Page 106 of When We Had Forever
I wonder when he and Grayson switched places.
That much, at least, I can approximate. It happened around the time Michael...no, Grayson?...went to jail. Even then, I noticed the shift. I just misinterpreted the reason.
And afterward, I spent years blaming Grayson for the fight that made Michael “change.” But really, Michael never changed. Now I realize he was actually amazingly consistent, from the day we met until the day he died. He was quiet. Serious. Tormented by all the things he kept buried.
As I lie in the dark, my thoughts devolve into nonsense again. What was that fight in Seattle really about, then? And how does Lily fit into all this? Who killed her? Wholovedher? Was it the same man?
At four thirty-four, I finally give up. My eyelids ache for sleep, but I fling off the covers, pull on a bathrobe, and shuffle to the kitchen, then flip on the overhead bulb. Anemic light tints the room a sickly green, informing me that I have ground coffee but no way to brew it. The French press is already packed up, and the lack of caffeine, coupled with the lack of sleep, compounds into something I can no longer fight.
I sink onto the chilled linoleum and cry.
A tidal wave pours out—grief for a husband I never truly knew, heartbreak that Michael spent his life trapped behind a wall of silence, outrage over my own lost trust. I weep for all the ways in which the three of us wounded one another without even trying.
And I cry because, underneath it all, some diseased part of me insists that the man I’ve loved for nearly half my life, the one I would have burned down buildings and leveled cities for, never died at all.
I only thought he did.
I hate that I can even formulate that thought right now.
When I finally exhaust my supply of tears, I drag myself up and into the living room. Last night’s mess still litters the floor—Monopoly pieces are scattered everywhere, paper plates stacked haphazardly on the hearth.
Firelight-soaked memories bombard me. I was lying right there, in that spot, when Grayson kissed me. When he touched me. And I sat over there while he explained. While he tried to blame all this on my—
I spin away, making a beeline for my bedroom, where I shed my bathrobe and pull on clothes. On the way back through the living room, I keep my eyes fixed on the front door. I pause only long enough to snatch my car keys off the coffee table.
On the porch, cold rushes against my skin. Beyond the trees, the roots of the sky blush with the stirrings of day. Droplets coat the grass, refracting starlight like tiny globes of ice.
Yet even the sorcerous beauty of the outdoors can’t soothe me. I need to move, to put distance between me and the chaos inside my head. The chaos inside my living room, too.
In the car, I blast the heat and crank the stereo, trying to lose myself in a wailing country ballad about a man’s beloved lost dog. I head for Millbrook, hoping Grounds for Dismissal will have opened by now. Mile after mile, the double-yellow line burns in my vision.
In town, the streets lie empty, but my heart leaps when I find the coffee shop’s windows aglow. Inside, I order a hazelnut latte and tuck myself into a corner with my cell phone.
Kate must be awake, even though it’s early. In the olden days, before she had kids, she might even have texted me already, but parenthood means our communication has grown sporadic.
God, what I wouldn’t give to have her sitting across from me right now. I type out a message.
I miss your face. So, so much.
Within moments, she pings me back.
What, the one only a mother could love?
A photo pops up: a selfie taken while on the treadmill. Red splotches mar her skin, and rivulets of sweat have carried the remnants of last night’s mascara into the creases beneath her eyes. Loose hair dangles around her face, spilling from a messy topknot half-soaked in perspiration.
Despite myself, I chuckle. The sound resonates oddly in the empty shop, and the barista startles before going back to grinding coffee beans.
Yep, that’s the one, I write, followed by a string of heart emojis.
My phone dings again.
You know, as my friend, you’re now morally obligated to burn that picture. Or throw your phone in the ocean. Your choice.
With a hollow smile, I suck down the rest of my latte and consign the empty cup to the bussing bin, then make my way back to the Porsche. I drive without purpose until the sky blossoms with color. Finally, I head for the cabin, my belly warm with coffee. Or maybe that’s just rage.
Still, as Millbrook fades behind me, the urge to jerk the Porsche around grows. Not because I want to see Grayson. I’d rather pull over on a hillside, wedge myself beneath the wheels, and allow myself to be slowly run over than let him lie to me again.
Yet I can’t stop thinking about what he might say. About the way his heart cracked inside his voice last night. About what it felt like to kiss him, to melt with him in the firelight.
