Are you sure it's no problem?" I asked, jogging to catch up with her.

"Not at all." She led us to a black Mercedes sedan. Apparently, her life raft was paid well.

"Wow, nice car," I commented walking to the passenger side. Shrugging, she unlocked the doors and we climbed in, tossing our bags in the backseat. Her scent hit me like a wave crashing over its seawall. Surrounding me in the enclosed space, I had no choice but to breathe her in, the clean crisp fruity odor that had been my comfort for so many nights. Months after I had left, I would still shower and shampoo with the same brands she had used with hope that I could capture some essence of her.

She started the car, and turned on the heat allowing her scent to warm and fall over me like a soft blanket. The car fucking purred as she shifted into drive. Settling back against the plush leather, I watched her out of the corner of my eye.

Fuck, she was so beautiful.

"Yeah, well it gets me from point A to point B," she absently replied, pulling out of the space.

"In some fucking style too," I couldn't resist the remark. As we pulled out onto the road, I gave her directions to my house.

"Still swearing like a sailor, I see," she chuckled.

"You're not around to stop me." I hadn't meant to say it, it had slipped out, but once it was out there, I couldn't take it back. Wondering if she remembered what I was referring to, I watched as she pulled that lush lip between her perfect teeth.

"The curse jar," she whispered finally.

After dating for a few weeks, she had grown frustrated with my use of colorful adjectives and we settled on a compromise. One day she had come home with an ugly vase in her hands, a 'curse jar' she had called it. After explaining the rules to me like I was five years old, I laughed and agreed to her foolishness. Anything to keep that smile on her face. I could swear as much as I wanted to, but had to put a quarter into the jar each time. Once a month, we would use the money for a special date. With the amount I swore, we had had some pretty fucking special dates.

"Remember the weekend trip to the cabin?" I smiled, remembering that a very expensive month of swearing for me had led us to be able to rent two nights at a cabin in the mountains. It had been incredible, and very romantic.

We had never left bed, much less the room.

Actually, that's not entirely true, we had made love on just about every available flat surface, and some not-so flat ones. I smiled at the memory of her wrapping her wet, soapy legs around me and her fingers digging into the flesh of my shoulders as I held her against the shower wall, thrusting up into her repeatedly as the water rained down on us.

She laughed as we turned the corner onto my street. "Yes! That place was lovely. Remember the old couple in the room next to us?"

"They were louder than we were," I recalled, laughing with her. "Their bed banged against the wall all night long. I swear he was popping serious Viagra."

Tears streamed down her face now. "YES! Oh and when she would call out 'Oh, Herbert'. I mean, Herbert? Not exactly a sexy name."

Shaking my head, I added, "Or when room service brought their order to us by mistake-"

"and we kept it," she finished. "That was a great weekend."

"Yes, it was." I looked out the window, leaning head against it, and wanting to forcibly find a way to stop time. "My house is right there," I pointed to the blue house to our right.

Pulling over in front of my place, she leaned toward me and checked it out through my window. "It's nice. Do you like living here?"

"Not really, but it's a place to stay when I'm not traveling. At least being close to my mom, she can come and check on it for me when I'm on tour. "

We were quiet, the sound of the car idling the only noise.

My entire body screamed at me to stay, but my hand went to the door. "Well, I guess I sho-"

"Want to get a drink?" she interrupted, hope and fear equally coating her voice.

"Fuck yes." I let go of the handle and exhaled. "There's a bar two blocks down on the left. O'Neil's."

She raised an eyebrow at me. "I take it that you frequent it often."

"Nothing like a little liquid therapy," I noted casually.

Looking in her mirror, she pulled back out onto the road, the car in perfect control in the deep snow the entire time.

"Shit," I mumbled as we pulled up in front of the bar, the 'Closed' sign in bright neon letters lighting up the bar-covered window.

"What now?" she asked, pulling back onto the eerily empty streets. With the exception of the occasional plow, it seemed everyone had made it home from the store already.

"There's a liquor store two blocks down," I tossed out desperately. Anything to keep her with me.

"Sounds good to me," she replied quickly, her eyes squinting in concentration as she focused on the slippery road. She had turned on the radio to some pop station to fill up the empty space between us. I rolled my eyes at the repetitive beats and meaningless lyrics.

"What?" She had noticed my dislike of her music taste.

"This music fucking sucks," I sighed, turning to face her.

"You always were a music snob," she defended, glancing at me. Shrugging, I didn't disagree.

A minute later she pulled up to the liquor store, and I was fucking thankful to see the bright lights on. My hand was on the door before she was even in park.

"I'll be right back," I said quickly, hopping out and running into the store. Remembering her favorite beer, I grabbed a six pack and made my way to the cashier. After she scanned it, she asked for my ID and I handed her my license.

"Hey, you're-"

"Yeah, thanks," I stopped her, taking my ID back and leaving the money on the counter. Not waiting for my change, I pushed the glass door open and walked to the sleek Mercedes. As soon as she saw the beer under my arm, she smiled brightly. After getting in, I brushed off the snow.

"It's really coming down," I shook my wild hair, now damp from the snowflakes.

"You remembered," she said softly, pointing to the beer.

Of course.

"I remember everything," I murmured under my breath. As she pulled out of the space, I realized the music had been changed to a classic rock station and I smiled.

"Where to?" she asked as she turned onto the main street again.

"Back to my place."

Silently, she drove us back to my house, stopping in front of it. Shifting into park, she left the car running and undid her seatbelt so she could turn toward me. "Okay, let me have one." She held out her hand, palm up.

I pulled a bottle out, twisted off the cap, handed it to her and then pulled one out for me. As soon as my cap was off, she spoke again.

"A toast?" she suggested before I could take a sip.

"To?"

"Innocence," she said wistfully, holding her bottle out toward me.

"To innocence," I agreed, clicking my bottle to hers soundly before taking a long gulp to the innocence of first love, of meeting your destiny at nineteen. "So tell me, how are you?"

She hesitated before answering, chewing on her lip again. "I'm okay. I got married about five yeas ago, he's a music professor at the college."

"Yes, I remember him well." I took another drink. I had never actually met the man, but I had seen pictures of him, my mother had felt the cruel need to send me the clipping of their engagement announcement from the newspaper. Of course I had seen it already. I had been a subscriber to the newspaper since she had landed the job there, reading nothing but the articles she wrote. For years, I cut out each and every one, putting them in a box. When the box was full, I stopped saving them, but I still read every fucking single one.

"God, I haven't had one of these in years," she revealed quietly.

"No drinks with the hubby?" I spoke with more sarcasm than I had intended.

"On social occasions, and it's usually wine. Never beer like this," she answered honestly.

"You mean no cheap shit?" I laughed, knowing I was right. After taking a long drink, I asked a question I needed to hear the answer to. "Do you love him?"

Do you love him like you loved me?

Sighing at my inquiry, she stared at me, her eyes welling at the corners. "I would like to say I love him, but…." She wiped her eyes with her free hand. "I don't want to lie. I never could lie to you, could I?"

I shook my head no. She was right, she never could lie to me, the truth would always pour of out her before she had even finished completing the lie. My heart healed a bit at her revelation, a few broken pieces mending themselves with others.

"But, he keeps me warm, safe and dry. I live a comfortable life," she finished, trying to smile.

Motioning to the car, I replied, "Very comfortable indeed."

Looking at her, my heart swelled with every emotion I had been missing for the past seven years. How had I even survived one minute without her by my side much less seven years? She was my strength, my will to live, my muse. Blinking away the tears that had resurfaced, her eyelashes clumped together and she gave me a weak smile.

Her beautiful soul smiled at me from behind those chocolate eyes, their depth unimaginable. After three years of almost every minute with her, I had still never learned all that she was, each day I discovered something new about her, something else to make me fall even deeper in love.

"You're still as beautiful as always, your eyes are still as brown as ever," I admitted unapologetically. Blushing, as I knew she would, she looked down. Reaching out, I pulled her chin up. "Don't hide from me, please."

She returned my gaze, letting her cheeks dampen with the tears, her eyes full of doubt at my words, or perhaps it was gratitude at my honesty.

Biting her lip, she nodded and took a deep breath, gathering herself. "I saw you a few years ago."

My heart skipped a beat.

When, where?

"You did?"

"Yeah, you were at a record store in Seattle signing CDs," she answered a bit nervously, her fingers playing with the hem of her sweater.

"Why didn't you say hi?"

My heart raced.

"Because…because I knew if I talked to you again, I knew how hard it would be to walk away. It was hard enough the first time, I didn't think I was strong enough to do it again."

"And now?"

Shrugging, she brought her beer to her lips and took a sip before replying, "Things change."

My heart sank.

Not for me they don't.

"You must be doing well though? You had a huge line of fans," she gave me smile, but it was too late, my cold dead heart had already crumbled.

"I've been lucky, I've got some very devoted fans, they make for great audiences. Performing in front of them night after night was more than I ever imagined it would be. One of the most fulfilling things in my life. But…"

"But?" she encouraged.

"The traveling is hell. I'm on the road nine months of the year. I make enough to travel by tour bus now, but still being with the crew for that long in a small enclosed space takes its toll on your spirit."

"You're home now?"

I finished off one beer and opened another. "Yeah, just until after New Years, then back into the studio to record."

"That's wonderful," she beamed proudly and I couldn't help but smile. She had always been so proud of my smallest accomplishments, from my 'A' in English Lit to performing my first live show at an open mic night.

"Well, let's see if I can become more than just a one hit wonder," I joked.

"When did you learn to play the guitar?" she asked with a raised brow. At first, I wondered how she had known I was playing the guitar, but then assumed she had seen some promotional pictures or something.

"About seven years ago, it kept my mind busy and off matters of the heart. Besides, it's easier to travel with than a piano."

I had grown up playing the piano, I was a natural at it, and had often used it to pick up girls at bars. At the end of our first date, I had asked her inside, bribing a song on my piano if she accepted.

She fell for it hook, line and sinker.

Minutes later, she was sitting next to me on the bench while I played for her by request. For hours, she tossed out song titles and I would play them for her.

My audience of one.

She was the only one that I would ever need in my audience, the only one that I ever wanted to perform for. Years later on tour, I would look for her out in the crowd of nameless faces, hoping that some day she would have come to see me.

And even though I swear I saw, even sensed, her once or twice, I knew it had never happened.

Our first kiss had been on that same piano bench the following week, as well as the first time I had gone down on her.

We had been drinking, and she begged me to play. I played a few choruses of Don't You Love Her Madly and she began to suck on my earlobe. Minutes later, she was on top of the piano, her feet on the ivory keys as my hands spread her thighs for me. The whimpers and growls her body produced as my tongue ran up and down her sex were far more incredible than any music I could ever create.

Withering before me, she fisted my hair as she screamed my name, her orgasm hitting her hard as my tongue flicked over her clit again and again. Sated, she fell back against the top of the piano, commenting how it was suddenly her favorite instrument.

A week later, she blew me while I sat on the bench playing. It took every ounce of concentration to not fuck up while her lips wrapped around my cock, her head bobbing in time with the music I was playing. Eventually, I went to playing with one hand while my other tangled in her hair. When I came deep in her mouth, she moaned, swallowing every drop before releasing me and letting my cock fall limp between my legs, dripping the remainder of my cum onto the bench between my legs.

I fucking loved that piano.

I still had it, only it now sat at my house in the living room next to my couch, the only other piece of furniture I had.

Falling into another silence, an emptiness settling between us that I wanted to physically reach out and swat away. "Another beer?" I held it out for her and she grabbed it, her fingers brushing mine.

That time, she didn't pull away, but instead, let them caress mine before taking the beer. Not willing to let her go so easily, I took her other hand in mine, feeling her immediately relax under my touch.

She used to say my touch was magic, that I had the ability to calm her no matter the situation with just a small touch, a hand on her back, or a kiss to her forehead. While the current exchanged between us, something else traveled in it as well, weaving itself around the wires of the electricity.

My thumb absently stroked the back of her hand and I saw her glance down at our hands, fingers tightly entwined. At first I thought she was going to pull away again, but instead, she gripped my hand tighter and leaned back against her seat, closing her eyes.

Minutes turned to hours, and our conversation continued. I asked her about work, and she described life as a journalist in Seattle. She hadn't made the big time like she had always dreamed, but she enjoyed her work and her colleagues, telling me funny stories about some drunken office parties.

I told her some funny stories about the stunts groupies pulled to get backstage. Usually, I had no interest in the girls who wanted to fuck me. They were useless to me, I had had the best fuck ever and she was sitting right next to me, nothing else would ever compare.

Although, I was occasionally getting horny enough to indulge myself, taking a girl to my hotel room, bending her over the bed so I wouldn't have to look at her face as I fucked her hard before handing her cab fare and shutting the door in her face.

I was a bastard, I knew it.

The only reason I had to not be one wasn't around to stop me anymore.

"Do you have children?" I asked, nursing my third beer. As she finished her second and motioned for another, she nodded.

"One, a boy."

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.

"That's nice. Do you have a picture?" It would hurt like a mother fucker to see him, but I just…had to see him, had to see her in him.

She hesitated, watching me closely before slowly reaching into her bag and pulling out her wallet. Opening it up, she handed it to me. "It's last year's school picture."

I took it from her, and as my eyes traveled over the boy's familiar crazy hair, green eyes and high cheekbones, my hands began to shake.

I was looking at myself twenty years ago.

How had she never told me?

I knew she had always dreamed of hearing the pitter-patter of small feet across the hardwood floor of our apartment. Insanely, I had always promised her many children. Laying in bed late on Sunday mornings, we would giggle about the crazy names we would call them like Jezebel, Ekram, Donar, or Zandra. As her fingers had lazily circled my nipples, I would sigh and imagine her belly round with new life, knowing I would burst with pride at my son or daughter. At same time, I was a prisoner of fear, fear of being the same kind of father mine was, of failing my child, of letting them down, or worse.

What if I told them the wrong thing, gave them the wrong life lessons, sent them in the wrong direction? I could never forgive myself.

What if I didn't live up their expectations of a great dad?

As I stared at the miniature me, his happy grin showing off one of his missing front teeth, I felt my eyes well up with tears. They didn't remain unshed for long and began to make their way down my face.

I felt cheated.

Suddenly, not only had I missed all those years with her, but I had now missed the years with him as well. I had missed the changes in her body as she nurtured a new life, our life, for nine months. I had missed the morning sickness, her angry realization that maternity pants were necessary, and the thrill of the first movement.

Of hearing the heartbeat for the first time.

A heartbeat she and I had created together.

Her heart. My heart.

My fingers trembled as I stroked the boy's cheek. He was beautiful, he might have looked like me, but I could see her soul in his eyes.

"What's his name?"

"I named him after your grandfather."

I wanted to smile, it was an unusual name but strong and fitting. He may not see me every day, but in his name, he carried around a piece of me, of our history.

"Is he healthy?"

God, please let him be healthy. I will never ask for anything else.

"He's absolutely perfect," she answered quietly.

"And he's…." I couldn't finish, there was no way I could vocalize the question, and even though I knew it would utterly destroy me to hear her say it, I had to know for sure.

"Yes, he's yours."

The air rushed from my lungs like I was being crushed, leaving me lightheaded and dizzy. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

I was a father.

"Why?" I finally asked, opening my eyes, I looked at her. I wanted to hate her, to be mad at her for taking away my son, for never even giving me a chance to know him, but when I saw the look on her face, there was not an ounce of hate in my body. She was just as distraught as I was.

The decision to not tell me must have killed her. For nine months, she was alone, scared, her body going through changes she couldn't have imagined, the pain of labor…all of it…alone. I wasn't there to hold her hand, to wipe the sweat off her forehead, to whisper encouraging words as pain shot through her body in waves.

She had been alone.

She held our son for the fist time. Alone.

She fed him for the first time. Alone.

"I had found out two days before you left. You had already said you were leaving and as much as I wanted you to stay, and God, I wanted you to stay, I wasn't going to use our baby as leverage. You know as well as I do, if I had told you, you wouldn't have left. I couldn't do that to you. I wanted you to live your dream. If you had stayed and grown to resent us…it was hard enough on me when you left, I didn't want to explain to our baby why his daddy wasn't around anymore."

Daddy.

I wasn't his Daddy, I was his father. I was the sperm donor. His daddy was the one that tucked him at night, that attended his parent conferences, or that taught him how to throw a football.

"Is he good to him?"

She paused before answering, and I knew she was trying to figure out a way to break it to me delicately. "Yes. He has accepted him as his own. We met when I was six months pregnant."

So she wasn't alone.

"Was he there when he was born?"

"Yes," she answered simply. "He was very supportive, even offered to give the baby his name even though we weren't married."

"Did you?"

"No. He's your son, he has your name."

I exhaled through pursed lips.

"He's beautiful," I told her, handing her picture of our son back to her.

"Of course he is, he looks just like his daddy," she smiled with tears in her eyes. "He plays the piano."

"Really?" I asked, amazed.

"Yes, has only been playing for about six months now, but he has picked it up very quickly." She fumbled with her wallet, flipping through the pictures before handing it back to me.

It was an image of him sitting at a baby grand piano, his bottom lip between his teeth and his brows furrowed in concentration as his hands pressed the keys.

"That was taken at a recital last month. He really enjoys it."

"Does your husband play?"

"Yes."

I nodded sadly.

He must have been the one teaching him.

I should have been the one teaching him.

Instead of being with them both on Christmas Eve decorating cookies to leave for Santa and reading "The Night before Christmas", I was planning on frozen pizza for dinner.

Instead of tucking him at night and kissing his forehead, I was sleeping on a tour bus with my bass player snoring in the bed above me.

I wanted to tell her all these things as they flashed through my mind. All these possible moments she had stolen from me, moments I could never get back.

I want to be angry at her, the words on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out. "Thank you," I managed to choke out, handing her wallet back to her again after committing his image to memory.

She took it, placing it on top of her bag before speaking. "You will always be his father. I have told him about you, and will continue to as he grows up."

"Maybe some day I could meet him?"

It was a dream, something I knew would never happen, but saying it made it seem more possible, like it might happen someday.

"Yes, maybe some day."

It was all I needed to hear to keep the hope in my heart alive, to keep my heart beating for one more day, one more minute.

The world was certainly a better place with smaller versions of her in it.

"Will you have more children?" I looked away, out the window, waiting for her answer.

"No, he can't have children."

Shocked, I turned to her. His only child was my son. For some reason, this made it worse than if she had said yes, they were going to have ten more.

Putting my bottle between my legs, I reached out and cupped her cheek with my hand. Her skin was so warm, and so very fucking soft. "I bet you're a wonderful mother."

That, I had never doubted. I knew I severely lacked any fatherly instincts, but she…she was a great mother. With her generous soul, neverending supply of patience and capacity to love, any child would be lucky to call her mom.

"Remember the kitten?" she suddenly grinned. Pulling my hand away, I thought about the black and white fur ball.

"Fred."

"Yes, Fred!" she almost squealed, laughter starting to bubble up. Fred had been a kitten she had rescued from certain death on the streets one night when we were walking home from a bar. Half shit-faced, I agreed to let her keep it, something I regretted the next day as I woke with a hangover and fucking cat puke on my shirt.

Fred and I had had our differences, but she adored him, and even though he pissed on my clothes and scratched my feet at night, he stayed cuddled between us as we watched late-night television, his purr loud enough to wake the dead as she stroked his black belly.

The morning I walked out of our apartment for the last time, Fred was the last thing I saw. I had left her sleeping soundly, her naked body covered up with a thin sheet as she lay on her stomach, breathing deeply. Kissing her hair, I felt the first of my tears fall before I placed a note on my pillow. It was still dark as I had brought my bags downstairs and shoved them into my car. Sitting in the window, Fred watched as I shut the trunk to my car and walked to my door. I looked up one last time, hoping to see her there, banging on the window to stop me, but instead, all I saw was Fred.

"Watch over her for me," I had said out loud to him as I got into my car.

"How's he doing?" I asked, yawning.

She sighed and looked away. "I had to put him down last year, cancer."

"I'm sorry." It seemed I was apologizing a lot.

"Thanks. He had lived a good life. He missed you…after you left."

It was the first time either of us had directly mentioned my leaving. It had been the biggest mistake of my life. I knew it then, I knew it now, but the damage had been done.

I had felt we were broken, beyond repair. I wasn't worthy of her love, she was so much more than I had ever deserved, and I had just felt lucky to have had her in my life as long as I had. My music was my life, and while she understood that and encouraged, I had begun to feel stagnant. Confused, I had accused her of being unsupportive, blaming her for my drought and lack of inspiration when in reality, I had led myself down that dark path.

And at the end of the day, I stood on that path alone.

"I never should have left." I willed myself not to cry again, but it was too late and a tear fell down my cheek.

"I know, baby, but I understand why you did."

A pang clenched my heart at the use of her endearment for me. Since her, I had never let anyone call me by anything other than my name.

Back and forth I shook my head, the tears falling slowly and silently. "Why did you let me go?"

She could have stopped me. I would have stayed if she had asked.

"Because you needed it, you needed to discover who you were without me," she explained reasonably.

I was nothing without her.

"And look where it led, you have a wonderful career, doing what you want. You're making music, baby," she smiled sweetly, and brought our clasped hands up to her mouth, placing a kiss on mine.

"I should have stayed. We could have worked it out," I looked away, unable to meet the kindness and sympathy in her eyes. I deserved neither of them.

"Perhaps. But, things have a way of working out, and we are where we're supposed to be."

I didn't accept that.

"Do you really believe that?" I challenged.

"I have to, baby. It's what gets me through the days and the very long nights. When I look at him sleeping, I need something to carry me through until the next day. Don't get me wrong, he's a wonderful man, but he's…."

"What?" I looked back at her.

She exhaled and whispered. "He's not you."

There it was. Confirmation that she felt the same way about me as I did her, nothing had changed for either of us.

"Thank you," I sighed, leaning my head back against the head rest.

"For what?"

"Being honest with me."

"I had always promised to be honest with you, I won't go back on that promise."

Swallowing the rest of my beer, I went to reach for the last one and realized they were all gone already. Our time was almost up, as soon as she was done with hers, I would be Cinderfuckingrella and my coach was going to turn into a pumpkin.

"Beer all gone?" she asked, finishing her last sip. I nodded and put our empties back into the empty box. Reaching behind my seat, I grabbed my thawed pizza and put it at my feet.

"Yep." I said, resigned to our night ending.

It was too fucking soon.

"I guess I should go, I'm sure he's wondering where I am. I had just run out for some cookies and ice cream," she chuckled.

They had always been her favorite snack food, chocolate chip cookies broken up and sprinkled on vanilla ice cream. I had tried to explain to her the benefits of cookie dough flavor but she adamantly refused to try it, claiming it would lack the crunchy cookie texture mixed with the smooth ice cream.

She was right of course.

Glancing at the dash, I saw it was a bit after 3am, we had been talking for over four hours.

Four fucking wonderful hours.

Her cell phone rang and after glancing at it, she pressed the red button, effectively sending the caller to voicemail. I didn't ask, I knew it was him, I couldn't imagine anyone else calling her at that ungodly hour.

For a second, I felt bad for him. He was home, waiting for his loving wife, worried about her safety on the dangerous roads. I could picture him pacing their expansive kitchen, his feet in wooly slippers as he put on a pot of coffee.

Then I wondered what the fuck took him so long to call. If it had been me, I would have called twenty minutes after she left, and then every minute after that. Was that a sign that I loved her more, or just obsessed over her?

I decided it was more that intangible pull, and how we just needed to be near the other. Then again, I wouldn't have let her go to the store alone.

"Yeah, I have to be at my mother's by seven," I sighed heavily. I opened the door, and turned to her one last time.

With a sad smile, she leaned toward me and I met her in the middle. Our lips touched and it was as if they had never left each other. If there was such a feeling as coming home, it was then, when her lips made contact with mine again, that I felt like I was truly home. I was surprised when her tongue traced my lips, but I parted mine quickly to grant her access. As our tongues got reacquainted with each other, they swirled and tangled and tasted, exploring each and every inch. Breaking the kiss briefly, she gasped for breath before fisting my shirt in her hands and pulling me closer. Moaning, I tilted my head and deepened the kiss even more, my hands both moving to her, one behind her neck to weave through her hair I had missed so much while the other cupped her cheek, stroking the tears away as they fell freely. Knowing this was the last time we would ever be like this, my own eyes let loose and soon I tasted the salt of my own tears as well as her on my tongue.

Nothing had ever felt more perfect.

Not making music, not playing for sold out crowds, not selling my first CD. Nothing could ever compare to the sheer bliss I felt at that moment.

We pulled away and met again many times, neither of us willing to end it completely. If there was still some contact between us, it wasn't over. Our breaths were short pants, our tear-stained faces glistened in the light of the control panel. Back and forth we went, hands roaming each others' bodies, keeping them as close as we could get over the console of the car. I was tempted to drag her to my side have her straddle my lap, but I knew as she soon as she was that close, there would be no stopping us.

Her pants would be off, mine would be undone and my cock would be buried deep inside her, bringing her to that place that only I could. As much as I fucking wanted it, I couldn't let it go that far, but the ache in my pants was telling me otherwise.

Finally, she pulled away, one of her hands fisting my hair tightly while the other pushed my pea coat open and began to unbutton my shirt. "Can I come in?"

Yes, oh fucking God, yes.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I sighed. What the fuck was I talking about? She wanted this as much as I did.

"But-"

I stopped her with a finger to her lips. "Love, it's not right." I took her left hand from my hair and kissed her wedding band, the simple gold ring that held her hope, her future, her eternal love and devotion.

"When did you get so reasonable?" she pouted.

"Trust me, I am far from reasonable." I looked away, embarrassed at my condition as my erection throbbed. "There is nothing I want more than to bring you upstairs and make love all night long. Nothing."

"But?"

"But you have a husband and son to go home to…and I have to let you." I leaned my forehead on hers and licked my lips. "And this is the fucking hardest thing I've ever had to do, so please, love, don't make it harder."

Tears steamed down her face at my words. We had promised to be honest, I was being honest. I was begging her to leave me, to help me do the right thing because I was so close to doing the wrong thing.

"You owe me a quarter," she smiled sadly, her lips quivering as she tried to hold back the sobs.

Chuckling, I pulled away, freeing myself from her. "I don't have any change on me now, how about next time we see each other, you remind me?"

"You got it, baby."

I picked up my bag off the floor and pushed the door wide open. With one last look at her, I got out of the car.

"Thanks for spending Christmas Eve with me," I said.

"My pleasure," she choked out between sniffles. Quickly, she reached for her wallet and pulled out the school picture of our son. Leaning over the seat, she held it out to me. "Take it."

I shook my head. There was no way I could look at him every day and not have a breakdown.

"Please," she began to sob.

After a few seconds, I took the small picture from her hands and put it in my pocket to keep it dry. I wanted to thank her for…everything. For the picture, for telling me about him, for taking care of him for us, but the words were lost, in my head and my heart but never able to make their way out of my mouth.

I stood outside her car, already missing her. Bending over, I wiped my eyes and attempted a smile. "I will never stop loving you, you know that, right?" I told her honestly.

Nodding, she returned my smile with one just as weak. "I know."

"Drive careful. Merry Christmas," I wished her.

"Merry Christmas to you too," she whispered.

I closed the door and watched my life pull away in a black Mercedes. Standing there until her taillights were too far away to see.

The pain was far worse than I had ever remembered it being. The hole in my chest had expanded and been gutted in a matter of hours and yet, as I stood there on the sidewalk, I realized that I wasn't really alone.

I had her.

Not physically of course, but there was no doubt now that her love was mine, and always would be. Like me, she had never found another, she had just settled, something I had refused to do. She had gone back to her perfect life with her perfect husband but she had left her heart with me. It was mine to watch over, to protect and cherish.

That was a responsibility I would complete with great care, for nothing mattered to me more than her. Even if I never saw her again, I had had this one night, this night of confirmation. Confirmation of how her memories of me kept her waking up each morning as much as hers did me. It was for each of us that we crawled out of bed to face another sucky day, those sweet moments tucked away in the deep recesses of our hearts and minds to be recalled at any given time when we needed them most.

This time instead of fearing the pain, I welcomed the familiar ache. The ache I now knew I shared with her even so many miles away. It was now our ache, each of us baring the burden of it, and somehow, sharing the burden with the one I loved made it easier to carry.

I finally turned toward my house. It was only then that I realized the snow had changed to rain. Tilting my head up to the sky, the rain fell on my face, mixing with my tears. My hand dug into my pocket, fingering his picture. In my head, I could feel his soft hair and skin and hear his giggles as I tickled his belly.

"Thank you," I finally whispered to the unknown force that had put her in that store at that moment. I wasn't sure what great good deed I had done to deserve it, but it had been the best Christmas present ever.

I swear I head her voice say 'you're welcome, baby,' as I walked up the steps to my house.

"**~~**

One year later.

Pulling the Mercedes into my plowed driveway, I reached up and hit the button to open the door to the three-car garage. As it slowly slid up, a song started on the radio, the first new notes catching my attention.

As I shifted into park inside the garage, I sighed as the voice I loved began to sing to me through the speakers. Turning it up to hear him better, to make it seem like he was in the car with me, I listened, absorbing every word his liquid smooth voice sang.

Met my old lover in the grocery store
The snow was falling Christmas Eve
I stole behind her in the frozen foods
And I touched her on the sleeve

He was singing about us, about our night together just under a year ago. Christmas was still two weeks away, my three-story house tastefully decorated with twinkling white lights that hung from the overhang of the wrap-around porch. Our seven-foot tree stood proudly in our bay window, warmly lighting up the formal living room while a smaller tree sat in the corner of our family room.

I had told him I lived a comfortable life.

I had lied.

Sure, I had more money than I could ever spend, my husband was a fantastic investor and held a highly respected job as the head of the music department at his college, the youngest to ever hold such a prestigious position. Being a music prodigy had its advantages.

Of course, he was the second music prodigy in my life. The first had walked out eight years prior, leaving the current to pick up the pieces of my broken heart and string them back together with his kind words and healing touch.

But my life was far from comfortable.

Each day I woke with a dull ache that traveled throughout my body, always finding a home deep inside my heart, squeezing it until I would have to quickly leave the room to find solace in the bathroom where I could privately cry and pray for it to go away.

My prayers were never answered.

Instead I would cry myself out, leaving only once the tears had subsided and I could plaster the fake smile back on my face. At first my husband would knock on the door, making sure I was alright. Assuring him I was fine, he would sigh and turn away.

I wasn't being fair to him and I knew it. Part of me did love him, he was honest and sweet and caring. I couldn't have asked for a more wonderful husband or father for my son, he provided me with everything I needed. There was only one thing he lacked.

He wasn't him.

That man lived on the road, singing for his fans, blank faces that repeated his words to him every night as he performed. I could see the passion in his face when he played; I had seen him in concert at least once a year since he had released his first album. The first time had been the most painful, to see his beautiful face, smiling at the crowd as he joked about the city he was in, had sent tears to my eyes and a sharp pain to my heart.

When I had driven home that night after his concert, I had to pull over to the side of the road half a dozen times as the tears blurred my vision so badly I couldn't see the cars in front of me. I swore then that wouldn't put myself through that again, and yet, when the next year rolled around, I found myself in the fourth row, in disguise, watching him pour his heart and soul into song.

She didn't recognize the face at first
But then her eyes flew open wide
She went to hug me and she spilled her purse
And we laughed until we cried.

Did he seriously think I hadn't recognized him? I had just been…shocked to see him in my hometown, standing there before me in all his glory. The hesitant look on his face as he tried to decide between regret and happiness hit me and I wanted to set his mind and heart at ease immediately. Suddenly, I couldn't stop myself and I was lunging at him, to be in his arms, a thrill I never thought I would experience again.

I would never forget even the smallest detail about him. While the outside world saw his unique colored hair and wide dazzling grin, I had been privileged enough to see the small details; the birthmark on the inside of his left thigh, the scar on his hipbone from a childhood accident, or the soft trail of hair under his bellybutton.

God, he was beautiful.

Tall, muscular without even trying and with crazy uncontrollable hair that always went in every direction, he was an angel walking on earth. An answer to every prayer I had ever said as a little girl, asking for the love of my life to sweep me off my feet.

Not only had he swept me off my feet, but he had grown wings and helped me fly higher than anything I ever could have imagined. It was with him that I was finally complete, no longer wandering the earth for the meaning to life. My meaning had found me in music appreciation class, his adorable flirting and cocky attitude too much for me to resist and it wasn't long before the chemistry between was undeniable and he had asked me out.

I had pretended to think about it, but in reality, there was no doubt that I wanted to be with him, and for more than just one date. Three years we were together, nothing separated us, not friends, family, holidays or long summer vacations.

If we were awake, we were together.

Even asleep, we had found a way to be together, often waking to find ourselves entangled completely with the other, our bodies sore from the awkward positions. We couldn't get enough of each other.

Until we had had enough of each other.

I didn't want to let him go, but he needed it, and I honestly believed he would be back, that he would change his mind after a few nights alone.

I should have known his pride would never allow him to come crawling back. Separately we suffered. The calls I received at all hours of the night with nothing but soft breathing on the other end evidence of his nightly drinking binges. I doubt he even knew he had called me, his fingers probably dialing our number out of sheer habit. While he immersed himself in alcohol, I immersed myself in studying, continuing on for my master's degree, knowing I needed to provide for our child.

It was in one of those classes that I had met my husband, and slowly he won my trust. I was obviously with child, my stomach well-rounded during my sixth month. For a month he had sat next to me, making light conversation before we eventually joined a study group together. With him next to me, I felt less awkward walking in there pregnant and unmarried. Smiling, his hand on my back, he introduced us to everyone and we took our seats next to each other.

For the first time in months, I had felt a twinge of comfort. He provided a security for me I had been missing, a stability I had never known. He was someone I knew would provide for me, for us.

After weeks of study sessions, he had asked me out.

Against my better judgment, I had accepted.

The day my son was born, he was by my side, encouraging me, instructing me on the breathing that we had learned in birthing classes. With one last push, my son was in the world and taking his first breaths. Next to me, he stood in awe, kissing my forehead and whispering in my ear.

"Marry me?"

Of course, I didn't answer him then. At first, I had assumed he had asked in the excitement of the moment, but a few days later, he repeated himself, telling me he wanted to give me the world.

I said to give me time.

After careful thought over what was best for my son, I finally agreed and we were married a little over a year later, after we had both completed our degrees.

He had been there every step of the way, those sleepless nights, first steps, first words, first day of school. He had been devastated when we received the news that he was unable to father children of his own. Holding him that night in my arms, he cried, murmuring his apologies for being an incomplete man. Soothingly, I had stroked his hair, repeating that he was a complete man, he was a fantastic father and husband, and that would never change. I felt his loss, his grief for unborn lives, life that would never happen, never carry his genes or his name. Silently, I thanked God for having given me my son already, and for my husband walking into our lives and fulfilling them even more.

My life was busy hosting colleague dinner parties, writing for the paper, and keeping up with our boy. The busy life had left me little time to wallow in my lost love, and gradually, I had begun to feel a small sliver of normal again, with only the occasional breakdown.

Until Christmas Eve last year.

Since then, the ache was more present than ever, but unlike before when I had shunned the pain, I now welcomed it like an old friend. No longer did it cripple me by bringing me to my knees, but instead, it made me smile to myself.

For I now knew the burden of the pain was equally shared by us both, and knowing that he felt it too made me feel closer to him, a secret we shared with only each other.

Sitting there in my garage as he sang to me, I cried completely and fully. Not even remotely trying to stop the tears as they fell down their well-traveled path on my cheeks. My lips quivered as I smiled at his lyrics, telling our story to the world.

Sharing our love with everyone but no one at the same time, for no one but he and I knew the true meaning behind his words.

We took her groceries to the checkout stand
The food was totaled up and bagged
We stood there lost in our embarrassment
As the conversation dragged.

The conversation had never dragged, but we had tiptoed around a few subjects, automatically avoiding those that would cause the most pain. It wasn't until I mentioned our cat Fred that the topic finally turned to his leaving, and my letting him.

Had I known a simple 'stay with me' would have kept him with me, I would have not only said it, but screamed it at the top of my lungs.

The morning he left was easily the worst day of my life. He had given up on us, on me, accusing me of not supporting his music when I had done nothing but stand behind him. I had held his hand when his parents berated him for his career choice, I rubbed his back while he puked from nerves over his first public performance, and I had been there every night when he cried himself to sleep, claiming he wasn't good enough to make it.

When he told me I wasn't supportive enough, my response was one of anger and defensiveness, screaming evidence of my support to him as he stood in front of me red-faced, his chest heaving.

After my rant, I had stormed out of the room, not giving him a chance to reply. Hours later, he knocked on our bedroom door, entering quietly and laying behind me on our bed. His body spooning mine as he wrapped his strong arms around me and pulled me close. He held me and we cried together, his tears dampening my back, mine dripping onto my pillow.

It was the beginning of the end, and we both knew it. It was only a matter of time after that until he was packing up his things and stuffing them into the trunk of his car.

The night before he left, we had spent together in bed; we had made love, bringing pleasure to our bodies even as our hearts were breaking. Tears had fallen freely as we gasped and cried out each others' names as we came in unison. It was only with him that I had ever been able to achieve such ecstasy, only when his body was in mine did we reach heights unknown to any other lovers. I had had a few chances to tell him about the baby, but each time I went to, something stopped me. I couldn't do it, I couldn't take away his dream. He would have stayed, he might have even been happy about it at first. Then months later, after many sleepless nights, reality would have settled around us like a cancer, masticating within our pretend happy world until it needed to be cut out.

Instead of suffering even more down the road, and having to explain to our son why his daddy had left us, left him, I let him go without telling him. While he doubted his potential to be a great father, I never did. Those Sunday mornings when we half jokingly discussed children, he would always frown and say something about not being good enough.

He never thought he was enough.

He wasn't enough to fulfill his dream, he wasn't enough to stay with me.

But he had been more than enough, he had been everything I ever needed, and he needed to find that out for himself.

We had to let him go.

The remainder of the night, we had clung to each other, not willing to part even for a second.

Until daybreak when even before rolling over, I had sensed he was gone. My body stiff from the night before, I woke up crying, blindly reaching out for what I already knew wasn't there.

He was gone.

On his pillow next to me was a note.

"I will always and forever love you. I just need to find myself so that I can be the man you deserve, because, love, you deserve so much better than me. Please live your life, please be all you can, you are brilliant and beautiful and you will forever be my one and only.

I love you with all my heart, with all that I am or ever will be.

Forever yours, Me"

My hands went to my stomach and as I cried, shaking in fear. Over and over again, I told our baby that we would be okay, trying to convince myself. I knew it was a lie, I would never be okay again, but for our baby, I would pretend to be.

Eventually, I knew I would be able to smile again, and that it would physically make me ill to do so, but until then, the suffering was insurmountable, and unlike anything I had ever felt before. Even though I carried a new life in me, one that would share his features, I had never felt more alone in my life.

Turning the radio up, I let his voice sooth my frayed nerves, a power he had always held over me. I had always joked it was his superhero power, his magic touch. No matter the reason for my nervousness, whether it was introducing him to my parents for the first time, or the night before a job interview at a small local paper, he would come up behind me, kissing my neck and breathing words of confidence in my ear as his hands rubbed my arms.

The day he met my parents, we stood on their porch waiting for them to answer the door, I was shifting back and forth, biting my lip and he put his hand on my back, reaching under my coat and sweater until his skin was on mine. Instantly my heart slowed and my breathing returned to normal. I knew he was just as nervous as I was, but he hid it much better, just giving me grin when I mouthed thank you to him.

When he was next to me, I could face and conquer anything.

Only it wasn't just his touch that had the ability to calm me, his voice held the same unique quality.

We went to have ourselves a drink or two
But couldn't find an open bar
We bought a six-pack at the liquor store
And we drank it in her car.

I chucked at the memory of his reaction to my Mercedes, he had never been found of flashy ostentatious cars, and here he was willingly climbing into one, rolling his eyes as he had played with all the buttons on the dashboard like a curious toddler.

We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness
But neither one knew how.

She said she'd married her an architect
Who kept her warm and safe and dry
She would have liked to say she loved the man
But she didn't like to lie.

Smiling at the new profession for my husband, I wondered why he had changed the career. Of course my husband didn't know who he was. He just thought I was a fan of the music, he never realized I was in love with the man behind the music. My husband had even offered to go to one of the concerts with me, and I had politely refused, making up an excuse about the music not being his type. There was no way I could let him see my reaction to my love on the stage, he would have certainly known.

I said the years had been a friend to her
And that her eyes were still as blue
But in those eyes I wasn't sure if I saw
Doubt or gratitude.

It was definitely gratitude he had seen; never did I doubt him even when he accused me of it. Glancing in the mirror at my dull brown eyes, I saw the mascara had blackened under them. He had protected me once again by changing my eye color, and I thanked him for thinking of me.

She said she saw me in the record stores
And that I must be doing well
I said the audience was heavenly
But the traveling was hell.

I knew the traveling had been hell on him. Perfectly content to stay at home rather than travel the world, it was only because he had to in order to promote his album that he had done so willingly. Performing he loved, but only in the comfort of the local places he knew well.

His dreams were so big and so small at the same time.

We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to now
And tried to reach beyond the emptiness
But neither one knew how.

While our conversation was winding down, and we had reached that awkward moment of good-bye, my cell phone had rung. I knew it was my husband even before glancing at the screen, and I pressed the ignore button. I had left the house over six hours before and this was the first time he had tried to contact me. He knew me well; he knew I needed those moments, or rather, those hours, to be alone. Without my asking, he granted me the space I required in order to stay happily married. During these times I often just drove around, sometimes ending up at the beach to walk on the sand or driving down the old streets that I knew every crack and bump of. My mind would travel the path of memories, holding hands with the good and the bad as I walked with them, relishing in each one, the caresses, loving words, and passionate stares. After these breaks from my reality, I would return refreshed and ready face another day. Realizing I was truly lucky to have the husband I did, I would always kiss him when I came home, usually making up some weak excuse that he pretended to buy and then we would move on as if nothing had ever happened.

He never asked where I was, or suspected I was with anyone, he just…trusted me with all that he was.

And it crushed me. It crushed me to know that while physically I was his and his alone, my heart was in the hands of another, one that had taken it the first time he laid eyes on me, and to whom I had so willingly gave it to. Since that day, my heart had never been my own again, it belonged to him, and all I did was make it through each day with the hole that had been left behind.

It crushed me that my husband suspected this and yet, he still loved me, supporting everything I did and was.

We drank a toast to innocence
We drank a toast to time
Reliving in our eloquence
Another 'auld lang syne'...

The beer was empty and our tongues were tired
And running out of things to say
She gave a kiss to me as I got out
And I watched her drive away.

When he mentioned the kiss, my heart raced at the memory. Never had I felt anything more perfect than the reunion of our lips after so long. Nothing had changed, the sparks still flew, his lips were still full and soft, his tongue still a velvet ribbon. I had only intended on giving him a small goodbye peck but once the contact was made, I wanted more, so much more. Gradually, our hands wandered, and we deepened the kiss. When he had pulled away, I was only seconds away from straddling his lap.

Although I know if I had, my pants would have been off in seconds, and I would have been impaling myself on his erection, pulling off my shirt and offering myself to him.

I had never wanted anything more in my life.

Then he pulled away and got all reasonable. He was rarely reasonable and I hated when he was. I wanted to live in the moment, but he was right.

I wouldn't have regretted it, not for one second, but one time would not have satisfied me.

When he reminded me of his love, I wanted to scream at him, tell him to run away with me, be with me, save me, be my superhero again.

Instead, I gave him a picture of me and his son and let him close the door and wave good-bye. As I drove away, I watched him in the rearview mirror, standing there lost and alone. The snow had changed to rain and I saw him tilt his head to sky.

"You're welcome, baby," I said out loud in the car.

I had once again let him go even though it went against everything that I was. I had done the right thing, but it felt so fucking wrong.

As soon as I was out of his view, I pulled the car over and threw it into park. Leaning my head on the steering wheel, the anguish overcame me and wrecked my body, my shoulders shaking, my wails filling the car as I screamed in frustration and sadness.

I loved him.

And I had left him.

Many times, I considered turning around and going to him. My hands were on the wheel as I lifted my head, resigned he was my destiny and it was in his arms that I belonged. Smiling at the thought, I shifted into drive and pulled out onto the street, turning around.

I sat outside his house for an hour, watching him. He was in an upstairs room, his bedroom I assumed and for a few minutes I saw the flickering of a television. That was new, he had never really watched much television when we were together, instead he had put on music for background noise.

The flickering stopped and I got ready to leave. Leaning back, I closed my eyes briefly, my hand on the handle of the door ready to make my escape to my savoir. After wiping the confusion away, I shifted into drive, and looked up at his window just in time to see the curtain fall back as his hand had released it.

After all these years, he was still watching over me.

Twenty minutes later I had pulled into my driveway and quietly entered my house. I tiptoed into my son's bedroom, his walls decorated with airplanes and clouds. He slept on his back, his head turned to the side, his small perfect lips curled up into a smile. In his tiny arms he held his teddy bear, and in his head he dreamed of Santa's yearly visit. Making my way to him, I stopped by his bedside and brushed his crazy hair off his forehead before leaning down and kissing it.

"Good night, my sweet boy," I murmured to him. "Your daddy loves you very much." Standing up, I wiped the tears from my cheeks and took a deep breath, building my resolve. Leaving, I went to my bedroom, undressing and climbing into bed next to my wonderful sleeping husband. Kissing his forehead, he stirred and opened his eyes.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I was just helping out a friend. Go back to sleep, honey."

He was honey, the love of my life was baby. I would never call another baby.

He smiled and snuggled up to me.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart," he murmured before sleep claimed him again. I didn't sleep, I didn't even close my eyes, my thoughts never veered the man I had left on the sidewalk.

Even the warm arms that held me close couldn't hold my heart together.

Just for a moment I was back at school
And felt that old familiar pain
And as I turned to make my way back home
The snow turned into rain –

The song ended with a soft low note to his voice, and I began to wipe the tears from my face. Amazed at his ability to put his feelings into words, much less lyrics, I felt a surge of pride.

He had made it, was living his dream.

We had both got what we wanted, only it wasn't together.

I had settled, and he had made his dreams come true.

As soon as the last note of our song had faded, I turned the radio off. Smiling, I whispered to the silence in the car, knowing he couldn't hear me but maybe he could feel me.

"I love you, Jasper."

Looking up, I saw Edward standing in the doorway, giving me his handsome crooked grin, and next to him stood Austin in jeans and tee shirt with a football in his hand.

Waving excitedly, he called out, "Hi, Mommy!"

"You coming in, sweetheart?" Edward asked, concerned.

I nodded and held up one finger, needing a minute to fix my make up. He flashed me another grin and reached down, picking Austin up, tickling his stomach as he did so. Austin lulled his head back releasing a loud laugh followed by spouts of giggles.

My husband and son walked into our house, leaving the door open behind them, waiting for me to join them in our comfortable life.

Just then my cell phone rang, an unfamiliar number came up and I answered it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, love,"

I smiled through my tears.

"Hey, baby."

"**~~**

So…yeah.

Honestly, this is probably my favorite thing I have written, other than an upcoming S&S chapter. It is also the first time I have written from a 'her' pov.

Should I hit the 'complete' button? Let me know….