Ahhh, Erica.
We met at LSU. She was the kind of woman who made you want to be more interesting than you actually were, and somehow she found me interesting anyway. It was real — as real as anything I've experienced before or since. Then it ended, the way things end when someone's mother decides you're not good enough and the message gets delivered without your knowledge. I spent the better part of three decades assuming Erica agreed with that verdict. She spent the better part of three decades not knowing the message was ever sent.
She married Jim Stafford. Had four kids. Lived what looked from the outside like a perfect life. When Jim died, she found her way back to me — and for a while, it looked like the story might get a second ending worth having.
It turns out thirty years leaves marks that don't come out in the wash. Erica knows what she wants. She's just not sure she deserves to have it.
I'm still working on convincing her otherwise.
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