text: The Addendum begins the night she apologized to you for breaking your heart. The wound was still open then: despite what you told yourself, you had loved her, a little bit. As you remember it, Kate’s late and you’re drunk. The pizza parlor is nearly empty, or at least the beer has made it seem that way. Leaning forward over the table in huddles, the other diners speak quietly, and you note their sad but tacit understanding that this is not a trendy place to be on a Saturday night. A waitress with a midwestern accent comes and takes your order, and there is an awkward silence while you read the menu. You order another pint of beer and a pizza for you and Kate to share. While you wait, you fiddle with a pen: you’re nervous, this night had been a failure. The Addendum is your second chance. The Addendum, as you have decided to call it, adds significance where you think there is some. There is something missing, something to do with your understanding of your relationship with her. This search for understanding brought you to the night in the pizza parlor: the night that she had tried to apologize, and you had brushed her away in hurt. The two of you had walked off, sad and broken. You were unwhole. You are unwhole, still, but this night holds the key to forgiveness. So you’ve decided to revisit the conversation at the pizza parlor and say what you think was left unsaid. To you, there is a catharsis in adding meaning. You used to ask yourself why you still think of her. Why, even now, the urge to write about her is just as strong as when your memory was hazy with fetishism and pain. You think you know the answer, but, just as saying something out loud gives it substance, it needs to be written down. Looking across the dim room, you see her standing in the doorway. She has bangs now. They suit her well. Seeing you, the look she gives - one of compassion and mercy - makes you feel defenseless, even as she approaches the table. She squeezes into the other side of the booth, and there is a moment of silence because you’re drunk and you know she is going to apologize. Several moments pass before you break the silence. “Do you remember the first time we met?” “You know that’s not why we’re here.” “It was on the beach. Imagine this,” you say, as if into thin air. “My mom had just told me that I’d have to pay for my own tuition. She couldn’t care for both me and Solstice. He was too much for a single mom, with all the drugs and whatnot. I don’t blame her, but I’m nineteen at the time. Can barely cook, can barely take care of myself. And the first person I see is you. You were painting the birds, those little white ones that scurry along the sand. Can barely fly.” “Listen. I’m sorry. I- ” “-They were snowy plovers. That’s what they were called. And I remember how abstract your paintings were. How you seemed to be able to capture a single feeling from blotches of paint. I think it was, like, *vulnerability*. Because they were vulnerable don’t you think?” “Yeah, they are. But I didn’t mean to bring you here to talk about the time we first met. I really hurt you, and goddammit I’m trying to apologize.” And Kate grabs your hand, and there’s nothing you can do except, for the first time, listen. “There’s no need to apologize.” “I know,” she says quickly, then catches herself, “Scratch that, I do need to apologize.” “It’s alright.” “No. It’s not alright, it was reckless of me to hurt you in the way I did. I knew I could never love you, but I led you on anyway.” “You didn’t know what you wanted. It’s alright,” you say, looking down with a sad smile. She stares at you, her eyes stubborn but tender. After some time, she sniffs a bit and says, “There was a time when I saw you sitting on the couch. I already knew that I would never love you back, but you had just said something funny but also sad, and I remember, that at that moment, I wanted to hold your hand.” She smiles a bit. You sit back in silence, pulling your hand away from her. Taking a bite of a slice, and thinking, you let the time drag on in a lazy drawl while she waits. You decide to go off-script; about to change how the conversation ends because this night had been the end of things. The two of you had walked off hurt, never to speak again. Things shouldn’t have been that way. With The Addendum, it would not be that way: you’re about to let her in on the secret. You look around the parlor for a second, then, leaning over the table, you begin. “It’s been years since we’ve last spoken, but I think about you a lot. Much more than I should, I think.” You pause to let what you’re saying to register with her. She looks away, so you lean in further, your voice lowering when you continue. “I keep coming back to you, back to this conversation. Every character I write has a trace of you, and I think it stems from the same reason why you feel the need to apologize. Kaitlyn O’Connor, do you want to know why I write about you? There was a lot of resentment that I had to work through - frustration, but it was wrong to direct it at you.” Tears are in her eyes. “But you were right. It was reckless, and I did the wrong thing.” “You couldn’t have known what the right thing to do was. And maybe this Addendum, what I’m writing right now, is just a form of forgiveness, but I think there’s something more that you showed me tonight, and it has to do with the pain you’re in now. Why are you in pain?” Slowly, she says, “Because, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You grab her hand and say, “I understand. Kate, what you did, it’s so... painfully human.” What comes after this, you don’t know. Perhaps there is still some pain to be felt, but this is how you think of that night - how you think of her. In a way, you love her: she taught you understanding. She taught you empathy. You write about her because she is human, because she felt pain at causing someone else pain. You wish you could tell her that you forgive her for it, but she’s long gone from your life. Maybe the sad truth is that this story will forever be an addendum to what actually happened. Something for you to think about - sometimes. And maybe she still thinks of you as well.