Page 44 of When We Had Forever
I succumb to a whole-body shiver, and when he smiles again, I smile back. Neither of us mentions what will happen afterward.
That can wait, I decide. Because right now, I want to be in this moment, here, with him, and nowhere else.
“Hurry back,” I say.
AFTER
On my first morning at the cabin, my head is a mess.
I try to escape the chaos by wandering into the living room, but it doesn’t look the way I remember. The knickknacks on the mantel have vanished, along with the bug-eyed owl clock on the wall. The wicker daybed and split-log table now sit on a perfect perpendicular to the ashless fireplace, and the knotty-pine-paneled walls gleam, no doubt recently polished to showcase the place for buyers.
The unfamiliar order makes me wish for the cozy, controlled mess of my childhood. That, at least, might have soothed this chaos inside my head, in which glossy magazine clippings fall and fall, never finding the floor. In which a stapled stack of printer paper flutters open to an inky signature that cracks my life in two. In which thoughtless ex-brothers-in-law send emails to—
My hand shoots out. Someone has folded the blanket over the daybed with military precision, and I yank it off. From there, I march into the kitchen, pull the silverware drawer halfway out, then crumple a dishtowel beside the sink. I retrieve my luggage from the car, splay my suitcase open near my bed, and leave the rumpled sheets untouched.
The acts of rebellion soothe me. Or delude me into feeling like I have some say in the fifty-car-pileup that is my life.
Either way, by the time I finish, my mind has quieted enough that I get through my morning ablutions and sling on my laptop bag. I have an article due for work, and I’ll need to stock the cabin’s cupboards for my four-day stay.
In the car, dirt road rushes past, then asphalt.Twenty minutes later, I park in an angled spot along Millbrook’s Main Street outside Grounds for Dismissal Coffee. Pedestrians amble past. I watch them through the windshield, wondering how many have had their lives shattered at some point.
How did they manage to move forward? By running from their pain? Trying to forget it?
Starting over?
Why the hell isn’t there an instruction manual for this?
Inside the coffee shop, I nestle into a plush armchair. My hazelnut latte sweetens my tongue as I autopilot through an article about continuous-delivery insulin pumps. The words fail to excite me—they’re as dry and unappetizing as uncooked pasta—but the work gives me structure, so I keep slogging through, even though Michael’s substantial life insurance payout means I could probably retire tomorrow.
I finally send off the article, then knock back the rest of my drink. Caffeine zings in my blood, prompting me to open my email’s trash folder. A blank screen stares back. There’s no recover button, no way to undo yesterday’s impulsiveness. Unless...
An idea germinates. I nurture it, sit with it until I’m sure.
I pull out my phone and hunt through my contacts. Kate will have her kids up by now, so her tech-wizard husband—who just happens to work for the same mega-conglomerate that owns my email service—will be safely sequestered in his office.
Tanner answers on the first ring. “Uh...hi? Mina? Is that actually you?”
“Yep. Hi, Tanner. How’s it going?”
He pauses. “Did you butt-dial me?”
I wince. We haven’t spoken in months, and I’m aware of how classless it is to break radio silence in order to ask for a favor, but I’m not exactly flush with options. “No, I called you on purpose. And I’ll apologize in advance, because I know I’m a jerk for asking, but I was hoping you could help me out. Could you maybe recover an email for me? I emptied my trash folder, but I needed something in there.”
Silence. I brace, wondering if he’ll hang up. I wouldn’t blame him.
Except when he answers, interest warms his words. “It’s possible,” he says slowly. “How old was the email?”
My grip on the phone relaxes. Of course. This is the sort of thing Tanner thrives on. He likes puzzles. Challenges. For him, hunting down lost data probably equates to a spa day.
“Months,” I say. “I’m not sure of the exact date, but it was from Grayson Drake.”
Tanner doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve named a minor celebrity. “Sure, sure. Do you know his email address?”
I bite my cheek. “I don’t, sorry.”
“That’s okay, I can try with a name.” He launches into a breezy explanation about server caches and backups that I understand roughly five percent of. Keys clack away in the background.
When his monologue ends, I say, “Sounds great. How long will that take?”
