“I will only ask you one last time before I blow your brains out. Who sent you?”

I watched as Kene’s hands tightened around the gun he now pointed at me. My thoughts spiraled and I ignored the terror that I should have felt. My eyes followed his fingers—his long, beautiful fingers that always had silver bands and intricate rings adorning them—then they traveled to the curves of his palms, his warm, familiar palms that would once cradle my face, and trace lazy circles on my skin.

I tried to focus on the situation at hand, but my mind wandered and my senses betrayed me, because my gaze drifted downward and landed on the veins that ran along his forearm and disappeared into the sleeve of his shirt, veins I would once press my fingers against and trace with my lips until he shivered beneath my touch.

Click-clack.

The sound of the gun’s trigger shifting into place yanked me out of my daze, bringing my errant thoughts to a halt and shifting my focus back to the supposed danger that was all too real before me.

“Jesus Christ, Kenebechukwu, put the gun down. Nobody sent me,” I pleaded, “For the billionth time, it’s me. I’m back.”

Kene stiffened on hearing his full name, his face twisting into that expression again—the one that made my stomach knot. 

Call it hallucination, but I noticed a short moment of hesitation, almost like he was nearly convinced that I was telling the truth. But in an instant, the doubt vanished, and his grip tightened on the gun.

“You’re insane. I’m calling the police,” he snapped.

“Please, by all means, go ahead. I’m the one who’s strapped to a chair and has a gun pointed at her,” I said, watching the brief flicker of uncertainty on his face. Then, with a sharp breath, I added, “Call them. Let’s see who they apprehend.” 

My attempt at reasoning with him worked because he sighed deeply before hesitantly untying me. He loosened my hands from behind the chair where he had bound them. Kene was always a little paranoid, because who ties a stranger to a chair and points a gun at them? Albeit, his paranoia was just another one of the plethora of things I adored about him. 

My mind wandered again, but it was once more interrupted by his curt, detached voice.

“I’ve untied you. Now please leave my house and do not come back. Tell whoever sent you that you did not see me and that all of this isn’t funny.”

Kene was no longer confused. Whatever aura of sentiment that once clouded his gaze had suddenly vanished and been replaced with irritation.

I knew I had to take a different approach if I was looking to achieve anything before the five-hour visit I had earned was over.

I got off the chair and walked past the tabletop where he had discarded my pizza delivery, then over to the living room where I leaned on the edge of the couch which he had plopped on.

“One date. To talk. That’s all I ask, please,” I said softly.

Kene shot me a piercing look, and for a second, I thought he was going to lunge for the gun again—because he truly believed I was a lunatic on the loose. One that Domino's Pizza was desperate enough to hire and send on a delivery to his doorstep.

To my surprise, his response was, “So let me get this straight—you came into my house pretending to be my dead wife because you want a date with me?”

Hope. Okay, maybe ‘hope’ was me reaching, but that was an opening—an opening for me to push further.

“Yes and no.” I exhaled, searching his face, “I’m not ‘pretending’ to be your dead wife, Kenebechukwu, it’s me. It’s Emma. And—”

Kene let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he was trying to physically rid himself of the absurdity. He ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers down his beard before locking eyes with me again, his expression unreadable.

“Well, honey, you don’t walk like Emma, nor do you talk like her, and you sure as hell don’t look like her. And I’ll tell you why.” He paused, inhaling deeply as if trying to steady himself before the words left his lips. “It’s because she died one year ago.”

The air between us thickened. 

I swallowed hard and let the weight of his words press into my chest like a stone. I wanted to reach for him, to shake him, to will him into looking past the delivery girl standing in front of him and seeing ME, really seeing me. But I did not, I focused on convincing him instead.

“I know I died,” I whispered. “And it happened in the most stupid way. And it was my fault. But I’m here to give you the ending we deserved.’ I scoffed, “ At least a few hours of it. I need you to believe me.”

My breath hitched as I watched him. As I watched the war happening behind his eyes. And for a moment—just a moment—I saw it, he believed. I knew he would feign doubt, but I saw it. He believed me. 

A cold shudder raced through me, but before I could speak again, he cut in.

“I will go outside and call neighbors, I will call your company, I will drag you on Twitter, madam—” he paused to look at the name tag on my T-shirt, then called it out—“Ada, because whatever sick joke this is, I’m not having it.”

“Ask me anything. Something only Emma would know,” I demanded, holding his gaze.

“Good God! Is this a bad dream or—”

“You know it’s not a bad dream, Kene, and I know a tiny part of you believes me already… Otherwise, you would have truly thrown me out by now.”

I glanced at the ticking hands of the large wall clock that hung loosely on the wall, the sound suddenly unbearably loud. I was on borrowed time, and it was slipping too fast through my fingers.

“I don’t have time. Please, just… just think deep and ask me.” 

Kene exhaled sharply. Then, after a long silence, he said, “Fine. February 14th, 1999, Emma and I wrote ourselves what we called ‘love lines.’ Five sentences. We memorized it, tore the sheet, and threw it away.” He swallowed hard as the memory dug into him. “Afterward, we recited it to each other repeatedly and swore never to forget the lines. What was Emma’s?”

Nostalgia clashed violently with the bitter truth of the present as I sucked in a shaky breath, and my hands slowly curled into fists at my sides, clutching at my chest as if holding tight would somehow steady my breathlessness.

“That was one of the best days of my life, Kene. I could never forget.” I stepped forward, closing the space between us, catching his eyes, and holding them there as I spoke.

“Five sentences.” My voice broke as I began, and Kene held his breath.

“You are my light in an endless dark. You are the home I run to when the world becomes too cruel. I cannot imagine a universe where our paths don’t cross or our stars don’t collide. Every love song reminds me of you. Always and forever, and then some more.”

Kene could not hold back his tears after that. His shoulders rose and fell in silent sobs, as he whispered, “How? How is this happening?”

“I had to see you one more time. To tell you that I am sorry. Always and forever was the promise, but I’m the one who got drunk and drove out in the night even after I promised you I wouldn’t,” I answered, my voice trembling. 

“Hey… hey.” He cupped my face, his thumbs grazing my cheeks. “It wasn’t your fault, Emma.”

As soon as he called my name, I gasped as a brilliant white light emanated from behind me, broadening into a hole.

My smile widened, and I screamed, “YES! You did it, you called my name! You believe! I told them you would. I told them! That’s all I need to be able to come back, baby! You can go back to sleep now.”

“Them? Who? Emma, what are you talking about?”

POV: Kene

The sound of the doorbell ripped through my sleep, and I jerked up with a gasp. I held my banging head as I tried to piece together the dream I just had.

Ding-dong. The doorbell again.

I dragged myself to the window, squinting through the blinds. And I saw her. Ada. The girl from my dream. Standing on my doorstep, holding a Domino’s Pizza package like nothing was out of the ordinary.

I blinked hard, once. Twice. Expecting her to disappear, but she did not. Instead, she stood there, waving, watching me, with her lips curling into a bright, uncanny smile.

_________

#februarycontest