Page 29 of When We Had Forever
Besides, it turns out twenty-five-year-old Michael was wrong—thereissuch thing as yesterday. And sometimes yesterday grows so big, so ravenous, that it eats up not only right now, but tomorrow, too.
“I just...miss him.” I spin my mug, wincing when milky coffee sloshes out. It’s so hard to keep this stupid granite gleaming all the time, the way Michael liked. “So much that I’m drowning in it.”
Kate’s expression softens. “I get that. But can I be honest with you? Like, completely honest, best friend to best friend?”
I chuckle without humor. “Is that a real question? Because the Katelyn Archer I know would never ask.” It’s actually Katelyn O’Reilly now, but whatever. I’ll never stop thinking of her by her maiden name.
“Okay then, here goes—I think you’re wallowing. And to be fair, I probably would, too. But you’re dwelling on the good parts of your marriage and forgetting the bad, and it’s keeping you from moving on. Michael wasn’t perfect, remember? You weren’t even happy those last few years. You talked about divorce.”
My stomach does a nauseating flip. I push my cup away, overcome by a sudden wish for Kate to leave. I don’t want to think about the night I came in from a rainy ten-mile run and printed out divorce papers from a site online. Or about how that manila folder is still sitting underneath my bed, and how I haven’t found the courage to throw it out because the simple act of unearthing it would make my wifely failings all too real.
I don’t want to remember that I considered leaving the man I loved so desperately, even for a second.
My voice roughens. “I wouldn’t have actually done it. I mean, yeah, our last few years together weren’t great, but only because Michael wouldn’tgoanywhere. If I’d just gotten him away from work, convinced him to take a vacation again, we could’ve gone back to how things were. We would’ve—”
“Mina.” Kate’s brown eyes match her voice, soft and warm. “You realize your marriage wasn’t about who you and Michael were during that first month together, right? Or that week in Hawaii, which, before you say anything, yes, I’m completely aware was the most magical week of your life, because you’ve told me ten thousand times. I mean, anyone can pull out the stops and act all incredible and sexy while avoiding real life. But what your marriage wasreallyabout was the day-to-day stuff. About all the time you spent here, in this house, with a guy who sent you running instead of talking things out. It’s about the fact that Michael convinced you to move back to a town you’d escaped from, then buried himself up to his eyeballs in work.”
I flinch. Kate has just dissected my eleven-year marriage with cold, clinical precision—not surprising, since cold, clinical precision is basically her specialty. But she’s missing the bigger picture.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “I know it sounds so clichéd, but Michael was my soulmate. Things might’ve gotten hard, yeah, but I never stopped loving the man I first fell for. And that feeling hasn’t gone away. I mean, I know he’s gone. I think about that horrible box they handed me at the mortuary, howheavyit was. How when I got to the car, I couldn’t figure out how to latch it into the front seat, and then it hit me that Michael’s ashes didn’t need a seat belt because he wasn’t a person anymore. But my heart doesn’t get it. It just keeps on trying to love him like he still exists. Part of me is missing, and meanwhile, I’m just...bleeding out, day after day, with no way to stop it.”
Kate stays quiet. My throat thickens as words pour forth.
“I know you think I should go out more, but seeing Grayson only makes it worse. It’s like...aninsult. A slap in the face. Like the universe took the wrong brother. Grayson has the life Michael still should, but he’s so stuck and broken-hearted over a girl who died decades ago that he’s just wasting it. I can’t even begin to tell you how infuriating that is.”
“That’s awful,” Kate murmurs. “But...do you really not see the problem here?”
“Problem? What problem?”
“You’re judging Grayson for never getting over what’s-her-name—”
“Lily.” I frown. Kate knows the basics, but not Michael’s involvement in her death. I’ve never shared that with anyone.
“Right. Lily. You’re blaming him for never recovering, but here you are doing the exact same thing.”
My nostrils flare. That’s so untrue that I don’t even know where to start. For one thing, Michael and I were married. For eleven years. AndI’mnot the one rampaging through the national media, punching out paparazzi and holing up in foreign hotel rooms for weeks at a time while refusing to talk to any—
Oh, god. I stare at Kate.
“Shit,” I say. “You might actually be right.”
She gives me a sorry-not-sorry smile. “Yeah, no shit. And what’s more, I think you need to be honest with yourself. Which version of Michael are you so strung out over? The one you were actually married to? Or the one who drove you to Seattle fourteen years ago? Because that guy hasn’t existed for years.”
That last sentence sucker punches me. Michael changed; it’s true. Shortly after we moved in together, he stopped reading every day. Stopped hiking and camping. Started wearing those damn button-ups all the time. As his paychecks swelled, architecture began to consume him.
Then, when Michael’s coworker Ben convinced us to move to Seagrove so they could cofound a firm specializing in high-end coastal homes, the last vestiges of my free-spirited philosopher vanished. The open conversations gave way to lavish gifts and reliable Wednesday-night dinner dates at fancy restaurants. My husband began organizing his personal life like his professional one—everything bordered by straight lines, everything in its place.
Except the vivacious adventurer I fell for still existed, deep down. I know because when I finally succeeded in pulling Michael away from work, we tumbled straight back into the intoxicating synchronicity of those early days. In Hawaii, I fell in love with him all over again, hard enough that once we returned to real life, I managed to stomach four more years of missing a man who was right in front of me.
Except a vacation like that never happened again. I hate that that’s where we ended.
The kitchen blurs. I swipe at my cheeks. “Sorry. I really should go for a run.”
When I move to abandon my stool, Kate maneuvers me back with her crazy toddler-wrangling strength.
“No, you should fuckingnotgo for a run. Jesus, Mina. Enough of that. Michael’s gone. You don’t have to bottle things up anymore. Just sit right here, bawl your eyes out, then eat this whole goddamn cheesecake in one sitting.That’swhat you should do.” She’s got her mom face on, the you’ll-do-what-I-say-and-you’ll-like-itexpression usually reserved for her kids.
I study her through the haze. I could break down, here in my kitchen. But if I dribble tears all over the granite, it’ll take at least half an hour to polish it again afterward, like Michael would want.
