ᴡʜʏ ᴀᴍ ɪ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ?

My wipers sweep the fallen rain off my windshield in rhythmic thumps akin to my broken heart.

I'd just left my sister's wedding reception. Tired, tipsy, and angry, kicking myself for being the oldest child yet unmarried. So many times I could've been like Brenda, Nicole, and Lucy—my little sisters—who've found their soul mates and tied the knot, but every time I came close, something got in the way.

My first boyfriend after college left me abruptly. Why? I chose a major that would earn more money than his, and he figured it'd diminish his manhood.

My second boyfriend cheated on me while we were on vacation. Why? Apparently, I'm boring, and she thrilled him in ways I never could.

The third boyfriend proposed to me after a year. I was surprised when it happened because it wasn't yet my longest relationship, but he seemed committed, faithful, and secure. I pictured myself in a house near the beach, feeling the sand melting under my feet and taking in the salty air every morning. I'd be a mom of five and pregnant with another child; I'd take up yoga, pottery, and scrapbooking; and I'd be a counselor for children and teens.

That dream was stolen from me when he was killed in a car accident.

That was over a decade ago.

I'd been on numerous dates yet never moved past acquaintances. The most they'd want from me is a nightcap to ease me into fourth base. Those kinds of guys are so predictable. I could predict their responses before I answered them.

"No," I'd say.

Then they'd say, "Fine by me. You're not even all that hot anyway," and leave the table, footing me the bill. Like a fool, I'd pay it and cry myself to sleep.

After a few more dates, I made it clear to myself that whoever chooses me, I'll never let them leave. I'd do everything I could to satisfy them. I would keep them entertained so that we would be so in love that we would be married in less than a year.

All I needed was to find him.

I lift a hand to my radio, turning the knob against my thumb and index finger. The car fills with static, the weather interfering with the channels in the area. I sift through the static as I bounce my gaze from the radio to the road and back.

Static, static over voices, and more static.

I shut off the radio and grip the wheel in both hands while straightening my posture. The wipers thump and the rain slams against the glass like pebbles. I can't see much other than the streetlamps cutting through the fog and the occasional high beam soaring past me. 

Even though the wipers sound like an ultrasound, it's strangely soothing. I sniffle and brush away tears as they glide down my cheeks and hang off my chin.

I glance at the water bottle sitting in my cup holder, then lean over to grab it. I bring it to my lips and take generous gulps, the cold water calming me as well. Someone stops in front of my headlights and stares at me with wide eyes. His body goes rigid like mine, and I flinch so hard that the water bottle slips out of my hand.

I yell, "Shit," as it tumbles onto my lap and spills its contents down my swing dress. I mash on the brakes and spin the steering wheel. The tires screech against the wet road, and my lights shine on a few people as they stop to see what's happening.

I'd been cruising, unlike the other drivers, so lucky for him, I don't hydroplane. I swerve the vehicle, and the back slams into a light pole before coming to a stop on the side of the road.

Taking heavy breaths, my body jerking back and forth with each one, I stare at the man in front of me. He's wearing a parka, jeans, and rain boots, but I can see his face as clear as day. He trudges toward me and squints. He raises his hand to block the light but continues to hold his eyes in slits.

I look down at the water soaking my dress' hem, and a voice in my head keeps ushering me to slam on the gas and mow him down. I know it sounds dramatic, but it feels like this day is getting worse and worse.

A scowl casts over my face like the storm clouds that set in less than an hour ago as he stops at my door. He cups his hands over his eyes like binoculars and presses them to the glass. Before he can peer inside at me, I press the button to roll the window down, and he jumps back while dropping his arms.

Once it's fully down, we stare at each other. He's wide-eyed and slack-jawed; I'm glaring and tight-lipped.

"Are you okay," he asks, his voice trembling and his body shivering under the thick material. He wraps his arms around himself for warmth, but the poofy sleeves refuse to deflate. I scoff, the emotion not leaving my eyes.

"I should be asking you that question," I tell him sarcastically, then drop my hands onto my lap. "Because what would possess a man to jump in front of ongoing traffic and sit there like a deer in headlights?" He doesn't answer; he just shivers like a chihuahua. My eyes shut as I let out a deep sigh, and my shoulders slump forward. He looks young. He has a small face, but big eyes like a doll; thick, bushy eyebrows; and a large nose that seems to peek out of the coat's hood. He looks about as innocent as my little brother, so, naturally, I ask him, "Do you need a ride?"

He glances over his shoulder at the few people walking the streets, dragging their feet, and staring at us. He turns his head to me, smiles with his top row of teeth, and nods. I gesture to the right with my head, my brown ponytail flopping across my shoulder, and he sprints around my car. I watch him splash through the puddle in front of my headlights, then I flip the switch to unlock the passenger door. He settles in as I roll my window up.

"What's your name," I ask him while setting the half-empty water bottle into the cup holder. His teeth chatter, and he takes a deep breath that shudders in, then out.

"Johnathan." He lifts his hands in front of the vents, trying to catch the warmth through his pale palms. His fingers are stiff and slender, slowly relaxing and gaining color. "Hey, can I turn the heat up? I'm freezing."

"Yeah, sure." He turns the dial, and a gust of Sahara-like heat pours in with a whoosh. He leans into the seat with his eyes shut and his mouth open, exhaling from relief and comfort. He slides the hood off his head, and I watch his every move. I've never seen him before, but there's something familiar about him. "Well, Johnathan, where to?"

He stops unzipping his coat, sitting as still as a statue. "Um," he drones. He furrows his eyebrows at the windshield for a second, then relaxes them and shrugs. "The church up the street."

I wanna ask why since it's a Friday and almost midnight, but it's none of my business.

I take my foot off the brake, then steer us back on the road as I gently press the gas. We cruise through the rain in silence. Every now and then, I'll glance at him, and he'll either be staring out his window, dozing off, or watching me too.

This goes on for a while before he softly says, "You never told me your name."

"Oh, sorry." I chuckle at my sudden lack of manners and shake my head. "My name's Amanda, but you can call me Mandy."

"Mandy," he repeats under his breath, like he's memorizing it. I glance at him and press my lips together to give him a weak smile. He smells like wet grass and earth, and the heat is probably cooking the scent into my seat, but I'll worry about that later.

"So, why're you wandering the streets?" I turn at the light, and the tires splash through puddles, sending the murky water flying aside and running down parked cars.

"Wandering the streets," he repeats with a higher inflection and a raised eyebrow. The next street is a one-way road that is narrow and congested, with lines of cars parallel parked along the curbs.

"Are you a parrot," I ask through a smile, then chuckle. We pass row houses with lanky trees enclosed in fences. Some lights are on, and others are off.

"Am I a parrot?" My smile fades, and I narrow my eyes at him. Johnathan smirks at my reaction. "I'm joking. To answer your first question, my girlfriend—well, ex-girlfriend—broke up with me and kicked me out."

"Oh," I mumble, my mouth spreading from ear to ear afterward. I clench my teeth and suck in a breath like I'd burned myself. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It was bound to happen anyway." He shrugs. Most people put on a facade of not being hurt, but his voice and demeanor are calm and poised. Nonchalant. He turns his eyes onto the road, then brings a hand to his head, and his short nails brush back his widow's peak. The defiant strands lay with the rest of his dark, gelled hair.

We ride in silence again, taking in the moonlight, street lamps, and unrelenting weather. By the time we reach the church, the wind picks up speed and sends anything it can spinning through the streets. Trash bins and litter. Also, clothes flap under clothespins that secure them to lines running out of apartments.

"So, what's here," I ask while slowing in front of the church. The lights are on inside, and a few cars are parked along the curb.

I stop in the road, and when he says, "A homeless shelter," my eyes widen for a moment. Johnathan turns his head toward me as my face relaxes. I stare at him with my lips apart and a breath stuck in my chest, unaware of what to say. I've never experienced homelessness and didn't know anyone who did. I don't know his age, but he looks no more than twenty-one.

"Don't you have parents?" He snickers, his shoulder jerking forward.

"Well, my dad's in Tacoma with his wife and kids," he tells me, and though it sounds like a question, I nod to show him I'm listening. "My mom died when I was young, so," he drones the last word, his voice trailing off. I shut my eyes and mentally kick myself for bringing it up. "Don't sweat it, I'll most likely be back at her place in the morning. We fight and make up over and over."

"That's not normal." He zips his parka, his eyes watching his hands glide the zipper up to his chin. I wanna take his chin and turn his attention to me, but I refrain from crossing that boundary. Instead, I lean forward so my face is tilted and his eyes meet mine. "You know that, right?"

"Trust me, I know," he says without the usual joking tone. I sit back, and he turns his head to watch me. "But there's nothing I can do about it, but leave when she says leave and come back when she apologizes."

I twist my pursed lips aside and lower my eyebrows. Johnathan pulls his hood over his slicked-back hair, then stares at me with his lips folded inward. He turns to the door and sets his hand on the handle.

"Wait." He grips the handle. All he has to do is nudge the door, and he'll be free to leave, but he doesn't. He looks at me. "I have a guest room." He opens his mouth and raises his eyebrows in alarm, like I'd threatened to kidnap him. "I know it's weird, but I don't feel comfortable with you being here. Not that anything would happen to you, but if I can help it, I'd rather you spend the night at my place and maybe even call your dad."

All that fills the silence between us is the swishing wipers and falling rain. A car cruises past and water hisses under its tires.

"Listen, Maddie," he says after a hitched breath, pausing between each word.

"It's Mandy," I monotonously correct him, and he nods in remembrance.

"Right, yes, Mandy." His brown eyes drift toward my window, but mine don't leave him. He takes a moment, like he's figuring out the best way to decline. Not that I'd take no for an answer. "Um," he mumbles, closing his eyes. They reopen in my direction, and he takes another breath. "I'm sorry, it's just that I don't know you."

"And I don't know you," I tell him without needing to think. "But I know that if my brother were homeless, I'd want someone safe to take him in until we could bring him home."

My tone is flat and direct, lacking the timidity laced in his. His eyes sweep across my body and stop on the damp stain at the bottom of my A-line dress. He glances at the building to our right, taking it in as if it'll be the last time, then drops his hand onto his lap.

"Just for tonight." I can't tell if he's reassuring himself or directing the comment to me, but I let it go in one ear and out the other.

***

I shut the door behind him with a smile. His mouth is wide as he admires the cream-colored furniture, a few little sculptures, and gray walls showcasing art pieces and family portraits. Many of them I plan to replace with pictures of my husband and kids, but it hasn't happened yet.

"Mandy, this place is beautiful." My smile widens until all of my teeth are on display and my cheeks burn. I lower my head, and he proceeds further into the house. I'd given him permission to make himself at home. "Your husband must make a lot of money."

"Actually, I paid for this." He whips around to stare at me with those already big eyes now widened. "And I'm not married."

"Fiancé?" I shake my head no, and his eyes dim until they're slanted in doubt. "Boyfriend?" Same answer. "Wow. I'm sorry, I'm just surprised. You seem so put-together and—very attractive, if you don't mind me saying," he pauses before the compliment, but my face warms nonetheless. It's been a while since I've heard it genuinely, with no strings attached or expectations. "Any man would be lucky to have you."

"Thank you," I softly tell him, not out of shyness but because his words are more than I'm used to. I look past him. "Um, your room is past the staircase."

The next day, he calls his girlfriend and I step into the living room, where he is. He's pacing in his clothes from the day before, his hair damp from the shower and clinging to his forehead. He's been arguing with her for over fifteen minutes, and I could hear it upstairs.

She hangs up, and he stares at the screen with knitted brows. He tucks it in his pocket and sits on the couch across from the lit fireplace with his face in his hands.

"Are you okay?" I walk around the couch and sit beside him. He drops one hand and squeezes his forehead with the other.

"She's officially done with me. After five years, she's leaving me for a guy at her job," he says, but it sounds like a question. He lets out a long, forced, and lifeless chuckle, then shakes his head. "I suppose we'd better head back to the church."

"No." He slowly peels his eyes off the rug under our feet and narrows them at me. "I'm not letting you be homeless, Johnathan."

He doesn't respond for a moment; he just stares into my eyes with his lips parted. Finally, in a hushed voice, he asks, "Why're you doing this? You don't even know me."

"My brother," I start to remind him of my reasoning, which is only partly true now, but he interrupts me.

"Yeah, I understand that, but," he says, trailing off before going silent again for a few beats. He slowly shakes his head. "I could be, I don't know, some axe murderer, and you're so comfortable with me being in your house—alone."

I draw my lips into my mouth and lick them, glancing at his. A lamp is on behind him and me, highlighting his soft features under its dull orange glow.

The fireplace burns chopped wood and sends embers and smoke up the chimney. The only sound is our faint breathing, and the wood crackling behind the gate.

I quickly got used to having someone around; their gender doesn't matter. Just having another voice in the house, another warm body in a bed, someone who needs me, is what matters.

So, to preserve that, I'll do or say anything to keep him here.

"I doubt you're dangerous. I'm not afraid," I answer honestly. He cracks a smile, his eyes narrowing tighter, like he's waiting for me to laugh.

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna go," he says, dragging his words through an awkward grin. My face is stone, and my eyes are cold. "I'll call an Uber."

A wave of pain rushes through my chest like the many times I've been rejected or broken up with, but my expression doesn't change. He stands and walks past me, heading around the couch. I follow his movements with my eyes until he's to my right, and then I stare ahead at the roaring fire.

I see flashes of each man who'd broken my heart, their voices as clear as day and scents permeating the air despite never getting a chance to come over. The one that hurts the most is the one who was taken from me—Phil. The anticipation of marriage and kids, dreams left unfulfilled, and a long life cut short by a selfish drunk driver.

I've lived alone for so long that solitude feels strange now that I've had a taste of company, even if this guest only stayed for a night.

My eyes flick onto the fire iron leaning against the fireplace, and I stand to approach it. I step closer with tunnel vision until I feel the fire heating my legs and feet below my satin gown, and then my attention falls on the framed pictures on my mantle. One that stands out is Phil and I visiting Manhattan for the first time.

A tear rolls down my cheek.

"I called it. He's up the street." I grit my teeth and clench my hands into tight fists. "Thank you for giving me a ride, food, and a place to stay. If it mean anything, I plan on calling my dad and maybe fixing our relationship. I know he misses me, I just gotta put my ego aside and—talk," he tells me, pausing toward the end. My back is to him, but I don't hear his boots thudding across my floor, so I know he's standing there. "Thank you."

I shut my eyes when his rainboots squeak, the sound growing faint as he approaches the door. When my eyes open, the dormant tears rush down my cheeks and collect on my chin. I shudder, my hand wrapping around the rod's handle. It's warm and as firm as a metal pole, and black as coal.

"Johnathan," I call for him as the locks click. I turn slowly, shaking despite standing close enough to the fireplace that my skin is turning red. I take rushed steps into the foyer and stop in my tracks, seeing him at the door with his hair brushed back and his phone in hand. He glances at the object in my hand and furrows his eyebrows. "The hours I've spent with you were worth more than the years I lost with certain people. You made me laugh, smile, feel loved and appreciated."

He peeks at the dim screen in his hand, his fingers turning pale as he clutches it like it'll be taken from him.

"My ride's a few minutes away," he says with caution in his voice. I snicker, a tear rolling across my lips. I step closer, and he backs into the door. His eyes widen as I fill the space between us.

"You don't have to leave." His doe eyes widen and flicker between mine, waiting for my next move. He watches my sadness and desperation fall down my face. He doesn't respond, so I lick my lips while staring at his. They're the only features he has, besides his ears, that are small. I lean in, but stop when he pulls his head back. It rests against the door.

He opens his mouth and takes a breath, but nothing comes out other than air. His eyebrows are knitted, and his once innocent and jovial eyes are darkened in terror.

I plunge the tip into his navel, and he sucks in a breath, his body retracting under his shirt and coat. I watch his shirt drink his blood. The dark red climbs the white material like paint on a tie-dye shirt or ink dripping from a quill onto paper.

I watch his mouth hang open and his eyes bulge. He brings his free hand to my face and grips my jaw, my lips puckering like a fish as he squeezes my cheeks together. I twist the rod and shake my head out of his grasp, my left hand joining the right. They shove the rod further, and he gasps once more, his phone slipping onto the floor.

His hands wrap around my neck, and his lips quiver over gnashed teeth. In a fight for his life, he squeezes my flesh like a wet rag he's trying to wring and lifts me off my feet. Tears build along his lashes and mine. I gasp for air, my mouth open and my peripherals darkening.

I lean my arms back like a game of tug-of-war, then surge the stick further into his abdomen. I twist and pull, then shove it back through until I tear through his muscles.

His tears fall along with his body, pulling me to the floor with him. I land on my hands and knees, coughing and wheezing; with him on his side in the fetal position.

His shirt is saturated in red and clings to his frame like a second skin. His eyes are open and aimed past me in an empty, endless stare.

My shoulders rise and fall with my chest as my lungs fill with the air he starved them of—smoky air full of sweat and the stench of blood. I lift my hand, and it flops onto his neck, my fingers lazily feeling for a thumping pulse but finding nothing but damp flesh.

I exhale with closed eyes and draw my arm to my side.

His phone buzzes and pings, a pale blue light flashing from the screen. I lift it and turn it to face me. A long, intricate crack formed when it fell, resembling a broken spiderweb. I see a message from the Uber app, telling him his driver left, and a smile spreads across my face. It's shortlived when I pull down the scroll and see three missed calls from someone saved as Anna.

A message appears:

you were right about Jason..he only asked me out to make you jealous. where are you?

I glance at him over the phone, his eyes still open but his eyelids drooping.

Then another message:

do you need me to come get you? we can talk about it and try to fix our relationship. i promise to go to counseling with you and make an effort.

I lick my salty lips and take a deep breath before responding for him:

this isn't gonna work..this thing between me and you. I've moved on. you should too.

But I know that even if he were alive, even if years passed and they broke up again, he'd never find me again. He'd have forgotten about me, or if he remembered me, he'd refer to me as Maddie or a series of names starting with M until I was a distant memory altogether.

He'd never choose me...