It had been fifteen years since bossman Michael Cole assigned him a new partner. Twelve years since he asked her out, but exactly fourteen years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days since he had fallen madly in love with her.
It had been twelve years since she first turned him down, and it only took two years, seventy-five proposals and six minutes before she finally agreed to a date him.
It had been nine years, eleven months, sixteen days, four hours, two minutes and one second since their first date. He had counted every second.
He had worn a deep purple fedora that didn't even come close to matching the fancy, buttoned up white shirt and hideously neon biker shorts he had donned. She had worn a little black cocktail dress, and had diamonds in her ears. He held open the door to an aging – she said dying - car, and she laughed and followed him in. He loved to look at her, and she loved to be looked at. She had always wanted to be a model, but the police force was his life. She was his one weakness and he loved her for it. She never cared how silly he looked on that first date and he didn't care that she got him a permanent ban from that upscale little place they had gone to. (His choice. She'd wanted burgers.)
It had been nine years and seven months since the night they both were in love. It took six months after The Date before he told her, and it was eight years, eleven months and twelve seconds since she agreed. It was eight years, eleven months, and eleven seconds since their first real kiss.
It had been eight years and ten months since they thought they could never love another, and eight years, nine months before they knew. And it was only three months after that when she left him.
Eight years, four months since she returned. He pretended he didn't care, and she knew it was her biggest regret. He hated himself for making her leave (for not stopping her) and she hated herself for leaving (for hurting him so bad). He was scared to try; she was scared not to. He hated her, and she loved him. She hated herself, and he couldn't forget his love.
It was eight years and two months since they tried counseling, and eight years and two months since they stormed out and made love in the back room of a couples counseling office's left supply closet for the first time. It had been eight years and two months since their second real kiss. And eight years, one month, seventeen days since they stopped pretending (stopped pretending this wasn't real, this wasn't it) Since they thought (knew) they didn't care anymore. It was eight years, one month and sixteen since it actually was. It had taken seven years for them to give themselves to each other and they still hadn't shared all their hopes and demons with each other. It took seven years, eleven months, and four weeks before all their kisses were real.
It was seven years and three months since she told him that she loved him for the second time, and one month, seven days, and six hours that he hated himself for withholding it. One month, seven days, and six hours that she fearfully waited. (He'd said it, said it to her in his mind so many times, and he could pretend to pretend that saying it out loud didn't matter. It mattered.) It had been seven years since she quit the force and six years, three months since she took up modeling. Two months before she was fired, and six years, thirteen days since she had become a baker. He said he didn't understand her, and when he told her that, she just laughed and said it was okay because she didn't really understand herself either. He loved her, and she loved him.
It had been five years, and two months since they had decided to become parents and five years, ten months since their wedding. (It was the scariest moment of her life because she had never wanted to get married loved him). Two years of hopes amounted to nothing, and it had been four years since they gave up. But she didn't really care, and he loved her so much that it didn't matter. It was one month until they decided to become foster parents, but three years and five months before they actually did. (She never told him she was a unwanted kid because he made her feel like she wasn't she loved him).
Kelly was with them for two months before her eighteenth birthday and Mike was with them a year and a half.
It had been two years, five months, twenty-seven days, thirteen hours, seven minutes and five seconds since he last saw her. Two years, five months and twenty-seven days since she had been kidnapped. Two years, five months, twenty-seven days, twelve hours, and fifty-four seconds since he last said "I love you". It had been the worst twenty-four hours of his life, and the first foster child (he'd never wanted kids) he had without her – for two years, six months, and twenty-seven days. (He'd counted those seconds too)
It was two years, five months, and twenty-five days since the investigation began and all it led to was two years, five months, and twenty-five days of nothing. It had been two years, three days since their last legitimate lead petered out. (He'd never hated the police more. The force was still his life.) It had been two years and one day since he had given up hope (on him, never on her) and one year and eight months of wondering. He gave up on himself, but never her, never the kid. Sometimes,
Sometimes,
That's not enough.
It had been nine months since her body washed up in the Marianna, and four months, thirty days and twelve hours since he quit.
It had been three months since he began therapy, and twenty-nine days since he gave it up. He loved her, and she loved him. She just wasn't there anymore. (And he hated himself for thinking for one second that she never really had been)
It had been twenty-seven days since he got drunk for the second time in his life (her parents were killed by drunk driving – their drunk driving – it didn't matter why), twenty-six days since he was hospitalized, and twenty-four days since he was released. It was twenty-three days since he bought a gun, and twenty-two days since it had been loaded – five bullets, just in case. It had been twenty-one days of wondering, planning, and strangely, hoping; and now it was one day, three hours and seventeen seconds before he planned to kill himself.
It was six hours since he left for the funeral, and eighteen hours he was missing. It was four minutes and thirty-one seconds since the anniversary of the day he had last looked at her and four minutes and twenty-one second since that anniversary of the day he said "I love you" to her for the last time. (In his head. Againagainagainagainagain For the second time. )
It had been three minutes since he loaded the gun, and two minute since he arrived the cemetery. It was fifty-one seconds since the last tear dripped down his face, and thirty nine second of contemplation.
It was twelve seconds since his five year old daughter arrived, and nine seconds before he spoke.
"I'm
so
sorry
honey."
It was three seconds since he last hugged his little girl, two seconds before she ran back to Nanny, and one second before he pulled the trigger.
It's been twenty-one years, four months, nine days, and forty-nine seconds since my foster father committed suicide, and it's stayed with me every second of the twenty-one years of my life I've had to live without him. It's been forty-one years, two months, and five hours since my dad fell in love and only fourteen days, and twenty-seven minutes that I've regretted it.
It's been two years since I joined the Police Department and seven months since I quit. It's been six months that I've been writing, two weeks since I published my book How long I have loved You, and eleven days that it's been a bestseller. It's my first time talking to a large crowd and one minute until it'll end.
"Do you self a favor
And
Fall
In
Love."
I know I have.
It was sixty-eight years until his daughter died, and twelve months after, her husband died too.
She loved him,
And he loved her.
He told her what to do but she never listened. He made her laugh, and she made him smile.
He loved her,
And she loved him.
And really? That was all that mattered.
She loved him,
And he loved her.