Page 10 of When We Had Forever
“Okay. But you’re looking atmethis way, which makes you...?”
“Intrigued.”
“Right.” I’m dimly aware that I’m hyperventilating, but I can’t seem to make it stop. “And what about me intrigues you?”
“A few things.” His smile softens, turning vulnerable and sweet. “For one, not many girls would’ve sprinted across town just to get a ride. But you did, which tells me you’re passionate about something.”
“Everyone’s passionate about something.”
“No.” He chuckles. “God, no. And second, I like your face.”
A nervous cackle threatens to erupt at the absurdity of hearing a statement likethatfrom a guy likethis.
“You have this natural look,” he continues. “Not a lot of makeup. Like you’re not trying to fool anyone. Just being you. It’s a sign of confidence.”
“Actually, it’s a sign of me oversleeping by an hour and a half.”
His eyes crinkle with amusement. “And you’re honest. Most people aren’t. At least not like that.”
“Well,” I manage. “You might actually be onto something with that one.”
He glances down, his lashes kissing his cheeks, then releases my hand and retreats. He shifts into gear. “Now that we’ve cleared that up, are you ready?”
I nod, completely incapable of forming words. What’s English? What are words?
“Good.” His foot presses the gas. “This should be...interesting.”
I flash a weak smile and glue my attention to the road. When my brain finally decides to start working again, I realize how vastly I’ve misjudged this situation.
Michael Drake might be willing to drive me to Seattle, but I’d better make damn sure I still want to get out of his car once he does.
AFTER
Six months have stumbled by, and still, I find reminders of my husband everywhere. Yet I feel his loss most keenly in the places heisn’t. In the ragged, gaping holes he left behind.
No second toothbrush sits beside the sink. No hand steals around my waist to tug me close in the mornings. In the evenings, his drafting table lamp no longer spills light into the yard; when I look up from the couch, only my own wraithlike reflection hovers in the glass. There sits a sad-eyed widow, reading her book by the blue flicker of the television, just so some life will fill these empty rooms.
It’s August now. A beautiful month, but the sunshine hasn’t kept the days from blurring into one long, empty tableau. Last week, I turned thirty-seven without even noticing. I woke up and went to bed without once remembering my birthday.
Not that I would’ve done anything differently, if I had. That day always comes with its own set of problems. Best to avoid them completely.
Today, Michael’s absence presses in, heavier than usual. I carry my coffee to the living room and stare out through the glass. Sunlight winks through the evergreen fronds as if mocking the cavernous darkness gathered beneath my ribs. I sip, but even the bright warmth of caffeine fails to lift my spirits.
It’s obvious to me why. Once, in the first year of marriage, I’d complained to Michael about how intense his work had gotten. Cofounding his own architectural firm meant he’d barely had time for us anymore, which, to be fair, he’d warned me about in advance. Still, he’d apologized by buying me a subscription to the Coffees of the World club. The company had shipped us a bag of beans from a different country each month. That had lasted a year, until I’d met my soulmate strain in the form of a brew from Kenya and Michael had promptly switched the delivery over to a single variety. It still shows up on my doorstep each month, like clockwork.
God, I miss the way he took care of me. Even if I would’ve traded every ounce of that pampering for more of his time.
The chime of an incoming call jolts me. On the desk, my phone lights up with Kate’s picture. I reach over and hit Cancel. The idea of formulating words right now exhausts me, and my gaze wanders to my laptop. Maybe I could just email...
But no. If I venture onto the internet, I know exactly what I’ll see. Who I’ll accidentally end up staring in the face. And I’d love nothing more than to never think about Michael’s brother again.
A high-pitched keening slices through the quiet.
I jerk toward the windows. The sound comes again, from outside. Frowning, I set my coffee aside and venture through the slider onto the porch, then down into the yard.
Beneath the deck, something stirs. A pitiful whine floats from the shadows. The sound hits me in the heart, or whatever I have left of one, and I ease into the darkness, where a shadowy shape shrinks away.
I blink until my eyes adjust. It’s a dog. An old Irish setter mix, with muddy brown eyes and a graying snout.
