Guilt is like syrup. It spreads fast, it’s sticky, it’s hard to clean, and it’s overpowering. If only guilt were sweet like syrup too. Instead, it’s bitter and nauseating. And so, so hard to conceal. But I’ve had a lot of practice. Like an acquired taste, it gets easier with time. What once roiled inside me, a beast clawing at my stomach with hot fury, has dulled into something tolerable. You get used to it, and before long, barely remember a time without it. And you can’t miss something you never had.

Or so I tell myself.

Sometimes I want to confess. Sometimes I think it would make me feel better, but then I realize how silly that is. I am beyond forgiveness. Forgiveness isn’t even in my rear-view mirror. I will do it again and again because I can’t help myself. Forgiveness without repentance is just a point on a circle.

I think this as I stare at a little piece of plastic formed into the shape of a pirate dangling on a keychain. I glance up at the ceiling. There are no cameras, no employees around, but my hand still shakes. What am I going to do with a pirate keychain? I put it back on the spinning rack and walk away.

My heart pounds in my ears as I wander through the store. Everywhere I look there are shiny things and spinning things and worthless toys. I clench my hands into fists as I pass these objects. I can feel the itch in my fingers to reach out and grab something. I make it around the whole store, and suddenly I’m back at the pirate. It sneers at me with a mouth full of golden teeth and a sword pointed at my face. I slip it into my pocket and leave the store.

Though my blood races through my veins as I walk casually down the street, I feel calm – I’ve released a pressure that had been building since two weeks before at a different store. I try to enjoy the loose feeling while it lasts, but my personal cloud rains syrup.

“Jesse!” I hear.

I turn around. “Lily!” I say. “Haven’t seen you all week.”

Her smile ignites mine, and I engulf her in a hug. She has gentle, caring eyes that sometimes make me want to smile and sometimes make me want to cry. What do those eyes see when they look at me? Surely such innocence burns when gazing so deeply into blackness.

“I went to New York with my mom.” She tells me about her trip and asks about my week. She wants to know all that’s happened since she last saw me. It’s cold out, so we hunch into ourselves to ward off the chill. My hand wraps tightly around the plastic pirate as we speak. She listens to every word I say, never taking her shining eyes off of mine. I feel ashamed to stare back into eyes so pure.

Maybe she would understand. Maybe she would hug me and tell me it isn’t my fault. Maybe she would help me. If she could accept me, then maybe I’ve been looking back to see where I passed forgiveness when I should have been looking ahead to see when I’ll reach it. I squeeze the pirate and its sword bites into my skin.

“Can I tell you something?” I ask, interrupting her story. She doesn’t seem to notice my sudden seriousness.

“Sure, just hang on one sec.” She swings her purse off her shoulder and digs into it, pulling out a mirror and a makeup brush and a sunglasses case. I take these things as she hands them to me, still searching. I want to fill my pockets, but I keep them in my hands because I know she’ll ask for them back.

“Did you lose something?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for my ChapStick. It’s my favorite flavor, and they’ve stopped making it. I haven’t seen it in a while, but I really need it with the weather changing.” She smiles and rolls her eyes like she can’t believe she lost it.

A small tube with a pink label, it smelled both minty and like berries, I remember. It found its way into my jacket a few weeks ago.

“Oh well. You wanted to tell me something?”

I shake my head. “Never mind.”

I kind of like syrup, anyway.