Willow Grove

I’m so glad we’re finally doing this, Kelsea. I hope you don't mind that I brought you flowers. I have no idea what your favorites are, so I just got roses. I hope you see that as classically romantic and not woefully generic.

Yes, don’t worry - I didn’t forget to bring the wine, see? I’m sorry that I only brought one glass, I figured we could share. Anyway, one glass is a little easier to conceal, since we’re not really supposed to be drinking here. But as you say, it’s not really a date without wine, right?

It’s that reserve merlot I told you about. I’ve been holding onto it for… well, for a while, anyway.

Look, there's a lot of stuff I've been wanting to say to you for a long time. Please don't freak out, okay?

But first, let's take a sip.

What do you think? It’s got this darkly sweet flavor. The label says it has notes of “cocoa and black cherry.” I don’t know about any of that, but it is good. Way better than the stuff from the pub, right?

Anyway, the truth is, I noticed you the very first day you came to work at The Late Owl. I mean, you can’t blame me. You walked into that dingy pub with your shiny red curls and slight frame looking like some ethereal forest sprite.

But it was months before you noticed me behind the bar. I mean, yeah, you knew my name was Graham, and you were friendly with me, but we only really spoke about the customers’ drink orders. Our conversations were limited to two-word sentences like, “excuse me”, “got it”, and “thank you”.

You didn’t really see me.

No, it’s okay, I don't blame you. Blending in with the scenery is sort of my superpower. I should be in a DC comic, I’m that good.

Not like you. You light up everywhere you go in a supernova of charm and vitality.

So I get why I wasn’t on your radar. There were just too many other guys vying for your attention, from flirtatious patrons to the hopeful schoolmates who occasionally stopped by the pub to chat you up.

I was just a lanky bespectacled nerd with a bartending license who couldn’t string two sentences together around you.

So, I was really surprised when you did take notice of me one day.

Remember? It was at the Owl after a particularly busy night of rowdy customers. They’d finally headed out into the rain to go home, and it was just you and I left to clean up and close. You approached me with a tray of empty glasses, setting them down on the bar with a loud clatter that befitted your exasperation.

“Could those guys have been any more obnoxious?” you asked.

I braved a glance up at you as I towel-dried the clean drinkware, giving you a sympathetic smile. “Not really.”

You said, “It’s nights like these that make me think school was a mistake.”

You went on to tell me about how expensive university was and that if you had just stayed in your tiny hometown back east, you’d be making a comfortable living in the family lumber business. But you didn’t want to work in a stuffy office perusing profit and loss statements for wood pulp. You wanted to move to the city, get your journalism degree, and change the world, one eye-opening exposé at a time.

You never questioned your calling until now, when year-end exams were looming ominously and school assignments were piling up faster than the overdue bills you split with your three chore-shirking roommates. You felt like you spent more time scrambling to make ends meet within the walls of this dismal pub than you did covering politically important topics out in the world.

Wood pulp and spreadsheets weren’t looking so bad these days.

You told me all of this while staring down at the tray of empty glasses. For a long moment after you finished speaking, the only sound was the gentle patter of rain against the windows. I wondered briefly if you had forgotten that I was standing there and you were just talking aloud to yourself.

But then your blue eyes flitted up to meet my gaze, and it was clear you were waiting for me to say something.

“You definitely didn’t make a mistake,” I contended after a beat.

I told you I was in the same boat, and that I came from a backwater town up north to escape a life of laboring in the quarries. I only bartended at The Late Owl to pay for couch space in the studio apartment I shared with two other students while I worked towards my history degree.

“Following your calling is hard, but not as hard as living a life you don’t want,” I finished.

“You’re right,” you agreed, and this seemed to restore your spirits a bit. “So, why history?”

I shrugged. “It really fascinates me. ‘To study history means submitting to chaos and nevertheless retaining faith in order and meaning.’”

“Ah! Hermann Hesse, right?”

I nodded, inwardly impressed.

You sat down on the barstool then, and it dawned on me that we were having a real conversation.

“Hey, get me a glass of merlot, would you, Graham?”

I reached under the counter to grab a bottle but then remembered there wasn't one. “We ran out of the merlot an hour ago… I can’t believe those knuckleheads nearly drank us dry.” You looked a little disappointed, so I added, “You don’t want to drink the swill we serve here anyway. I have a way better bottle at home if you like merlot.”

You straightened up, a half-smile on your lips. “Is that an invitation?”

My heart leaped into my throat. Now was my chance.

“Yes.”

You gave me a sidelong glance, as though you weren’t sure if I was being serious. I doubt you were able to glean any hints from my expression; I’m told I have a killer poker face.

But you played your hand.

“How about tomorrow evening? We could meet at Willow Grove. It’s beautiful there and I was going to go soon anyway to do some research for my next paper.”

I couldn’t believe my ears; I had been dreaming about this moment for months.

Yet, when I opened my mouth to accept, I heard myself say, “Willow Grove? Isn’t that the cemetery?”

You nodded enthusiastically, as though a stroll through the graveyard after dark was a completely normal suggestion for a first date. “Yup, one of the city’s oldest. I’m doing an article about some dignitaries that were supposedly among the first to be buried there. I thought as a history major you might be interested, but if not -”

“No, I’d love to,” I stammered.

You flashed me a gorgeous smile that made me so light-headed I thought I might float away. “Awesome! My last class finishes at 7, so let’s meet there out front at 7:30. Bring that bottle of merlot and we’ll have a drink.”

“I’m not sure that’s allowed,” I replied, and mentally smacked myself. Was I trying to sabotage this date proposal?

“Of course it isn’t, but our date would be more romantic with a little wine, don't you think?” You winked at me and reached across the bar to touch my hand for a lingering moment.

All I would think about for the rest of the night was the way you looked at me then. Looking back at it now, it makes me wonder if you'd been thinking about this date for as long as I had.

I assured you I'd bring the wine. Satisfied, you gathered up your things and bid me goodnight.

Ah, Kels. You have no idea how much I was looking forward to our first date, however unorthodox the setting may have been.

So, when you didn’t show up the next night, it was a real blow. I found myself wandering alone through Willow Grove in a fog of bitter disappointment. I didn't really think you could stand a person up like that, but I chose to believe it anyway. After all, I’d spent months convincing myself that there was no way you could ever be interested in me.

Then I did something I am quite ashamed of. I chucked that bottle of merlot as hard as I could, and it shattered against an old monument. I know, I still cringe thinking about it. It was downright childish and disrespectful.

With nothing left to do after my disgraceful act of vandalism, I made my way back home. I was so consumed by the sting of rejection that the sirens blaring a few streets away scarcely registered.

I only realized what had happened the next morning, when I saw you on the news.

It was the stupidest thing. You were hit by a car at 7:09 pm, exactly halfway between the university and Willow Grove. The driver had been texting while driving and veered onto the sidewalk where you were standing, waiting to cross.

You had been on the way to meet me.

So, Kels, I came here today for a few reasons. The first is to tell you how deeply sorry I am. I’m sorry that for 12 hours, I chose to believe you were the kind of person who would toy with me. I’m sorry the idea that something may have happened to you never even entered my mind.

I’m sorry I didn’t go to your funeral or visit you here before now, in the very cemetery where we were supposed to have our first date. I just couldn’t, it was too screwed up.

The second reason is that I needed you to know how I felt. You weren’t just a coworker and it wasn’t just a date. I was already head over heels for you. When you died - on the way to our date, no less - it kind of messed me up. I stopped going to school. I stopped going to work. It got pretty bad. My roommates finally convinced me to get help.

Eventually, I got my act together and graduated, though a little later than planned. I’ve been teaching 9th and 10th-grade history for the last four years and I love it.

I’ve also met someone. Her name is Jackie and she’s a teacher too. We’re getting married in the fall. She’s great and has been really supportive about all of this.

The last reason is that my therapist said if I came here and spoke to you as though you were sitting here with me, it might help me get the closure I need to fully move on with my life. I told her I already had moved on, but she said if that were true, I wouldn’t still be holding onto this wine.

You see, when I found out you died, the first thing I did was go to the liquor store and buy this bottle of merlot - the same label and year as the one I had thrown against the monument. I don’t know why I did it. It was almost as though getting the wine back would somehow undo what happened. My therapist says it was a trauma response.

Now that I’m here, I think she was right. I needed to talk to you, leave these roses on your grave, and drink this wine.

It’s not how I’d imagined our first date would be.

But, I think I can finally say goodbye now.

Author’s Note

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