Chapter 3: The Weight of Memory

Aubrey was my first love in high school.

There’s a sting to those memories as an adult. The faded yearbook photos, cafeteria pizza, the thrill of sneaking hand-holding behind the bleachers—it all hit me as we drove past our old school.

No matter how many years passed, or how many anniversaries I spent with Natalie, part of me always ached for Aubrey.

To everyone else, she seemed materialistic—after all, she dumped me after graduation because I was broke.

My friends warned me, said she only cared about money, that she’d never settle for a guy without prospects. Maybe they were right, but it wasn’t the whole story.

I always told myself she loved me for me. She stuck by me when all I had was a clunker and a pantry full of ramen.

She laughed off our cheap dates—movie nights at home, late walks in the park. For a while, it felt like enough.

That year, she was the spark that made everything feel possible back then.

She pulled me out of my shell, made me believe I could be more. With her, the world felt bigger.

Even after we broke up, I never stopped wanting her.

Her senior photo lived in my wallet for years—the corners worn, the colors faded, but I’d take it out whenever I felt lost.

Every job, every late night, every business risk—I wanted to be worthy of her. I wanted to show her I could be someone.

But in my third year after college, just before my career took off, she married someone else—a rich guy.

I saw it on Facebook: her profile photo, a sunlit beach wedding in Florida. It felt like a gut punch.

I spent that night drinking alone at McMullin’s Tavern until dawn, puking my guts out in the parking lot.

I thought that was the end of our story.

For years, I buried it. I moved on with Natalie, dove into work, tried to build something out of the ashes.

But nine years after graduation, three years into my life as a boss, I met Aubrey again.

It was a snow day. I left a meeting and found her waiting outside the office, shivering in a thin coat, eyes rimmed red.

She had a bruise under her eye, her lip split. My heart seized as I rushed to her side, umbrella forgotten in the slush.

She told me about her ex—the gambling, the violence, the night she finally ran. My fists clenched, jaw tight with anger.

But she grabbed my sleeve, stopping me from doing anything stupid. Her hands were cold but steady, her voice trembling with hope and fear.

I pulled her close, her hair damp with melting snow. "Bad people ruined our dreams before, but now, we can start over."

The words spilled out—a promise I’d buried years ago, coming back to life in the snow.

We clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, we’d get our second chance.