My Ex's Greatest Regret
Three days before the wedding, I was cleaning out some old boxes when I remembered the time capsule Natasha Rowe and I buried ten years ago.
When I mentioned it, her face stiffened for a moment. She quickly tried to talk me out of going.
"It's been so long," she said. "Someone probably dug it up already."
I didn't think much of it and went back to our old high school alone.
At the spot where we buried it, I started digging.
Instead of one box, I pulled out five metal containers of different sizes.
Two of them were the ones Natasha and I buried ten years ago, their surfaces rusted and worn.
But there were three others.
One of them was just as rusted as ours. The other two looked almost brand new.
The old extra box had a name scratched into the lid.
Vince Houle.
On it were the words, [My secret crush was a war I fought alone. Natasha, I hope you're happy.]
I remembered him then. He had been a quiet guy who sat behind us in class. The kind of student no one really noticed.
The two newer boxes had names carved into them, too.
Natasha and Vince.
The date etched into both of them was today.
On Natasha's box were the words, [The greatest regret of my life is that I couldn't marry you.]
On Vince's box were the words, [The greatest regret of my life is that I can't openly congratulate you on getting married.]