I have more written, but not posting it for now... not sure if it's good enough.
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When the divorce was finally complete, my mind ceased to fuss over all the mistakes. All the arguments, events and miscommunications had been raked through during the whole process until they frayed and blurred, becoming nonsensical under the anxious speculations. At the conclusion of the affairs, everything seemed too hazy to consider. I no longer worried about Rachel.
The last thoughts I allowed myself about her and our past occurred the morning before I was scheduled to pick up and drive down to Pennsylvania to stay at my brother’s place. Upon deciding that the city wasn’t helping me at all, he and his whisper-voiced wife offered me the guest room in their ranch house, surrounded by genuine farmland and Amish country several hills over. I wasn’t craving the cornfields, but the empty corners of my apartment were turning on me.
On the morning of my departure to his place, I was aghast searching for my keys, the teakettle shrieking like a heartbroken teenage girl. My frustration brought an unwelcomed Rachel into my mind when I finally managed to turn on the radio and sit at the kitchen table, stress plucking at old memories of morning routines in the house we once shared.
We would never turn on the radio for any morning program back then, during the first year of our marriage; I played the demo discs I picked up from quick jobs at local radio stations. She said she liked this, as it was more pleasant than the inane buzzing of radio traffic reports. There was a song I loved on a particular demo, and I played it every morning for a while: In a puckered swoon, a woman sang of profound loss and the peculiar way in which the heavy existence of love faded into nothing.
Rachel took the meaning as a personal affront. She would sit over her orange pekoe tea, arguing that not all love faded. Real love merely wavered up and down, like notes in a tune, and did not disappear. It was obvious she was speaking out of fear for my own care for her, and it was amusing at the time. She feared the message of a song, and eventually I tired of the song anyway. We started listening to the morning traffic report instead.
That morning, the memory of her at the breakfast table years ago rallied up irritation. Not quite amused anymore, I now felt unnerved at her silly argument, knowing very well now that I had never loved her, and she had been collecting comforts until things were no longer convenient. Just silly, I thought, clinking my spoon in my tea mug as I effectively pushed her out of my thoughts.
A lingering taste of waste and redundancy lingering on my tongue, I wracked through the episodes of my life as I slid into my car. Something real, that was what my thoughts searched for, my mind drifting as I pressed on the gas.
I let old memories rise up slowly, drifting past my current intentions.
Road signs floated by, the reading of them so automatic that I found myself more in tune with the empty space – the sky, the gray patterns in the road.
When she came into my mind, I read the memories of her as automatically as the speed limit, but then I faltered. This wasn’t Rachel’s face, but that of another, and it startled me more than her disapproving stare ever had. I turned on the radio in an attempt for a distraction, the banter of politics erupting like clashing cymbals. I immediately turned it off.
It had been a while since I thought of her, and the thoughts seemed new, changed, and the introspection startled me.
In silence, I let Luisa fill my head. Her thick black eyelashes. The wisps of hair that fell along her cheeks, blooms of smattered freckles on each.
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Luisa Toohey lived two houses over from mine in the town of Elma where I grew up. Like most things from my childhood, she and my hometown had been stuffed away into a box where I didn’t linger on their existence, an attitude toward things pre-college I had sorely taken on upon graduating high school. In my search for something real, dusty memories from these times unfolded shakily, cramped from being put away for so long. She unfolded so stunningly along with them I felt a twinge in my chest that echoed through my limbs, my fingers fidgeting over the steering wheel.
My mother met Mrs. Toohey at a church dinner, and it was sometime during the following weeks it was set up that my mother would be babysitting Luisa on weekends. She was only six years old, and I was seven; the two mothers cooed and flapped their hands over the concept of playmates, as the two of us both had brothers that were in their teens and we needed companions. I wasn’t so certain about the grand plan as my mother prepared to introduce us before Sunday morning mass. She licked her fingers and slicked back my hair, dressing me in a little black jacket with a carnation in the pocket.
In front of the church before mass, our two families stood in the parking lot, our mothers talking. Luisa toddled back and forth behind her mother, her hair tied back with pink ribbons and her dress shoes clicking on the cement. She was told to say hello to me; instead, she stuck out her tongue and turned away.
Something clicked in my seven-year-old mind then, and I experienced my first epiphany, one of many awkward realizations my younger years would bring me.
As a child, I often sat on the couch and watched movies with my older brother, and concepts of love and romance were thrown about between the actors. Jack Dawson loved Rose DeWitt Butaker, Woody Allen loved Annie Hall, and I loved Luisa Toohey.
Seeing her there, the ribbons falling out of her hair and her face set into defiance; I swore I was in love with her as far as my seven-year-old knowledge of love went. I swore it to myself, and after an hour of painfully anticipating it throughout mass, I swore it to her outside the church as our families mingled.
“You’re so stupid!” she declared loudly, without any hesitation. With one weak shove of my shoulder, she walked back to her family and left me with my first pathetic broken heart, heavy and fluttering in my skinny chest. Not knowing what to do with it, I opened my mouth wide and ran crying to my mother.
I forgave her by the next weekend, when she was ushered into the front hallway of my house, her face squinted into a disapproving glare as her mother kissed her face goodbye and my mother took her little pink hand, walking her to the kitchen table. Her hair curled around her shoulders, like little loose spiderwebs, and I just wanted to sit next to her. Of course, when I did, she kicked the chair over and sent my nose right into the corner of the table.
Blood ran over my lips; I was floating in shock until my mother came in to see the red mess and Luisa, on cue, began stomping her feet and letting out a siren’s wail about how I had pulled her arm and so she had pushed me back. I was sent to the other side of the house with a tissue shoved up my nose, and the two of us didn’t see each other again for several months, our mothers quite upset with my brutishness.
This was the beginning of a long acquaintanceship, the only word she would ever let me apply to it.
So much for me not being nitpicky in this review, haha. I think you need a preposition to open the paragraph, dear. It's bringing about a little confusion without it, and if you begin with 
