"True love is rare,

and it's the only thing that

gives life real meaning."

-Nicholas Sparks                            

ABBIE  

     Chatter and laughter filled the small covered patio Liv and Josie decorated with streams of ambient Edison light bulbs and sheer off white drapes. My girls went above and beyond, beautiful thick linen tablecloths line the row of foldout tables against the siding with shades of cream and soft blush. Peony scented candles flicker between the bottles of wine, finger sandwiches, and bowls of chips and dips. On another table, Thick oak curcutachure boards and elegant trays plated with cheese and wine pairings, gourmet cupcakes and macaroons, nearly overflow the edges.

    Pass the patio the streams of light continue, as cream and blush pillows decorate the cozy seating around the firepit. Alivia talked Sean into not only grooming the lawn but buying a seven-blade push reel lawn mower to do so. She claimed it was the only way the grass could be trimmed to the perfect length, the only way to get it to resemble a golf course. Just like an uppity Country Club's Wedding Shower but for an eighth of the price. After all that, somehow, she even persuaded him to vacuum all the grass cut offs away!

In the manicured grass, Daddy and Wonda played a game of cornhole against one another. The boards gifted to Wyatt and I as a congratulations present. It brought a refreshing tug to my chest seeing him smile, seeing him happy. He deserved this. Come to think of it, he and Wonda had become inseparable lately. They were the ones that gifted us the homemade handcrafted boards.

Lifting two flutes of champagne for Josie and Liv, I join them at the fire pit, standing between their chairs. "Here you are ladies, much deserved! My backyard is completely transformed, it's gorgeous!"

"Not as gorgeous as you! look at you in that dress!", Josie quickly interjects, swatting away my compliment. I knew she secretly loved the praise of anything she organized, but the award to her was never the applause of her work, but watching the guest's admiration of the finished product, the satisfaction of appreciation without direct words.

Wyatt's hand finds my revealing skin as it follows the fabric that dips to the waistline.

"Can I borrow my Bride to be for a moment, please?" his voice raspy and stern yet smooth, a formal tone of Wyatt rare to hear.

"Well, I never thought I'd witness the day Wyatt Pectin told me please!" Liv jokes, tossing back the rest of her drink as she stands to get refills for her and Josie. Leaning in with a whisper before she walks toward the patio. "Sure, but it better be a quickie." Another giggle spills from her tipsy lips as she throws an over-the-top wink to the both of us.

His hand still lingers at my waist as he guides me to the kitchen. Tugging at the collar of his magnolia white dress shirt, Wyatt smiles at the guest that stood near the outer windows, the curtains still drawn open from the morning sun. Whose eyes flickered up at our movements from the kitchen while grabbing a slice of cheese or pastry from the table. He shifts to use my body as coverage. Dipping his head to block his mouth from view, his voice a low grizzly rumble.

"Do you have any idea how badly I want to rip that dress off you and let your hair down from those pins?" His eye lids are heavy as they trail down appreciating each visible curve of my body. Not heavy from the effects of alcohol but from lust and desire. Something about his words speak differently to me, begging to hear more.

Going on, he licks his lips, "Wait for me in the bathroom", he demands with a familiar teasing smile.

I nervously obey, lingering at the island for a second before calmly walking away. Adrenaline pours through my veins at the idea of guest right outside. What if they knock or hear our moans?

After a moment I hear Wyatt's dress shoes, thud in long strides against the wooden floor down the hall. Opening the loudest squeaking door known to mankind, he joins me in the small guest bathroom.

"Shhhh" we both playfully scold, covering our laughter with each other's index fingers. Our smiles fade as our yearning for connection takes control. Wasting no time my hands clash to his firm chest, his sweet pecks lingering along my neck as if tasting my skin, until he lifts me on to the counter, swiftly hiking up the long dress to rest at my thighs.

"All I ever wanted is you, it's always been you."

I stare for a moment, full of contentment. "Make love to me Wyatt", a breathy whisper pouring from my lips with a need for only him.

Neatly unbuttoning his shirt, I'm careful not to wrinkle the smooth cotton, needing to feel his warm skin against my own. His touch, gentle and slow, carrying a more graceful approach than the one only seconds ago. Feeling as if I could cry from happiness, I did. Fulfilment forces my eyes to flicker as passion filled droplets dwindle down my flushed skin.

My heart fluttering, buzzing from excitement, eager for our connection as our love for each other dances delicately in the air. His eyes were observant, unrushed, taking in my naked body as he slowly unzips my dress as if seeing it for the first time, leaving succulent kisses on my chest trailing to my collar bones. Enfolding his waist in my arms, I guide him to my hips, burning for more. Burning for him. His strokes are tender, each a confession of his devotion. With our bodies as one, we move in sync, each organic stroke Flawless, as if choregraphed to our own imaginary tempo that only we have the pleasure of hearing. Our breaths carrying the tune to a beautiful rhythm to the outro of our song.

The acoustics of the tray ceiling on the patio allows James Arthur's voice to intensify, as Josie hums the chorus to "maybe" in perfect pitch. I watch Wyatt from across the yard laughing with my dad as they play a game of cornhole, and I admire his willpower to cut himself off at one beer. Its proof therapy has been beneficial, that Wyatt no longer needed to lean on a bottle of bourbon to mask his pain.

In these two months Wyatt's sleep has improved, his vivid nightmares only recurring once a week as most. He started to inch away from the infamous bottle, he tried so hard to keep away from me. Once again not wanting to show his struggles and the pain he felt from overexerting himself during his weekly PT appointments. On Thursdays after work, I'd always find him home without a bottle- or glass to be found, but the smell of charred oak and honey that seeped from his pores told me of his secrets. He was pushing his body too hard and paying for it after.

The night of our fight, he calmly walked out of our home, as if at peace with our outcome. Leaving dinner to simmer on the stove, never to stir it again. He disappeared in the dark hall without granting me one last kiss, without even turning to look back for one last time before the door, gently clicked as he turned the lock.

I remember him telling me three days later- with Dr. Simpson, how he drove around for hours before ending up at one of the tap rooms in downtown. Busey Brews. He slept in that old beat-up car of his after drinking until he puked- to the point of dry heaving. He drank until he knew the nightmares wouldn't appear, until he couldn't remember, until his mind was empty- like a blackhole. With the inability to see terror or me.

He drank in hopes I wouldn't visit him in his dreams, persuading him to come back home, telling him he was foolish to think I was "too damn good" for him. That he shouldn't fight this fight without me by his side.

But the blackhole he drank to have didn't keep me away. I did appear in his bourbon filled dreams all those nights. He said I was the reason he walked into Dr. Simpson's office that morning.

Ting tinggg. The sound of silverware gently tapping a champagne glass attracts my attention back to reality as I turn to find Liv standing from her chair, she stumbles a bit before catching her footing, "better slow down on these!" she jokes, an opening to her speech. Wyatt crosses the Instagram worthy yard in a few smooth strides before joining my side.

"I would like to make a toast to not just one best friend, but two. I think it's safe to say, a love like the two of you share is something most people and many of us here, for that matter long to obtain, but often don't. Because of fear, because of the unknown and the endless "what-if" possibilities. But your love has always been strong enough to endure! You found love in hardship, hardship neither of you deserved to experience, but despite it all, true love found its way home. A thousand miles across the states or even seven thousand miles across the sea, your love for one another has always persevered. Wyatt and Abagail, your love is a force of nature that has always pulled you bac-- ."

Emotion causes her voice to silence. We all watch as her flute slips through her fingers, shattering on the glossy pavement. Tiny glass fragments shimmer from the ambient lighting as she stands frozen, her eyes never once looking down at the glass but instead fixed on something passed the crowd. Before I get a chance to follow her eyes, someone else taps at their champagne glass. Directing our attention to another toast.

My gut churns and I quickly grip onto Wyatt's arm, as a far too familiar accent breaks from the silence.

"A Toast! To my son and beautiful daughter to be!"

The crowd parts like the red sea and Jason, slowly walks into view. Smiling at our guests with that same pearling smug smile that taunted me years ago. I wanted to run, but I remembered Simpson's words; Jason was- is sick. Swallowing my pride, my heart growing with worry, I force my lips into an outline, I hope favored a compassionate smile.

"Mr. Jason, It- It's so nice to see you."

"The hell it is." Wyatt's voice utters, firm yet not loud enough to upset the guest.

He stands only feet apart, craning his neck back to meet Wyatt's gaze. As Liv joins us, Sean in tow.

"Hi! I don't think we've properly met, Imma kick your ass!"

"Livi no!" I shout, but my words spill out too late. He stumbles back, not expecting to get socked square in the face by such a small woman. But she wasn't done, she stands there shaking her fist, the skin of her delicate knuckles already cracked from his mouth. She lunges forward once again taking us all by surprise, clawing out her revenge on the man that left her to die.

Sean peels her off as she screams and kicks, fighting his grip.

"Sean, let me go damnit!"

"Sean, please!"

"Jason? Are you alright?" I swallow the lump in my throat, as Wyatt's brows furrow in confusion and disgust. "Why don't you let us take you to the hospital? You need help."

My father walks around the firepit, lending a hand to help Jason from the ground. But embarrassment rages in his eyes as he swats the hand away. Lifting to his feet, he pulls the folded cream-colored handkerchief from his chest pocket and wipes his lips. Cream? He knew the color scheme; He'd been watching us.

"Scottttt, great to see you again-" His voice, never changing, the words gliding slow and smooth in his one-of-a-kind privileged tone. What the heck, this man really is crazy. The rage once in his eyes has dissipated.

"Wyatt, why don't you call Dr. Simpson and tell her to meet as at the hospital." Wyatt's confusion dissolved once he understood I was trying to defuse Jason of any violence until back up could get here. I don't care if he is alright, or thankful of his uninvited appearance. I just want him gone!

"Hey, dad. Why don't you get in the truck, so I can take you to get checked out, make sure Alivia didn't break any bones or damage any teeth."

Liv scoffs as Sean still holds her to his chest, "I prayyy to the good Lord above I did!", She shrieks. Breaking from Sean's grip, she quickly jolts across, merely inches from his face before she stops. Looking him up and down with disgust she puffs back, spitting in his face before my dad could scoop her up dragging her away.

Wicked laughter spills from his bloody mouth, after he wipes the spit with his freshly stained handkerchief.

"Now Alivia, is it? Did your parents teach you to always be respectful of your elders? Don't you think they would find is disappointing to find out their little girl was such an impolite bitch?"

"Don't you dare talking about them!"

"Seems you need a refreshment, some discipline perhaps?" He mocks before pulling for a gun, concealed in his navy blazer.

Josie's voice cuts through the crowd in a screeching panic.

"Gun! He has a gun! Everyone out!"

Old friends and customers from the café, Coworkers from school, and members of Wyatt's recovery group run in horror, bumping into lone standing tiki torches, flower filled vases and other guests. Wine bottles and glasses once neatly decorating the tables tumble to the pavement! Shattering as deep pools of red soak the floor. I watch as a trail of flames dance to the drapes that once over hung the patio catches on fire! Wyatt jerks my arm trying to pull me away from the growing flames, but Jason clutches the train of my gown. I whip around trying to free myself as the fabric tears.

"Let go!" I cough as dark smoke rolled beneath the awning.

"You belong to me! Our deal isn't over!" he shouts over the cackling flames, pointing the gun to my throat, he motions us to the back gate. Behind him the fire roars. Louder. Brighter. Soon engulfing our small patio in flames, weakening the load bearing supports, the outer post gives at the center allowing the corner to collapse as we walk away, clipping the back of Jason leg! His stunning reaction causing his finger to slip.

My ears ring, I can no longer hear the fiery blaze crackle in front of my eyes as I'm being dragged away, I watch Jason's life fade, the fire consuming his pinned body. Getting up to run, my knees give out, failing me as I fall to the grass. Muffed voices and screams burry me as I lie there unable to move.

Wyatt scoops me in his arms, shouting something inaudible. The ringing of the gunshot still clouding my sense of sound. Gunshot. My neck falls limp against his broad chest. Near his shoulder, blood as bright as candy apple red soaks his new white button up. I watch as the ring grows larger in diameter by the second. But he continues to march, his jaw tightening as he carries me out to the street. The air cool.

"Your Bleeding!" When I finally speak, I feel as if I am drowning. My vision becoming a blur, the candy apple red turning to sangria, darkening into a deeper red, like a shade similar to black cherry until the only color I see is as dark as oil.