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  REGRET

  By Dan Dawkins

  Published by MRob Media LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 Dan Dawkins

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher.

  For Information address: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Jason Collins – Star City Photo

  [email protected]

  ISBN: 978-0-615-44619-6

  “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”

  -Oscar Wilde

  Success. Lies. Accidents.

  Chapter 1

  I didn’t even get my digital camera out of the hotel room. Not even sure where exactly I left it sitting. Maybe on the nightstand, perhaps on the bathroom counter along with my toothbrush and shaving kit, which were also abandoned in The Eagle Hotel as I fled out into the night; early morning, I suppose. That’s ok, though, I didn’t want those pictures anyway. If I looked at them then I’d probably puke.

  No, instead of having a nice, calm packing session, as do most people who are vacating hotels, I instead opted for the guilty-what-have-I-done-I-have-to-get-home-now route. Oh, and I was still slightly drunk.

  It's basic math really. Two adults of the opposite sex, plus a big, far away city, plus hotel, plus alcohol, equals a recipe for potential lapses in judgment.

  I had awakened with a start in room 320. Not my room. I looked at the bedside clock on the nightstand and saw that it was a little after 1:00 AM. Slightly disoriented for only a second, soon the flood of memories of the past few hours poured into me and my breath caught in my chest. A feeling of guilt sucker punched me to the point that it was physically painful. I jumped out of the bed naked and fished around on the floor for my clothes and found my boxers.

  It had all come down to a moment of complete weakness on my part. Weakness and stupidity. I could have stopped it. I had the opportunity to be the logical one, the DD. Designated Decider. We had come back up together on the elevator after dinner, both buzzing off the bottle of wine. The fun that we had sightseeing together during the day had butted its head into dinner and seemed like it wasn’t going to leave. I helped Jenna down the hallway towards our rooms and it was as I was trying to open her door to get her inside that she kissed me. It wasn’t a light kiss, not an exploratory peck. No, she went right for the passionate full force, tongue searching kiss. That’s when I had to make my choice. I thought I had made the right one, actually. My mind had a megaphone and was announcing all the right things. Screaming my wife's name--Amy! Amy!--and letting me know that I knew this was wrong. I did know, and I agreed. Problem was my body didn’t listen.

  I pulled on my boxers and Jenna stirred in the bed behind me. She had drunk a lot more wine than I had, I prayed she wouldn’t wake up.

  I gathered up what I hoped to be the rest of my suit and shoes and as quickly and as quietly as possible slid out the door and into my own room next door. I threw on the first thing I could find in my suitcase--a t-shirt and some blue jeans--and threw everything else as one big pile back in and zipped it closed--forgetting to check the bathroom and locate my camera of course. Four minutes later I was out on the street, hailing a cab for the first and only time in my life.

  "Where to?" The driver had asked as I slung my suitcase and laptop bag in first and then dived in after, slamming the door.

  "JFK." I said. "And I know this might sound cliché, but as fast as you can."

  He nodded and pulled out into New York City.

  I had to get to Amy. I didn’t know what was going to happen, or what I was going to say, but I had to get to Amy. As fast as I could.

  I managed to get lucky--at least I thought so at the time--and was able to get myself on the only flight headed back to Virginia that was scheduled to leave JFK airport before 9:00 AM. I could have waited--should have waited--I know that now, but I feel I will fail you as a writer now in the fact that I cannot come up with the words to adequately express the surge of raw emotions that were alive all through me then. If there hadn’t had been a flight, I would have without hesitation gone directly to rent a car and mashed the gas pedal of some two-door compact all the way home, never once looking in the rearview.

  I flew coach--hell, I would have flown underneath with the luggage--and sipped on a ginger ale, snacking on a bag of pretzels just to give myself something to do except think about what I had done. What had I done? I’ll tell you what I did. I found the woman of my dreams at an early age and fell in love. It got even better because she loved me, too. That’s rare, you know. We worked together, we shared similar interests, we had a home together. We had the happiest life imaginable together, ready to start a family and live out our days smiling and snapping photos at each and every opportunity.

  And then I run off to a different city and sleep with another woman. All while the woman I love is sleeping soundly in our bed, trusting me completely. Part of me wanted to toss the pretzels aside, ask the stewardess to please show me again where the emergency exits were, and then go jump out one.

  I played out different scenarios on the flight home. There was the optimistic view--although very unlikely--where I confessed my sins to Amy and maybe after a rocky few days, or weeks, and maybe even some couple’s therapy she’d forgive me and eventually we’d get the happy ball rolling again.

  Then of course there was the more likely scenario. Divorce. I’d tell her what happened and first the tears would well up in her eyes and just as I moved in to try and comfort her, she’d smack my hands away, screaming at me not to touch her and to get out of the house because she’d never want to see me again. We’d go our separate ways--her with some of my money and maybe even the house I’d gotten from my parents--and life would go on. Or at least attempt to.

  The plane landed and I strolled like a zombie through the airport and out into the parking lot, dragging my luggage behind me. I got in my Jeep and started it. I checked the time on the clock display, it was ten after seven. If I hurried, I could catch Amy before she headed off to teach her Summer School Class.

  I yawned and steered my Jeep towards home.

  Chapter 2

  I suppose I could have just bought a new toaster. I mean honestly, how much could a decent toaster cost? That might be a bad question to ask though, given today’s economy. But still, a new toaster might have kept things from going into motion just a little longer, and maybe things wouldn’t have turned out like this. I tell myself that just to try and feel a little less like a psychopath, but I’m pretty sure I know the truth. Regardless, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  My name's Daniel Dawkins; Dan to most people, and Double D back in my High School football days. But that was a long time ago now. Everything feels like such a long time ago. I'm now thirty years old and trust me when I tell you that my time left living is running out. With the time that I do have left I've decided to tell a story. My story. It's not going to be pleasant, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little afraid of what demons I might stir up in my own head, but I feel this is something I have to do, to make one last contribution to the world. People need to know the truth, the reasoning, no matter how twisted. And the truth is only mine to tell.

  My story starts when I was twenty-two, fresh out of college with a degree in English, and a newly acquired job at my old High School in Hillston, Virginia, teaching Freshman
Composition. I wanted the Creative Writing job but was informed that they already filled that position the week before. The teacher they hired turned out to be my future wife.

  We met on the first day of school, which also happened to be the first day of both our teaching careers. I stood silently and feeling as nervous as a wedding night virgin in the corner of the Teachers' Lounge, watching the very same teachers who had instructed me what seemed like just yesterday go through their morning routines. My particularly grumpy ex-biology teacher, Mr. Briggs, was seated at a table and sipping coffee loudly. Am I actually teaching here, I thought? It seemed unlikely, but I knew it was almost show time and I needed to get ready.

  As it got closer to the time for the first period bell to ring the teachers started to trickle out, off to explain to fresh young minds just why in the hell X equaled Y, or give a lecture on symbolism in The Lord of the Flies. I finished my own cup of coffee and was putting my bagged lunch into the fridge when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I just knew it was going to be Mr. Briggs, threatening me with detention if I was late to class. I turned around ready to say "I’m on my way right now, sir," but instead said nothing. In front of me was a young woman. She had to be close to my age, twenty-three or twenty-four at the most. She was tall, at least five-nine, and not even wearing heels I quickly noticed. She was wearing a black skirt that fell just below the knees and a blue button-up blouse. The top button was unbuttoned, which didn’t reveal anything except the patch of skin just below her neck, but I still felt the tingle of excitement. Her hair was blonde and shoulder length, and she had it tucked behind her ears.

  She was beautiful.

  She smiled at me and it was all I could do to put on a healthy, normal smile, and not a stupid, horny grin. She spoke first, thank God.

  "Hi, I’m Amy. I’m the new Creative Writing teacher."

  I almost got down on my knee right there. I had no ring to give her, but I did have one hell of a good turkey sandwich in the fridge behind me that I would have more than happily given her.

  "Any advice for a new teacher’s first day?" she asked.

  I laughed, and then felt comfortable for the first time all morning. "Tell you what, Ms…"

  "Ridenour."

  "Ridenour. Meet me back in here at three-fifteen and we’ll compare notes."

  She looked at me, clearly puzzled.

  "I’m Dan Dawkins," I said, sticking out my hand. "Also a newbie. I’m about to go teach my first English class and hope they don’t stone me to death with their pencil erasers."

  The understanding hit her and the puzzled look melted away to be replaced by relaxation. She laughed and when that smile made another appearance I’m fairly certain my heart did something irregular. A cardiologist could have confirmed that, but unfortunately Hillston High had yet to adopt a medical program.

  "Well then, Mr. Dawkins, you are officially no help to me." She laughed, I joined in, and she leaned against the counter. Her shirt opened up a little more as she did this and I had to pretend that I would die instantly if I looked down in order to keep my eyes locked on hers.

  "So where’d you go to school?" I asked.

  "UVA. You?"

  I made a disgusted face and turned as if to leave. "Hey. What?" she asked, grabbing my arm. Not first base by any means, but I was about to be on deck.

  "I’m a Hokie," I said. "One hundred percent Virginia Tech proud. I’m afraid our relationship is over. I’ve never met a Wahoo that I liked." I said this all with a smile, to make sure she knew I was kidding, and she thankfully laughed.

  "Well maybe you just haven’t met the right Wahoo yet," she said. Then she gave me a little wink, let go of my arm, and headed for the door. "I expect to see you here at three-fifteen sharp," she said. Then she left.

  I had been late, tardy, and skipped quite a few classes and events at Hillston High School in my day, but I was in that teachers’ lounge at three-fourteen.

  I could go on and on about all the good times of mine and Amy’s relationship, but that’s not what I’m out to do here. I’ve got a more important story to tell, so I’ll just sum this up.

  We dated for a year before I asked her to marry me. Once we were engaged she moved out of her apartment and into the house my parents left me when they moved to live in Florida, the land of octogenarian cults. We married in the summer, and took a two-week honeymoon to Hawaii. Getting the whole summer off as a teacher is perhaps the only perk of the job.

  When we got back to Hillston life went on as usual, only now we were living it together, officially. Amy kept teaching Creative Writing, and I continued on with English, only now I was also spending after school hours as the assistant football coach, which I was glad I enjoyed because the bonus pay was almost unnoticeable on my paychecks.

  So, things went on normally for a while. Teaching, coaching, teaching, coaching, and we were fine with that. Amy loved her job, and I found no real reason to be unhappy with mine. Sure, going over the same chapters of The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, and numerous other classics three and four times a day got old, but I lived with it without complaining. All was well.

  Until one evening.

  The one evening that now looking back on it, I realize is the one evening that changed the course of my life forever. The one evening that in the long run made me do the things I did, and got me where I am. One evening. One suggestion. One impossible to predict outcome.

  It was innocent enough, really. Amy was just looking out for my best interest. Trying to push me to do the things I really wanted to do. I can’t fault her for that. She was just being a loving wife.

  It was a Saturday evening mid-December and the weatherman had predicted an inch of snow accumulation by midnight. What we ended up with was a foot. Schools could be closed for two days just as the result of two or three inches in our area, so you can imagine what Amy and I were thinking when we looked outside. Mini-vacation.

  So, we took the opportunity of an extended weekend to knock off a few things on our to-do list. The first thing on the list was to clean up the attic. When Amy moved in we had to do a bit of re-organizing. Once we got married we did some compromising. All and all the attic ended up full of all kinds of things--mostly mine--that just didn’t have a place in the house anymore. The idea was to go through everything, decide what we were keeping, take the junk to the dump, and set aside the rest for the Community Yard Sale in the spring. You’re probably thinking, not that bad, right? Well, you didn’t see our attic. It was a daunting task, trust me.

  The discovery came about an hour into our labors. I was mid-climb up the ladder leading up to the attic, returning from a trip for trash bags, when Amy called out.

  "Oh my gosh! Why haven’t you shown me these?"

  Scared I might be in trouble, my mind went through a quick index of what I thought I had stored up above. I couldn’t think of anything that would spark such a reaction. I threw the trash bags up and finished my climb.

  Amy was sitting Indian-style on the dusty floor directly under the lone light-bulb that was trying its best to illuminate the entire attic. Next to her on the floor was an opened cardboard box with the word COLLEGE scribbled on the flap in black marker. There were a few text books and binders full of class notes scattered outside the box. Amy had one of the binders opened in her lap. I recognized it immediately and her question suddenly became clear.

  The binder was bound in a dark brown leather, the kind you might see on an old volume of some book hidden way in the back of a forgotten library. Its appearance was inviting and comforting, exactly the type of look I wanted for my writing.

  At some point during my sophomore year at Tech I discovered how much I liked seeing the stories I had written in print. I wrote on a computer, obviously, simply because we are in the age of the word processor instead of pencil and paper, but there was something about seeing the words freed from the screen, out in the living, in the flesh, that made things that much more exciting for me. It made me feel like a real writer
. It was nice to hold in my hand what I had written. It gave me a sense of accomplishment, a greater sense of satisfaction.

  So I had purchased the binder, the one Amy was holding now, and spent an entire Sunday printing off my stories, putting the pages in plastic sleeves, and arranging them inside the binder. For every story I completed after that I did the same. It wasn’t long before I had filled the first binder, and moved onto the second. I didn’t know which one Amy was holding, but it didn’t matter. She had found my stories. She had found my forgotten hobby. She had found my future.

  "Those probably aren’t any good," I said, feeling a bit embarrassed for some reason. "I wrote them a long time ago."

  "Are you kidding," she said, not looking up from the pages. "So far this one is excellent. Very funny."

  Smiling a little, "Which one is it?" I walked over to her and sat down.

  "Umm…" She flipped back to the beginning. "Dollar Store Clearance."

  I laughed. I remembered that story well, long ago as it was. It wasn’t great, but I must have been bored one night and pecked that out on the keyboard to kill an hour or so.

  She finished the story and started flipping through the pages, reading each title she came across and a few sentences here and there.

  "Dan, you told me you wrote stories in college, but I didn’t know it was like this. Look at all these! You must have loved doing this."

  "There’s another binder somewhere," I said, only adding to her point.

  "Another one!"

  She started digging through the box, looking for it. She found it and pulled it out, stacking it on top of the other. She stood up and headed towards the ladder.

  "I’m going to read these."

  "Now?"