July 7, 2016
I typed in the search box on Facebook her name, Aimee Rogers. Thirty results. None of them her. I tried again, different variations, adding our high school, our hometown. Still no joy. I felt suddenly stricken. What if she’s dead? Or what if she blocked me because of that incident in my car, parked near the Occoquan River, as it neared eleven o’clock? One of my life’s great regrets.
She’d said, “Make love to me, Hank.”
And I’d made the mistake of looking at my watch. I took her home instead, as I’d promised her father I’d have her home before midnight. When I called two days later, and four, and seven, she didn’t take my calls, nor return them. And when I saw her in school, she’d turned to her friends and laughed. I slinked away, in disgrace.
Why did I think I could correct that past mistake? And why did it bother me when I couldn’t find her again after all these years?