Friday

A beautiful romance with a twist ending

Cary slid behind the wheel of his battered old car, bracing himself for disappointment. The bitter cold had drained the life from its frail battery, and sure enough, the engine refused to turn over. Just another stroke of bad luck. With a sigh, he twisted the knob on the radio. *He Stopped Loving Her Today* filled the space around him, the melancholy strains of George Jones wrapping around his thoughts like vines clinging to a collapsing wall. Cary lowered his head, hands gripping the wheel, lost in memories of a time when love had given him everything.

Back then, life had been seamless. He had no regrets, no missteps, no hint that the foundation beneath him would one day crumble. His career had ignited straight out of college, a perfect trajectory that landed him at the helm of the corporate marketing division for a major insurance firm. He was charming, sharp, magnetic—a natural-born leader. People admired him, sought his guidance, envied his success. At twenty-five, he had the world at his feet.

And then he met Kimberly.

It was an ordinary Friday at the Crescent Moon Tavern, just another lunch with colleagues. Cary had been absorbed in work talk when a presence made itself known—a glance, a pull, an undeniable sense of connection. Across the room, a young woman watched him, dark brown hair brushing her shoulders, a delicate frame wrapped in quiet confidence. When their eyes met, she smiled, just barely. Cary smiled in return.

She was breathtaking, but it was something beyond beauty that kept his mind tangled around her presence for days afterward.

A week later, he returned to the Crescent Moon, hoping lightning might strike twice. He brought his friends again—part strategy, part self-preservation. But she never appeared. Disappointed, he moved toward the exit. And then, as the heavy wooden door swung open, she stood on the other side.

She took his breath away.

They paused for an instant, each frozen in that delicate balance between hesitation and inevitability. Cary finally spoke.

“Hello. My name’s Cary.”

She smiled. “Hi, I’m Kimberly.”

That was the beginning. And God, what a beginning it was.

Their love was effortless, a tide that pulled them together without resistance. From that moment forward, Cary and Kimberly belonged to each other—two lives seamlessly entwined in a quiet, undeniable certainty. Their nights blurred into laughter and whispered confessions, their mornings into shared coffee and sleepy smiles. Cary marveled at her brilliance, the way she saw the world through a different lens, sharp yet soft, pragmatic yet full of wonder.

Kimberly was deliberate in everything she did. She built her success in finance with discipline, rising through the ranks of banking with an elegance Cary had always admired. He loved how she held herself—poised but unpretentious, assured but kind. She had a way of reading people effortlessly, of knowing what they needed before they spoke. With him, she was warm, open, unguarded in a way that made Cary believe in forever.

On the fourth anniversary of their meeting, Friday, October 23, 1987, Cary set the stage for the perfect moment. The Crescent Moon, a bottle of Merlot, candlelight flickering against a backdrop of noisy conversations. The world around them faded as Cary reached across the table.

“Will you let me make you the happiest woman in the world? Will you be my princess bride?”

Kimberly lowered her gaze, the candlelight casting shadows across her delicate features. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft but firm.

“I’m sorry, Cary. I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve let this go on too long.”

The words shattered the air. Cary couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t comprehend. *Pretend?* He replayed her answer in his mind, searching for meaning, grasping for a reason—any reason. But there was none. She stood, turned, and walked away. Just like that, it was over.

Days blurred into nights, and nights stretched into hollow emptiness. Cary vanished into his apartment, sealing himself away from the world. The glow of the city outside meant nothing now. He ignored the phone, left the television untouched, and sat in silence—except for the endless replay of George Jones, a cruel soundtrack to a life that had been shattered in a single sentence.

The first few days, he still believed she might call. Might show up at his door with an explanation that would make sense of it all. But the call never came, and slowly, something inside him began to break.

Cary had been a man of certainty—his career, his ambition, his love for Kimberly had all felt solid, immovable. He had built his world with logic and careful choices, always confident in the right path forward. But losing Kimberly had torn the foundation out from under him, and suddenly, nothing made sense. *What had he missed? What had gone wrong?*

The torment of *why* festered inside him, and with each passing day, his grip on reality loosened.

His absence at work did not go unnoticed. Concerned colleagues called, knocked on his door, sent messages—but he ignored them all. Eventually, the company had no choice but to replace him. He had once been the rising star of the corporate world, but now his name was just an afterthought in board meetings.

By the third winter, Cary had drifted beyond even the scraps of normalcy. His rent money ran thin, the landlord’s patience wore out, and on a frigid Friday afternoon, he was evicted.

He climbed into his old clunker, the only remnant of his former life, and turned the key—not to start the engine, but to hear the radio.

George Jones was playing.

Cary let out a breath that misted in the freezing air, lifted the bottle of whiskey to his lips, and closed his eyes.

The next morning, a neighbor spotted him slumped over the wheel and called the police.

Cary had not made it through the night.

His identification confirmed his name, and a notice was placed in the classifieds. Two days later, a woman arrived at the morgue. She wept over his body for several minutes, handed the mortician five hundred dollars for his burial, and walked away, wiping tears from her eyes.

The following Friday, Kimberly sat alone at the Crescent Moon, just as she had done every week for the past two and a half years. The same corner table, the same glass of Merlot, the same restless glances around the crowded room. But Cary wasn’t there. Not today. Not any day.

Regret burned through her, heavier now than ever. She should have said yes. Or at least she should have explained—given Cary the truth instead of leaving him in the dark. But the fear had been stronger than the love.

She had made a mistake—a stupid, avoidable mistake. A fleeting night, a moment of doubt, a hesitation that had turned into a permanent goodbye. And now Cary was gone.

As she reached the heavy wooden door, she hesitated, gripping the worn handle with trembling fingers, willing him—just this once—to be standing on the other side. To smile and say, *Hello, my name is Cary.*

But not today.

Not ever again.