On a beautiful February first, Mason and I lay on a picnic blanket in Central park. It’s our seven month anniversary and now I’m sure I love him. Mason has said it before, but I try not to say things I don’t mean, so I haven’t said it yet. I’m a pessimist and Mason’s an optimist. Now I finally understand why mason thinks life is so great.  I roll over and look into Mason’s gorgeous blue eyes and push back his dark hair. “I love you,” I say. “I love you, too,” he says, a goofy grin on his face. I lay my head on his chest and we’re in our own little bubble of happiness for a few blissful minutes. We get up and head back to my apartment, hand in hand.
We reach the door, still holding hands, and Masons slips down onto one knee. A clearing of someone’s throat pulls my attention away, and Mason slides his hand from mine to pretend to tie his shoe. “Excuse me, are you Ms. Jennson? You see, I have a very important letter for her. It is urgent that she receives it,” the man by my door says. I take the letter and open it. I quickly read it, gasp, and drop the letter. As Mason picks it up, I practice the deep breaths my therapist taught me. “Dear Ms. Jennson, Your presence is required in Berryhill Court on Feb. 17th concerning the case of Jonathan Jennson versus the people. Please arrive in Berryhill, Tennessee a few days early. Sincerely, Jackson Ross, Sherriff of Berryhill, Tennessee,” Mason reads.
I fumble with the keys to my apartment, but Mason takes them from my hand and opens the door. I stumble in and sink to the ground. I rock back and forth as Mason sits down beside me and folds me into his strong arms. I sob until the tears won’t come and then I just sit there listening to Mason’s heartbeat. When the shock wears off, I get up and head to my room, locking the door behind me. I get in the shower and scrub away all the memories and terror and pain that came with the letter. My therapist always says that I need to go back and get some closure, that I should take someone I trust, like Mason, she always says. I just never thought that when I went back, that he would be in jail or on trial. At least I’ll be in court, which is like a second home to me. What do they need me for anyway? I haven’t been back to that hell hole in eight years.
I get out, and slip into a midnight blue, strapless, sweetheart dress that comes down to my knees. I step into my strappy high heel, apply fresh makeup and curl my hair. Mason’s favorite look. I walk out to see a very concerned Mason.  I ignore his look and say, “Sweetie, shouldn’t you be getting ready? Our reservation is in forty minutes. I’ll call a cab. We’ll never catch one at this hour.” I turn to grab my phone, but Mason begins to laugh dryly. “You’re kidding right? Tell me you’re joking.” He’s yelling and I wince away.  “I have no idea what just happened, but I do know that I have never ever seen you cry, until today and now you want to pretend that it just didn’t happen? Talk to me. Please!”
“I will,” I say, looking at the ground. “Promise. Just not tonight, okay? Can we just go to dinner and try to have a good anniversary? Can we just pretend that I’m okay? Just for tonight. I’ll explain everything… tomorrow,” I say. He nods and gets ready. I am dreading dinner tonight, but it is our anniversary. The whole night is filled with awkward small talk about the cases I’m working, what new painting I’m working on, how his job at the library is going, what book he’s reading. The rest is filled with a heavy silence. He walks me back to my apartment, but insists that he really has to get to work early tomorrow, so he can’t come in and just hold me. He’s uncharacteristically cold and distant, which makes my plan just that much easier.
When I get in the pacing begins. I have to do this, but can I do it alone? I have to. I can’t drag him back there. I can’t let him see what I’ve been through.  I can’t lose him. I call and book a flight for 5 AM. I pack enough to stay for two weeks and call Sherriff Jackson Ross to tell him that I will arrive tomorrow. He tells me that the prosecution would like to prepare me for court. I do this all the time for my witnesses.
  Knowing that I can’t disappear without explaining everything to Mason, but not having the courage to call him, I grab paper and a pen and sit at my coffee table. I can’t think of what to write. I feel like I need to explain why I’m leaving, but there are just too many words. I start how every letter must. “Dear Mason, There are so many things that I should have told you. By the time you get this, I will be long gone. I took two weeks off and am flying back to the place that I hate and promised I would never go back to, a place that holds so much of my childhood. I know that I never told you much about my life and when I told you not to ask, you never did. But now you need to know. I am a strong person and have buried my feelings my whole life. My therapist always I recommended that I go back for closure and when I met you, she said that I should take you once I trusted you. Her number is on the back and she will explain everything. I never wanted to drag you into this. That’s why I left. I promise that I will call you at some point. I love you with all my heart. –Lizzy.”
Dressed in an Asking Alexandria v- neck from the concert I dragged Mason to, black skinny jeans and combat boots, and a simple ponytail, I lock up the apartment leaving the key under the mat, and head for the cab. The ride to the airport is long and silent and lonely. I give the man a hundred dollar bill and don’t wait for the change.  I go through security and make a beeline for the food court and head for the best pizza in Brooklyn, Sbbaro’s. I order my usual: A Pepsi next and a meat lover’s Stromboli. I run to gate 7A and take a seat. It only takes 10 minutes for boarding to begin and I’m thankful to be one of the first as I slump down in my first class seat.
As soon as I hit the chair, I put my phone in airplane mode and fall asleep. The man next to me wakes me at the end of the flight. He says that he covered me with a blanket and I thank him, but hurry off the plane. I get my bag from the carousel hail a cab to take me to Berryhill. Driving into town, my childhood comes rushing back. The bowling alley where Danny and I spent so many summers- also my first job; the park where I got my first kiss from Bryan Ross in sophomore year; the middle school where I spent so many days tormented by bullies; the mental hospital I was forced to call “home” for two long years; the cemetery where Mama and Danny lay; my home where my father beat me on a daily basis; the meadow where Mama taught me how to paint and where Danny and I played pretend; the bar that my dad my dad practically lived in. So many memories, so much pain, and now I’m back.
I ask the driver to drop me off at the police station and fork over another $100 bill as I exit the car. I go in and answer all their questions. They tell me what not to say and what questions not to answer. They explain that the only reason that they reopened the case is that someone, they can’t tell me who came forward and said that my father was an abusive drunkard who ran over my brother. I laugh wryly at the irony of my situation. I finally have power over the one man who has kept me from so much in my life. I’m not allowed to see him and that’s probably a good thing.
I ask Officer Ross to drive me to the only hotel in town- Home Sweet Home.  I unpack and settle into my temporary home and prepare myself for questioning tomorrow. My questioning goes on until February 9th, a full week before I decide to call Mason. It rings three times before I get sent to voicemail. “If you’re Madeline Elizabeth Jennson,  yes I’m still mad at you so don’t bother calling to ask. Anyone else, you know what to do,” Mason’s voice tells me. Beep. I call twenty more times, never leaving a message. I just need to hear his voice. I wander around town for a while before going into the local bar- 5’oclock somewhere. So this is where my dad spent his days and nights.
I’ve never been in here, but I like it. They have 15 clocks on every wall and when one strikes 5:00, you get a free shot. This is my first time drinking so it’s not long before I’m completely wasted. Three hours later, I’m lying on the bar, singing, when the doorbell jingles. Mason walks through the door. I flip him off. He runs up and tries to wrap his arms around me, but I kick out at him. “What the hell are you doing here? “ I yell. “I could ask you the same thing,” he retorts. “You break down and don’t explain why, leave me to find a letter, and leave it up to your therapist to tell me what the hell is going on. You disappear with no goodbye. Just  gone. Do you know how worried I was? You didn’t answer your phone and the therapist lady told me I should come here to be here for you, that you would need me. But that’s not what I see. No I see a girl who told me that she would never ever drink. Your father was an abusive drunk who killed your brother and now you’re drinking. Why?”
I never expected him to hurt me. “You know what? I left to protect you from my past. Not because I’m selfish or because I don’t love you. No, it was because I do love you and I didn’t want you to know about the pain that I had to feel because that is my burden. You don’t get to come in here and get pissed at me for doing what I thought was right. I didn’t want you to know that I’m scared of this place and of everything that happened here and I’m scared to relive it all.” And then I’m done yelling and being mad and I just want him to take me back to the hotel and hold me.  I let Mason get me up to the hotel room and tucked into bed. The next day passes in a fog as Mason helps to nurse my hangover. We spend the next couple of days walking around “hell” and I give him the official tour. When we get to the mental hospital, Mason tells me that my therapist never really went into why I got sent there.
“Umm… well, I got done with life three weeks after my mom killed herself, so I took a c***tail of pain medications, and when I overdosed, my dad had me rushed to the hospital and then committed to this one. I tried to tell them that this was just my dad’s way of getting rid of the last reminder of what he did and what he used to have. They told me to stop lying. I’d sit in my ‘room’, it was more of a cell really, and ask myself if I really was crazy and had imagined the whole thing, and then I would look at all the scars he gave  me. Two years later, at my monthly evaluation, when the man asked why I thought I was here, I told him what he wanted to hear. I told him that I gave every single scar to myself and tried to kill myself because I was hearing voices that told me to do it, but that I hadn’t heard the voices since coming to Happy Valley and they let me go as long as I continued to see a therapist,” I explain.
He hugs me and kisses my forehead and I know we’re going to be okay. I tell him that I need to visit Mama and Danny, and that I will see him in a couple of hours. I kiss him in the cheek a d pick up some yellow and pink tulips, Mama’s favorite. I walk to the cemetery for the first time since Mama’s funeral and curl up in between her and Danny. I tell her everything that’s happened over the last eight years. At some point I fall asleep and wake up right where I was. I go back to the hotel and find a note from Mason saying that he went to the library and to call him if I need him. I go to the store and buy some of the clothes I used to wear before I moved away. I go to the market and get all the stuff for the perfect Valentine’s Day picnic. I feel myself smile and I just let it happen. I don’t feel trapped anymore and I like it. I go to the meadow and lay everything out and text Mason that he better hurry up and get here.
Mason runs up in a panic, breathing hard. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Whoa,” he says, taking the picnic and then my outfit. I’m in a black tank top, short shorts and boots. “I think I have a new favorite outfit,” he says and I laugh. We sit down and take turns feeding each other and laugh as we go through the cliché dates of young love. “I cannot believe that you followed me out to this hell hole,” I say. “For you, I’d follow you anywhere and never hesitate,” he whispers in my ear. I lay my head and just listen to his heartbeat. “If I asked you to do something, would you,” I ask. “Anything,” he whispers into my hair. “How do you feel about needles?” He looks a little worried, but tells me that they don’t bother him. “Why?” I turn around in his lap and push his dark hair out of his eyes. “Well,” I say. “The tattoo on my left shoulder blade, the heart with a keyhole, I got it with the idea that if I ever loved someone, I would ask him to get the key. I want you to get the key.”  I look into his eyes trying to read how he will respond. “On one condition,” he says. “Anything,” I whisper. “Marry me.” I nod and kiss him. He holds me until we fall asleep. We wake up all tangled together and for now I forget that in three days, my father will be in front of court and I will be doing anything in my power to lock him away forever.