Page 41 of When We Had Forever
“Though you could still head up, if you wanted.” Her tone turns hopeful. “The closing’s not ’til next week. All our furniture’s still there, and the movers aren’t coming until Wednesday. You’d have four days.”
“Then I absolutely want to go. Right now.” Urgency ignites in my muscles. I dash for the stairs and vault upward two at a time. In my walk-in closet, I toss clothes into my ancient purple roller-bag. “Is the key still in the same place?”
“Yes, but...are you sure you’re all right? Why does this sound so urgent?”
I mumble something about changes of scenery. My mother defaults to worrying mode again, but I don’t have the mental energy to dig her out right now. I’m depleted, left with nothing but a scorching need to escape.
After hanging up, I stuff my laptop into my suitcase, then grab my running shoes and haul everything out to the garage. A four-or five-hour drive awaits, depending on Seattle’s traffic, and it’s already well past three.
Halfway through loading my Genesis, I stop. Michael’s bullet-silver Porsche Cayman—his “splurge car,” not the SUV he died in—sits beside mine, silently begging to escape the concrete confines of the garage.
I never drove the thing when he was alive. I always worried that if I went near it, I’d ding the bumper or spill something on the precious leather, which would’ve made him go quiet for days.
Now a wild edge of defiance pulses beneath my skin. I don’t stop long enough to question it, just fling my things from the Genesis into the Cayman.
After exchanging my keys for Michael’s, I gun the Porsche out into the driveway and execute a U-turn that makes the tires squeal.
My husband would’ve been horrified. Or proud. I can’t decide which, and in the moment, I don’t even care.
In the rearview mirror, the garage door descends, a guillotine marking the death of my nightmarish vigil inside a box of glass and steel.
God, Kate was right. Inside of a mile, I feel like I’m waking up. I have a purpose. A place to be. As Seagrove fades, the rush within me grows, joining the powerful roar of the Porsche’s engine. The car strains and pulls, eager for open road.
Only after reaching the highway do I remember I’m not nearly as good a driver as Michael was. Still, I power through each forested curve, feeding the car throttle. The hungry engine takes it all and asks for more.
Then the memories awaken, twining up from the floorboards like living shadows. I remember that first drive with Michael, this particular hairpin turn, the way he handled the Audi like he’d been born in the driver’s seat. I remember this gas station streaking past the window, the hitch-drop in my stomach as I tried to deny the allure of a man I suspected, even then, would change my life.
In hopes of banishing the ghosts, I fish out my phone and dictate a text, but after updating Kate, I still have four-plus hours to kill. Four hours to run the gauntlet of knife-bright memories that lurk around every corner.
So I command my phone to list my personal emails aloud. For months, I’ve avoided this, mostly because the endless platitudes from friends I haven’t spoken to in years only fatigue me. But right now, I’ll take what I can get.
Surprisingly, my strategy works, at least for a while. Until my phone announces a message that makes me jerk the Porsche right off the road.
The car screeches to a halt inches from a boulder. I barely register the close call, just stare at the marching trees beyond the windshield. “Repeat that,” I command.
“You have an unopened email from Grayson Drake,” my phone chirps. “Would you like me to read it?”
The cheery, robotic Australian voice I once selected on a whim does nothing to dispel the frost crystals forming in my bloodstream.Grayson Drake.
He didn’t attend our wedding. Never sent Christmas cards. He had no involvement in our lives whatsoever, except on that terrible day I still think of as That One Time. After that, Michael asked me never to speak of him again.
And I didn’t—except for once. Not that the silence changed much. Whatever happened between them that day, it was the spark that lit the fire of my husband changing. Which is why I hate Grayson and always will.
I didn’t realize he even knew I existed.
Breath churning, I hit the hazards and snatch up my phone, which displays a message with a send date of two months ago and a single-word subject line: “Armistice.”
Cold trickles down my spine. It’s a word not many people would use, yet it hauls the weight of an entire history behind it. It’s the pointed, terminal end of a long and painful war I’m left fighting even after one participant is gone.
I suck in the warm, stale air of the car and click.
Hi Mina,
I realize you probably have no desire to hear from me, and for understandable reasons. But with Michael gone, I find myself with a sense of unfinished business. I imagine you might feel the same way. Obviously, you have no obligation to grant me your time, but I’d like to meet for coffee sometime and put a few things to rest, if you’re willing. I’d be happy to drive down to Seagrove. Please let me know.
Hope to see you soon,
Grayson
